MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 




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& Kooel. 




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NEW YORK: 
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN SQUARE. 
1869. 



a 



ion 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S69, by 

HARPER & BROTHERS, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern 

District of New York. 



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IffrFglJty Ol Supreme Con 

Au& 1©, 1940 



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MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



CHAPTER I. 

WHERE THEY MET. 

Clive Farnsworth walked up and down the 
long stone terrace which lay in the afternoon 
shadow, witli no companion but liis own 
thoughts, and society more dreary and dissatis- 
fied lie could not easily have found. 

It was a pretty scene that spread before his 
eyes, if lie had been in a mood to appreciate its 
charms. The flower-garden swept below the 
terrace, basking in the June sun ; the green 
lawn sloped toward the avenue which made a 
pleasant drive to the road ; the house standing 
on an eminence gave a fine view of the pict- 
uresque valley beyond, dotted with villages and 
country scats, a beautiful lake in the midst, and 
the blue mountains shutting in the landscape 
miles and miles away. 

But the desert of Sahara would have present- 
id as many attractions for him then ; he was j 
thinking his own dismal thoughts, and refused 
obstinately to see any thing pleasant even in 
Nature. 

Perhaps you know the mood— Heaven help 
us, it comes upon most men soon enough after 
twenty-five. lie was thinking what a poor J 
wasted thing his life was, how the hopes of his 
youth had shrunk to nothing in his hands, and 
how he had lied to his own soul in not having 
remained true to the dreams and aspirations of 
that season, lie was twenty-eight years old ; 
he had lived through the experience of a man 
double that age, and there was nothing to show ; 
the sins of earlier years, which like other men 
he had called follies, pricked now and made the 
retrospect and the present still more barren. 

Not that he was weak or given to crying out 
at each adverse blow of fate that the world had 
come to an end, but he was in one of those 
moods of discouragement and misanthrophy 
which the strongest must at times endure, un- 
certain whether to blame himself or life the 
most. 

His new book had been frightfully belabored 
and picked to pieces in two hemispheres ; he 
had been insane enough to become a candidate 
for Congress, and had gone through the disgust- 
ing details of an election, and the result had not 
been agreeable. He took his seat, and to his 
unbounded wrath and astonishment it was con- 



tested, and the case dragged nearly through the 
long session. He found himself ousted on the 
ground of his election having been illegal, and 
heard himself charged with more enormities 
than ten experienced rogues could commit in as 
many years, after the pleasant fashion in which 
political aspirants' characters are treated by our 
wise statesmen and magnanimous press. 

These things of themselves could not have 
given him a sense of discouragement. He 
might have been roused to anger and defiance, 
but he had a strong will and could have found 
a certain enjoyment in braving the storm and 
by obstinate effort forcing public opinion to 
shift again in his favor, hut he was dissatis- 
fied witii his life and at enmity with himself; 
hence those smarts made their edge felt with a 
keenness they could not otherwise have pos- 
sessed. 

So he walked up and down the stone terrace, 
and chafed under his dreary reflections after the 
manner in which he had spent a goodly portion of 
the weeks since he returned to his country place. 

The people in the neighborhood decided that 
he was disappointed and misanthropic, and he 
had the weakness of caring when such things 
were said; therefore every now and then he 
forced himself to go out among them and en- 
dure the weariness of dinners and picnics and 
sailing -parties, and similar atrocities which 
ranked among summer enjoyments, as unfor- 
tunately the neighborhood of the lake was a fa- 
vorite resort during the warm months. 

Farnsworth saw one of the grooms leading 
hisdiorse round to the front entrance, and felt 
savage with the poor man because he whistled 
cheerfully and talked kindly to Tempest, mag- 
nificently oblivious of the fact that the ignorant 
fellow's own troubles were certain to be as hard 
for him to bear as a poet's could be. A gallop 
along the shadowy roads in the late afternoon 
would be pleasant at all events, so Farnsworth 
went out and mounted his horse and rode away 
down the avenue. Clive endeavored to out- 
strip his tiresome fancies, and at a sudden turn 
in the lonely road he had taken, came face to 
face with two equestrians who had halted where 
two ways met, apparently uncertain which 
would lead them least astray in the world. 

Farnsworth felt so delightfully uncivil that, 
though he comprehended their situation at a 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



glance, I think his first impulse would have 
been to spur on and leave them to their own de- 
vices, although one of the riders was a lady and 
the other an elderly gentleman. But the elder- 
ly voice exclaimed — s 

' ' Why, it's Mr. Farnsworth ! I say, my dear 
fellow, don't ride us down, but be Quixotic 
enough to halt a moment." 

Clive looked and saw that it was the Honor- 
able Mr. Grey, and wished him in Flanders, 
uttering words of pleasure at the meeting in the 
most approved and orthodox manner. He sud- 
denly grew conscious that a pair of large gray 
eyes were turned upon him with a careless, ab- 
sent glance, and it became apparent to him that 
a very stately young woman, who sat her horse 
like Diana herself, was the owner of those orbs. 
By this time Mr. Grey had said— "I knew 
you had a den somewhere near — they were 
speaking of you at breakfast. We are visiting 
in the neighborhood." Then recalling his elab- 
orate courtesy— "My daughter Elinor, Mr. 
Farnsworth." 

And Clive bowed, and the eyes, which after 
that first slow glance of indifference had wan- 
dered away to the pretty view, came back and 
gave him another look not much more interest- 
ed, and "my daughter Elinor" returned his 
salutation with grave civility. 

"We were uncertain which road to take," 
Mr. Grey continued. "Knowing the selfish- 
ness of human nature, you can imagine how 
welcome you are." 

"Are you. stopping in the village?" Clive 
asked. 

" No, we came last night to visit the Thorn- 
tons." 

And Clive remembered that he had heard 
they were coming, and that he was invited to 
dine at the Thorntons this very day. He said 
something pretty and proper about his pleasure 
in welcoming them to the neighborhood, and 
with the usual brilliancy of masculine natures 
on such occasions, insinuated a hope that Miss 
Grey was condescending enough to admire the 
scenery. The large eyes looked at him again, 
and the expression had not altered. Clive 
Farnsworth was not accustomed to such glances 
from female eyes, certainly not three in succes- 
sion, and to add to his annoyance, a voice con- 
siderably more indifferent than his own an- 
swered — 

"It is very pretty. I should like it better 
without the houses and people at every turn." 

"My daughter Elinor has a fancy for wild 
mountain scenery," Mr. Grey said suavely, 
perhaps to soften her words a little, which might 
have been susceptible of a double signification. 

" A few miles up the valley one finds that," 
Clive said. " You will think it worth admir- 
ing, I am sure, Miss Grey." 

"I have no doubt," she replied. "Mrs. 
Thornton has told me a great deal about her 
beautiful valley." 

"Yes ; she was born here, and so has a right 
to be enthusiastic." 



" Naturally," replied she. "Papa, it is get- 
ting late." 

"Yes— I forgot it in the pleasure of the 
meeting. Farnsworth, we shall see you soon ? 
Oh, by the bye, you are of the dinner-party !" 
Clive said he should have the pleasure of 
meeting them at that decorous festivity, and they 
rode away. As she bowed, Elinor Grey did 
vouchsafe him one smile, which lighted her face 
into such beauty that Clive turned his horse 
homeward with his judgment somewhat molli- 
fied. "Upon my word," he thought, c "my 
daughter Elinor' looks as if nothing mortal 
were worth a second glance— but she has a beau- 
tiful smile." 

Even when he reached home Farnsworth re- 
membered that smile, and went up stairs to 
dress with the accompaniment of an unusual 
pleasure— an anticipation ; and it is something 
in this latter half of the nineteenth century to 
have such a sensation. 

It was seven o'clock when he set out, and 
there being a path through the fields which 
brought Alban Wood within reasonable dis- 
tance, Farnsworth bethought him that he could 
walk instead of getting out his trap. He took 
the precaution to put on a loose travelling-coat, 
that he need not make a spectacle of himself 
for the crows to laugh at by walking through 
the green lanes in full dress. It was a pretty 
ramble too, through his own woods, across a 
broad meadow where the sheep were feeding, 
and down toward the grove which made the 
boundary line of the Thorntons' place on that side. 
Farnsworth found himself the last arrival, 
and had to endure the glare of all eyes — I speak 
advisedly, dinner being at hand — as he marched 
toward his hostess. 

" I was in hopes you would be late," said she 
gayly, "for I should have had an opportunity 
of scolding you. That does you so much good 
I would not have cared for the dinner spoiling." 
"Only some of the guests would have eaten 
me," returned Farnsworth. "Look at Mrs. 
Ilackett ! — this is an hour after her usual feed- 
ing-time — I am sure she would have devoured 
me." 

" The consequences would have been most 
fatal to her, you cynic," said Mrs. Thornton. 

Farnsworth did his duty by speaking to such 
people as could not be avoided from their pro- 
pinquity, and looking about saw Elinor Grey at 
a distant window pretending to listen to what 
some man was saying, but in reality looking 
out through the twilight. She had on a black 
dress of a thin gauzy material that floated about 
her like a cloud, with a knot of silver flowers 
twisted in her auburn hair. She looked so dif- 
ferent from any of the other women — Clive con- 
cluded that must be the charm. lie had no 
opportunity to find out, however, for dinner was 
announced and he saw her led away by their 
good-natured host, while Mrs. Thornton whis- 
pered to him — 

" Mrs. Hackett made a special request that 
you should take her in, so Tom has the pleasure 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



of Queen Elinor's company ; be grateful and 
be agreeable." And with the usual perversity 
of human nature, Farnsworth straightway felt 
indisposed to either effort. 

At table he found himself nearly opposite Miss 
Grey, and she acknowledged his presence with 
another of those regal bows which were enough to 
annihilate any man ; all the more exasperating 
because it was evident that indifference rather 
than pride was the cause. Every body de- 
voured and remained stupid except Mr. Grey, 
who was the most captivating companion im- 
aginable, and Clive sat fenced in by a heavy 
girl on one hand and Mrs. Hackett on the 
other. They both talked to him at once, hav- 
ing a weakness for celebrities. Through the 
din Clive looked over at Elinor Grey sitting like 
a fair statue of silence, and thought she seemed 
placidly amused at his plight. Mrs. Hackett 
was a golden idol — I mean she was so rich that 
she might have had a palace like Aladdin's if 
she had chosen— yet people said that once she 
had been a milliner's girl and carried a bonnet- 
box down the Bowery. She was a great woman 
now, and a determined lion-hunter, and read 
books— yes, and talked about them. I dare 
say that her opinions were as valuable as those 
of her neighbors, only her English was at times 
original; and though she had learned any 
quantity of long words, she occasionally twisted 
them in a marvellous manner both as to pronun- 
ciation and meaning. 

"Do you admire Miss Grey ?" she whispered. 
" Of course you do ! Why," they say the Em- 
peror raved over her in Paris, and that Eugenie 
was quite vexed." 

" Oh, of course I admire her," replied Clive, 
for she had announced the imperial admiration 
as if that settled the matter for all persons in 
possession of their senses. 

"She is what I call an accidental beauty," 
pursued Mrs. Hackett. 

"Accidental?" quoth Clive, inquiringly. 
"Yes," replied she, seeming to push her 
words out like bullets, as she always did when 
she used long ones. " I say accidental as op- 
posed to oriental, you know." 

Clive was delighted, and he hoped that her 
whisper had been audible to Miss Grey even 
through the noise, for the champagne had be- 
gun to foam, and every body was talking at 
once ; but the fair face gave no sign. 

"The father is charming," continued Mrs. 
Hackett ; "such manners— a second Richaloo. " 
Clive was dying to ask if that was any 
thing like Waterloo, but held his peace. 
^ " He adorns his position," said Mrs. Hackett. 
" I was in Paris while he was ambassador, and 
it was worth while seeing him there ; his daugh- 
ter too." 

Now the child of Pluto on Clive's other side 
—I mean the term to apply to her wealth, not 
her character— claimed his attention and chat- 
tered as young women will in all countries, 
upon every imaginable subject, and Mrs. Hack- 
ett joined in till Clive's head was dizzy with the 



avalanche of remarkable opinions and informa- 
tion concerning every thing under heaven from 
a description of Noah's ark down to modern 
spiritualism. 

Clive saw Elinor Grey talking pleasantly with 
Mr. Thornton and the gentleman at her right — 
smiling at Thornton every now and then, and 
showing how the proud, still face could flash 
into beauty, the more desirable because it was 
not constant, but came rather from the soul than 
perfection of feature. 

Occasionally the talk blended, and it happen- 
ed that several times Farnsworth and Miss Grey 
exchanged words and even found an opportuni- 
ty to differ upon some subject which could not 
be pursued because Mrs. Hackett grasped the 
various threads of conversation in her own hands 
and her voice rode triumphant over all other 
tones. But a brief difference of opinion is an 
approach to acquaintance between two persons 
of the opposite sex, and when the ladies rose 
from the table Farnsworth watched Miss Grey 
pass out of the room, and decided that she was 
not a statue but a woman worth studying, with 
heart and soul and warm womanly feelings, in 
spite of the abstracted glances the dreamy eyes 
gave ordinary mortals, and the firm repose which 
settled over her mouth when silent. 

Mr. Grey moved his chair near, and Farns- 
worth was glad, because the ex-ambassador was 
as charming in his after-dinner talk as a human 
beingcanbe, and besides, " my daughter Elinor " 
(he never spoke of and seldom to her in any 
other way) was frequently on his lips. Clive 
wanted to hear all he could about her, being 
given to odd conclusions, and having already a 
feeling that in the diplomatic triumphs of the 
past years her wit might count for as much as 
her father's shrewdness. 

When they joined the ladies in the drawing- 
room Farnsworth took possession of an unoccu- 
pied seat by Miss Grey, and wisely went back 
at once to the subject on which they had polite- 
ly differed at dinner, thereby avoiding the ice 
of commonplace questions and answers about 
things of which neither cared a jot, with which 
newly-introduced people, be they ever so bril- 
liant, are wont to torment themselves and the 
sharer in the dialogue. And Elinor Grey could 
talk — when she thought it worth while to take 
the trouble. She demolished Mr. Farnsworth 's 
theory with an energy which charmed him, be- 
cause she flashed into beauty the instant she 
became excited. It happened that at some sen- 
timent he enunciated she replied — 

"Ah, you said that better in your last book ; 
but it was not true there." 

She had read his books — that was something, 
though as a general thing with the women he 
met it would have been a relief if they had not 
read them. 

" But you need not belabor that unfortunate 
offspring," he said, smiling; "it has suffered 
enough at the hands of the reviewers." 
. "And so it ought," she replied coolly; "it 
was not true to yourself." 



10 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



His eyes lighted so that she remembered if 
his "yourself" was as easily flattered as that of 
most "of the literary men she had known, he 
would straightway be thinking that here was 
another devotee at his shrine, another romantic 
creature who had been making a hero of him. 
"I believe that was uncivil," said she. "I 
meant — " 

" But it is so pleasant to say what one really 
thinks, and get a little olV from conventionali- 
ties, " returned Olive, suavely. 

But she paid no attention. Straightway her 
eyes looked over him or through him into some 
dreamy world in which he had no place. That 
was unendurable! Olive vowed that before 
many days she should at least stay within reach 
when he talked. 

"Will you tell mc what you meant?" he 
asked humbly. _ 

"And so make an enemy of you for life?' 
returned she, with her beautiful calm smile. 

" Oh no! show that you think me worthy of 
your acquaintance by telling mc the truth." ^ 

" That would be going back to Arcadian sim- 
plicity. But you would only defend yourself, 
and prove positively that whatever other cen- 
sures might bo pronounced against your work, 
mine certainly were unfounded." 
" It was hastily written—" 
" Just what I complain of," said she. "If a 
story be worth writing at all it is worth writing 
well ; if not, why begin it ?" 

"I think I hardly know whether I consider 
literature my profession," he said. 

" Oh ! then I should write no more books till 
I was certain it must or ought to be. I don't 
believe in amateur authors any more than I do 
in amateur lawyers or physicians." 

And one word led to another, till she told 
him roundly that his book was misanthropic, 
and that it was weak and youthful to be misan- 
thropic. Finally she softened her strictures with 
a sweet smile, assured him that he wrote de- 
lightfully, and iloatcd away from the subject, 
rather astonished at herself for the pains she 
had taken. They talked of all sorts of pleasant 
things— of Italy, and pictures, and Olive's last 
visit to Europe, where he ought to have seen 
Miss Grey, but did not, because she had gone 
to Rome when he reached Paris. People came 
and went about her, but Olive kept his seat, and 
was devoutly thankful when she refused to sing. 
lie was sure that she had a charming voice, but 
it was one of his idiosyncrasies to hate women 
who did opera at parties. 

Altogether the evening was the plcasantest 
Farnsworth had spent in a long time, and he 
felt that Elinor Grey was a new revelation in 
the way of womanhood ; bearing with a flutter 
unsuited to his years Mrs. Thornton's announce- 
ment that having once captured her, she would 
not release her under two months. He learned 
another thing too— Miss Grey's exact age— and 
according to our cousins oyer the water, it is a 
national failing to have a curiosity concerning 
the length of time every body of our acquaint? 



j ancc has trodden this mortal vale. In one of 
her flittings about them Mrs. Thornton chanced 
to say that something happened when Elinor 
| was sixteen. "It was just before you went to 
Europe," she added. Now Olive knew that Mr. 
Grey had been ambassador two years at the 
! court of St. James, and had gone immediately 
to France to serve his country for four more. 
So he did a sum in mental arithmetic, although 
as a general rule not much better at figures than 
I myself am, and discovered, since figures can 
not lie, that " my daughter Elinor " was twenty- 
two years old. 

Mrs. Thornton was very anxious that her fa- 
vorites should know and like each other ; conse- 
quently, with the usual fate of those trying to 
help people be agreeable, she managed to do the 
very thing that was wrong, and spoiled the even- 
ing for Farnsworth as completely as only a 
friend attempting to serve you can do. 

She had glided up again to see that all was 
going well, and to refresh herself a moment 
after the oppressiveness of Mrs. Hackctt. She 
sat down on a footstool at Elinor's feet, and be- 
ing young still, and very small and graceful to 
boot, it was the kind of thing she did well and 
not too frequently— having that tact without 
which the prettier the woman the more like a 
fool she is doomed to act. 

They were talking about the Marble Faun, 
and halted at the Falls of Terni for Mrs. Thorn- 
ton to recall a pilgrimage she and Elinor had 
made to them when they were at Rome together. 
"And here is a sketch of hers," said Mrs. 
Thornton. " I made her bring a lot of things 
down stairs to show me this morning— she 
sketches like an angel. Where is the portfolio, 
Queen Elinor?" 

"I hid it," said Miss Grey, quietly. I 
didn't choose it to lie here on exhibition." 

"And I watched you and brought it back,' 
returned Mrs. Thornton, laughing merrily. " I 
did it for vour special benefit, Mr. Farnsworth." 
" I am your debtor forever," said he. " May 
I profit, Miss Grey?" 

"Just one peep," pleaded Mrs. Thornton. 

" He really has eyes." 

The matter was too trifling to be teased about, 
so Elinor allowed Mrs. Thornton to produce the 
portfolio in triumph from under an ottoman 
where she had concealed it. " There are only 
three or four here," said she, ' ' but some day we 
will make her show you all she has." 

Mrs. Thornton turned the sketches over to 
find the one of which she had spoken, and placed 
it in Farnsworth's hands. As she drew it out 
of the portfolio a water-color drawing came with 
it and fluttered into Elinor's lap. Mrs. Thorn- 
ton seized it, exclaiming— . . „ 
" What a lovelv head ! Oh, who is it i 
"A peasant girl in the south of France,' 

Miss Grey answered. , „ • , at,-* 

"It looks like an American face, said Mis. 

Thornton. , , , 

"Yes," said Miss Grey, "I made the stud) 
because 'she was the living image of a pretty 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



11 



American girl I found once up near the Green 
Mountains." 

Clive Farnsworth was holding the other 
sketch in his hand, and staring at Miss Grey 
like a man stupid from the effect of a sudden 
blow. 

" Do look at this," cried Mrs. Thornton, giv- 
ing him the portrait. "Did you ever sec such 
a lovely face?" 

"My American girl was prettier," said Eli- 
nor ; "I wonder what has become of her." 

Clive Farnsworth took the drawing Mrs. 
Thornton offered him. He only gave one 
glance— the paper fluttered out of his hand and 
fell again in Miss Grey's lap as if seeking pro- 
tection. 

"How careless you arc!" exclaimed Mrs. 
Thornton in her pretty, brusque way. 

Defending himself from the charge made a 
diversion, but Farnsworth saw Miss Grey looking 
at him, and wondered if she had noticed his 
trembling hand. He felt that his face must be 
pallid from that sudden sick feeling at his heart. 
Fortunately Mrs. Ilackett came up at the in- 
stant and pounced on the portfolio, so there was 
no opportunity for any body to notice or think. 

But the evening had turned suddenly black to 
Clive Farnsworth. Mrs. Thornton had sprung 
the mine in her effort to be agreeable. He re- 
membered that he could not be ridiculous, and 
rush away like a second Lara with dishevelled 
hair, so he stood still for a few moments and 
managed to talk and appear to listen, till Mrs. 
Hackett's exclamations brought the whole party 
up to admire Miss Grey's wonderful produc- 
tions. Then he made his adieus and departed, 
seeing, as in a dream, Elinor Grey's calm eyes, 
while through the hurry and blackness of his 
thoughts Mrs. Hackett's enthusiastic but slight- 
ly inappropriate exclamation came up — "Isn't 
she a second St. Cecilia?" — making him laugh 
a brief, bitter laugh. 

His trap not having arrived, he started off 
through the fields again, and the quiet silvery 
night was a new pang, so that altogether he 
reached home a more miserable man than he 
had been during the gloom of the past weeks. 



CHAPTER II. 



mrs. Thornton's generalship. 

The next morning the sun came out glorious, 
and the young day was so beautiful through its 
veil of golden mist that Clive Farnsworth left a 
portion of his weary thoughts in his bed-cham- 
ber, and took up life with more serenity than 
had seemed possible during the long watches of 
that sleepless night. 

At breakfast came a message from Mrs. 
Thornton — he was to allow nothing short of an 
earthquake to prevent his joining their riding- 
party that afternoon. She wanted to show Miss 
Grey the glen at the head of the valley, and re- 
lied upon him to prove his claims to being a 



genius by aiding her in the pleasant duty, or ever 
after to hide his diminished head and regard 
himself in the light of an exposed impostor. 
This command helped Farnsworth a long way on 
toward the reaction of spirits which the bright- 
ness of the morning had begun. Straightway 
the regal face rose before him, softened by its 
rare smile, and Clive again fastened the doors 
between him and the past. 

That is a work at which we spend so much 
time in this life: we bolt and bar, and when 
every thing seems secure some ghost flings wide 
the portals, and there are the long, dreary cor- 
ridors casting their grim shadows into our ban- 
queting hall, and the cold wind chills us to the 
bone, withering our garlands, putting out the 
lights, and making confusion generally. 

Farnsworth had secured the doors, and the 
remembrance of Elinor Grey's smile sent the 
sunshine across his soul. There were some or- 
ders to be given to the gardeners which took him 
out among the flower-beds ; then the Farmer 
came and insisted upon his marching off to a 
field of young wheat, so that the whole morning 
was spent in the fresh air. By the time he got 
back from the inspecting tour Clive was ready 
to sit down on the lawn and smoke a calumet 
of peace with Destiny under his favorite maple- 
tree. That is, he thought he was smoking the 
sour dame into complacency, whereas he was 
only blotting her from sight and dreaming of new 
hopes and a world into which she could not pos- 
sibly enter. 

The party were mounting their horses as Clive 
rode up the avenue of Alban Wood, and he had 
such cordial greetings from his ally Mrs. Thorn- 
ton, and a look of such growing acquaintance 
from Miss Grey, that his horse became a winged 
Bucephalus at once — such is man. 

The Thorntons had several guests besides the 
Greys ; people whom the hostess charmed with 
her pretty attentions, and properly abused to 
Elinor in private for being there at all, after the 
habit of women in general. 

They were all ready, the number increased 
by a few outsiders, and the array of fine horses 
and showy traps was good to sec. 

Mrs. Thornton was to drive Mr. Grey in her 
pony-carriage, having a great weakness for his 
spicy gossip, and 'flirtation with her not going 
much beyond that in spite of what people said. 
Farnsworth found himself assigned to Miss Grey 
by command of the little general. 

"You are to make her admire the scenery 
the whole way," said she. "I will never for- 
give you if she docs not cotuc back enthusiastic." 
" All visitors here are forced to be that at the 
point of the bayonet, Miss Grey," said Clive; 
"so be prepared." 

" I am," she replied. "The garden of Eden 
was nothing to it— I assert that in advance." 

"The worst of it is that the place is really 
beautiful," said Farnsworth. 

"How do you mean the worst?" asked Mr. 

Grey. 

"Because when one is dragged to see won- 



12 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



ders, one likes at least to be revenged by not ad- 
miring." 

"Monster!" cried Mrs. Thornton, allowing 
Mr. Grey to hand her into the low carriage. 
" Now, good people, let us be off. Tom, dear, 
don't come within a mile of me," she added to 
her husband. "That horrid horse of yours 
has a spite at my ponies — he always tries to give 
them sly kicks." 

" She says that to keep me out of her way," 
quoth honest Tom, who loved the little witch 
with all his honest soul. 

" And it is certain that I shall not miss you," 
said Mr. Grey, lifting his hat with a bland court- 
esy which made every body shriek. 

Away they went, past the lake, and on up the 
narrowing road to where the valley was sudden- 
ly closed by twin cliffs, through which a mount- 
ain brook dashed in a triumphant cascade and 
fled laughing toward the tranquil lake. 

There was no incident. I did not mean to 
delude you into the belief that some scene was 
at hand— that Clive rescued Miss Grey from 
the water-fall ; or that they met face to face an 
old crone who prophesied impossible things, 
and made the past clear as a map ; or that a 
pallid man suddenly started up from behind 
the rocks, and pointed a spectral finger at Eli- 
nor, with a shriek of " 'Tis she!" or that 
some strange young woman, at sight of Clive, 
gave three perpendicular bounds into the air, 
like an India-rubber ball, 'and moaned with 
Pauline— "My husband!" I am sorry if you 
are disappointed, but nothing happened; and I 
can not pretend that there did, being as truth- 
ful as George Washington in his youthful days : 
Miss .Grey did not even wet the point of her 
balmoral boot in the water-fall ; neither the pal- 
lid man nor the mournful female made their ap- 
pearance. If there were any such persons they 
were not up to time ; or, what is more proba- 
ble, were eating a ham-sandwich and having a 
tranquil flirtation behind the rocks. I have 
chronicled the expedition because it was the be- 
ginning of a knot of such golden days to Clive 
Farnsworth — the first of his summer idyl— which 
floated away through heavenly June, and so 
completely entranced him that he had no space 
to marvel whither it might lead or to know if he 
Avere awake or dreaming. 

He did make rapid progress in his ac- 
quaintance with Elinor Grey, there was no de- 
nying that, and if she had thought about it she 
might have been astonished. But she did not 
do any tiling S o stupid. She was delighted to 
find herself in her native land after those 
years of absence ; Mrs. Thornton talked of him 
as so familiar a friend, and the day was so 
lovely, that altogether she was beguiled into 
saying what she really believed upon such sub- 
jects as came up. Farnsworth talked remark- 
ably well, too, and was not egotistical; and 
though Elinor Grey had lived in the great world, 
she had not met good conversationalists enough 
to take them quite as a matter of course. Above 
and beyond all, though he did not complain or 



moan, or act like a poet or a goose, it was evi- 
dent to her perception that he was lonely and 
disappointed and that life was at a sort of stand- 
still with him. Did ever any woman resist 
that ? Why a man shall catch the sympathies 
of the oldest or the coldest of them with that 
chaff— I mean real, earnest women with hearts 
and souls under their armor — 

Now you go and try it, dear Sir who reads— 
and get beautifully tripped up in trying, because 
I forgot to finish my last sentence. A man 
shall do all these things, even with his neigh- 
bor's wife— if he knows how. Perhaps it would 
be as well for you and me not to attempt it, but 
Give Farnsworth did know how, or rather he 
did it unconsciously with a woman whom he 
felt could understand and sympathize with him. 
The excursion was a success in every way. 
When they got back to Alban Wood they sat 
under the trees and ate ripe cherries and drank 
ieed drinks before breaking up the party, and 
talked a great deal of brilliant nonsense which 
would probably be as flat as champagne opened 
yesterday if I tried to set it down. Mr. Grey 
and "my daughter Elinor "both admired the 
neighborhood so much that they talked almost 
seriously of hunting about for a nest somewhere 
within easy reach. 

"Several places for sale," Mr. Thornton 
said. "There is Waterside — close bv the 
lake." 

"Never, with that name!" cried Elinor. 

"You could do as you must with your own 
some day," said Tom— "you could change it." 

They all laughed, but Clive thought Miss 
Grey's lip curled at the suggestion. 

"Did my husband make a joke?" demanded 
Mrs. Thornton. 

"My dear, I stumbled on it," said he hum- 
bly. 

"Then I forgive you,- but be careful, 
Thomas." 

"Besides, there's no land to speak of," con- 
tinued her spouse, following up his own train 
of thought. 

"Now where has he gone ?" asked his wife. 

"His joke has led him out of sight of land," 
said Mr. Grey. 

"There isn't any — I mean belonging to 
Waterside." 

"That is no joke, certainly," replied Mr. 
Grey. 

"Oh yes, there must be seventy-five acres," 
Clive said. 

" Well, I meant no farm to speak of." 

" Quite enough to be bothered with where a 
man only wants a place to live during the sum- 
mer months." 

"Well, that's true, after all," assented easy 
Tom. 

"Notwithstanding you are both large land 
owners, you agree with Horace," said Mr. 
Grey. 

"Indeed I have forgotten all about Horace," 
replied Thornton honestly; "but what did he 
say?" 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



13 



" ' Laudato ingentia rura; exiguum colito,' " 
. quoted Mr. Grey, offering his snuff-box to 
Thornton with his indescribable manner. 

"Oh, papa," exclaimed Elinor, "for shame 
— to quote Latin ! It was Virgil said it, any 
way." 

"Am I wrong, Mr. Farnsworth ?" he asked. 
" I believe you are," he said. 
"And Elinor stands convicted of under- 
standingLatin !" cried Mrs. Thornton. "Thank 
goodness, I have been better brought up." 

" And all this while," said Tom, " I'm bless- 
ed if I know what he means, whichever old 
wig said it. < Exiguum ?' That's — " 

"It sounds like something nasty to drink," 
broke in Mrs. Thornton. "Don't touch it, 
Tom.' 

" It means — Let your neighbors be geese 
enough to own big farms if they like, stick you 
to a small one," said Clive. 

"Virgil improved," smiled Elinor. 
"Yes," said Tom; "beats old Anthon's 
notes all hollow ! Well, it's true, any way ; I 
know that." 

_ Clive thought Miss Grey still looked as if she 
wished her father's lapse of memory had not 
led her into an avowal which might appear a 
pedantic assumption, but he was glad to know 
that she had read and cared for the classics— 
not being of Lord Byron's opinion that a woman 
must be ignorant in order to be interesting. 

Clive rode home with spirits undiminished, 
and was even equal to entertaining several men 
who strayed up from the hotel at the lake; 
and one of them, an old artist, won Clive's 
downright regard by announcing that he had 
seen Miss Grey on horseback and that she was 
a queen. Tongues were unloosed at once, but 
Clive as soon as possible drew the name out of 
the conversation. It was not to be desecrated 
by unhallowed lips. Before the evening was 
oyer he lavished such praise on the artist's last 
picture— which he had seen at the exhibition 
while in town— that the shrewd old'bird was in 
doubt whether he really admired it so much, or, 
intending to buy it, wanted to flatter him into a 
moderate price— being an old artist, acquainted 
with the pitfalls of the world and not wishing to 
walk blindfold into them. 

The next day Clive had some business to at- 
tend to at the county town, but he spent the 
evening at Alban Wood and was rewarded by 
hearing Elinor Grey sing. I 

The morning after it rained. Clive stood in 
the breakfast-room window and looked out at 
• the melancholy .drizzle, so much more annoying 
than an actual tempest, and felt his high spirits 
droop as if the damp had got in them. He even 
looked drearily toward the stone terrace where 
he was accustomed to walk when his devils tor- 
mented him, and sighed to think that he might 
be brought to that before the day was over. He 
might have read-only when it drizzled he never 
could. He migfct have written— only that 
printed author though he might be, he was not 
conscious of possessing an idea bevond the fact 



that the drizzle annoyed him and filled him 
with forebodings for his newly-acquired peace. 

Fortunately, through wind and storm appear- 
ed a Mercury from Mrs. Thornton, and very 
sorely, I fear, had that Mercury periled his soul 
by the objurgations he lavished on his pretty 
mistress during the journey. Clive, recognizing 
his face, went out with alacrity to learn his er- 
rand, and received a dainty three-cornered note, 
in return for which he offered a supply of the 
root of all evil which made Mercury wish he 
had been shod with wings, that he might have 
grasped the reward the sooner— or at all events, 
he thought that thought in his own way. 

Clive opened the billet and stopped to ad- 
mire Mrs. Thornton's graceful writing — and, 
thank Heaven, American women do write pret- 
ty hands ! All English women write so much 
alike that a man could not tell except by read- 
ing, whether the page was from his Dulcinea or 
his great aunti French women make tracks 
like spiders. As for the Italians— well, I be- 
lieve they do not trust much to letters for work- 
ing their share of mischief. And Mrs. Thorn- 
ton wrote — 

" ' It rains, it rains, and never is weary.' May 
my poetical quotation soften your iron will ! I 
feel like Van Amburgh when the animals are 
hungry— with all these people on my hands. 
Queen Elinor has obstinately taken refuge in 
her room, pretending that she had letters to 
write— she just wants to avoid our stupidity. 

" Will you please come over, in spite of the 
flood, and help me entertain my monsters ? I 
promise that Her Majesty shall dawn upon you 
—she can't refuse, you know. I send this with 
my heart full of beseeching. My Bluebeard 
of a husband is looking over my shoulder, so be 
sure that you bring it back with you." 
Then Tom had scribbled— 
" ' There's a trout baked in cream for lunch- 
eon—that's the way to bring a poet.' You must 
come prepared to stay over to-morrow." 

Clive scrawled a rapturous, laughter-provok- 
ing answer, walked up and down, smoking like 
a Mohawk chief, till such an hour as he could 
decently set out, and was a new man. 

After all, it was a delightful day. Some 
people from the hotel, rendered desperate by 
the infectious imbecility pervading it, made their 
appearance in wonderful mufflers and disguises, 
and the luncheon was perfect. If you have ever 
eaten a trout baked in cream you know that it 
must be the very dish which the gods called 
Ambrosia — if you never have, rush after some 
body that knows how to prepare it, else you 
will go down to your grave with one requisite 
sensation unexperienced. 

They played billiards, they did charades, they 
danced, and when twilight came Clive so man- 
aged that he and Miss Grey sat talking in the 
pleasant old library, and added the crowning 
charm to his enjoyment : he persuaded her to 
sing to him in a half-voice, so that, as he hon- 
estly avowed, the rest might not spoil his pleas- 
ure by coming in to listen also, and she was 



II 



MY DAIKUITEU ELINOK. 



guilty of that most exquisite flatters-singing 

some" little verses of Ins own, written in the days 

when he had dreamed and been a boy, and life 
lay before him hasy and gloriousin the morning 
light. As she finished, Elinor Grey looked at 

him and knew l>y her woman's intuition that 
she had SUHg him Straight away inlo the land 
Of vision partly her voice, partly the spell of 
I hose old, old words coming hack to him iVoni 
his other self. 

" 1 never knew they wcro sweet before,'' he 
said suddenly. 

" 1 uneartlied them this morning," she re- 
plied, " in a pile of Tom's old magasines — he 

saves all manner of things, you know, whether 
he needs them or not.'' 

"And you thought them worth learning?" 
lie asked softly. 

" Yes, indeed ; though the merit of study is 
small, they are very musical and cling to one's 

memory." 

"Now I shall be able to remember that 1 

have written one thing whieh procured me a 
great pleasure," lie said. 

And that naturally Miss Grey took as a pret- 
ty figure of speech ; and having become much 
accustomed to such tropes and poetical flights, 

did not pay a great deal of attention. Only she 
thought that if he had it in his mind to turn 

Tom Mooreish, and take to personal compli- 
ment, he should be brought down to the actual 

without delay. Site liked (lattery as well as any 

woman compliments had grown a weariness — 
the flattery must be the subtle, delicate perfume. 

She liked to think that a man confided in her — 
told her his aspirations and secrets- let her 
know the higher nature with which the world 
had nothing to do- but just now, as 1 said, she 
saw lit to bring ('live back to ordinary ground. 

So she made some inquiry concerning a mutual 

acquaintance whom she had not seen since her 
return- a man at that— and 1 leave it to the 

fiercest misogynist that ever wore boots if it is 
nol an annoying thing to have a woman in the 
midst of a /r/,-.W(7,' inquire about the fortunes 
of any other of Adam's sons. 

At once ('live began to pity him— there was 
COmforl in the fact that there was reason. 
There had lately been some heavy trouble in 
his family— come reckless member thereof had 

n brought disgrace very near his pride. 

•• Bu1 you speak," said Miss (ircy, "as if he 
must feel inclined to hide his face from the 
world on account of that sad story." 

" 1 think he must," replied he. "Disgrace 
is horrible." 

•• lie has done no wrong; there is no stain 

on him." 

"But to be sneered at and pitied- to know 
that people talk one over— that one's private 
affairs are on every body's lips — is loath- 
Some." 

"A terrible feeling if one has done wrong 
and is unwilling to atone," said Elinor Grey. 
'•This man has the consciousness of having 
acted honestly. If be were villified with all the 



power of evil tongues, that consciousness would 
be his support." 

" A very slender one," Clivc said. 
And at once Elinor Grey went to the root 
of another of his weaknesses lie had a horror of 
being laughed at or pitied. Strong-made though 
he was, that feeling was powerful enough, as it 
is in so many of us, to stand between him and a 
right action. 

" I see you think 1 am in error," he said. 
" It is the creed, at least the rule of conduct, 
for half the world," she answered ; "but I do 
think you in error. Let mo hold my life on a 
secure foundation. If I had done wrong, 1 
would rather make expiation and live, it down 
than go on to a hero's triumph with the knowl- 
edge that 1 had a miserable secret on my soul." 
" But Moreland could have hushed that mat- 
ter up." 

" Yes, he could have wronged the innocent 
and helped the wicked; and during all time to 
come he could have known that any day the 
earth might fall in and show the ruin." 
" You put it strongly." 
"Jsut truthfully, 1 think." 
And ('live Farnsworth assented in a doubtful 
tone. At that moment Mrs. Thornton looked 
in at the door. 

"They have gone," she said, "(iood peo- 
ple, you will please to remember there are such 
sublunary matters as dinners, ami mine is near- 
ly ready." 

They all went to their rooms, and owing to the 
turn the conversation had taken, I think Farns- 
worth was not sorry to have it so abruptly con- 
eluded. 

When the evening was over and it was al- 
ready past the time for reasonable people to be 
in bed and sleeping the sleep of the just, Mrs. 
Thornton sat curled up on a sofa in Elinor's 
dressing-room, and the pair were talking as two 
women will who can venture to be on really 
open, confidential tonus. In their ease a dis- 
tant relationship proved an additional bond— an 
exception to general rules, I admit, 

" 1 like your Mr. Farnsworth very well," Eli- 
nor said. 

Now Mrs. Thornton would have been better 
pleased if she had not made that acknowledg- 
ment with such frankness ; she wanted to see 
her differently disposed toward him than she 
had been to the numberless men who had paid 
vain homage at her maiden shrine. 

"Don't Bay my Mr. Farnsworth," returned 
She ; " l am married and proper, and will none 
of your foreign ways." 

'•• Forgive me, daughter of Columbia, ' quoth 

Elinor, 

- You see it is aggravating because 1 can t 
sav 'my' when I talk about him," continued 
she openly. " Tom and 1 long ago pronounced 

him an unimpressionable brute. ' 

•• l believe Tom resents it if the whole world 
does not bow down under your chariot vvhecK" 
" Of course. Tom is an angel." 
•> Don't." said Elinor, laughing. "You will 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



15 






gain nothing. I declare to you I shall not re- 
peat your compliments to him." 

"Ill-natured thing! when they might he 
worth a diamond ring at least to me, if you 
represented matters properly." 

" I should claim the ring for my trouble." 

They both laughed, and could easily, for Eli- 
nor knew that the marriage of Tom Thornton 
and his wife had been one of those rare unions 
upon which t lie honey-moon had not set, although 
she had shone for a whole decade. 

" Rut where were we ?" asked Mrs. Thornton. 

" You were lamenting Mr. Earnsworth's in- 
sensibility." 

" Oh yes ; but I forgive that, for he is the 
best friend — the sort of man one can be intimate 
with and he never misunderstood — you know 
bow rare that is." 

"Yes, indeed," returned Elinor, and her lip 
curled. " Generally, if one looks at the ugliest 
specimen of the race, he thinks one is subdued 
by his charms — all the while one is wondering 
if he will never discover what a weariness he is, 
and take himself off." 

" And nowadays you look at the best of them 
ns if they were a weariness," said Mrs. Thorn- 
ton ; " all but my Tom ; you have the sense to 
appreciate him." 

"Tom is never silly; then, dear, you arc so 
hopelessly healthy there is no danger he can ever 
really trouble me." 

*' Rut you must marry sometime," announced 
Mrs. Thornton. 

"Oil! must I!" retorted Elinor, disdainfully. 
" You say that in a matter-of-course tone, as 
if it were as unavoidable as being born or dy- 
ing." 

" Rut you couldn't be an old maid." 

" It will not take many more years to decide 
that." 

"Oh nonsense, at your age! But it would 
l)e horrible to be an old maid — with a hooked 
nose and a parrot." 

" Unless I break it my nose won't have a 
hook," said Elinor, "and I might avoid the 
temptation of a parrot." 

" Oh no, don't! If a woman could be born 
a widow, and always stay young, it would do 
very well. Oh, Elinor, it is nice to be loved ! 
I don't often do the sentimental, but a woman 
is not half a woman till she loves and is beloved." 

" I am not prepared to dispute it." 

" Certainly you have been enough loved." 

Elinor threw back her stately head. 

" Yes, I know what that means — not worth 
the name ! Rut you are too difficult — you seem 
ice. I wonder men run after you so, for you 
are not a bit of a flirt." 

" Perhaps they like the ice." 

"Nonsense! You don't deceive me. You 
arc not cold at all — you have more heart than 
head, full as that is. I am not blind." 

"I bow to your penetration." 

" Now don't be sarcastic ; you put things out 
of my mind." 

" Not the men, certainly ; you know the wise 



world says they arc a fixture in every woman's 
mental vacuum." 

" I'll not be called names, and I'm not a 
vacuum ! And you haven't loved any body, 
Elinor?" 

" Look at me!" 

"Rah! Say that to a woman? A man 
might trust to appearance — we know each other 
better." 

"Creditable to your sex, and candid. Rut 
at least you know that I am truthful." 

" I do believe you arc," said Mrs. Thornton. 
"It seems odd! Rut then the magnificent is 
your line. Now I couldn't be a Cornelia, you 
know! When I tell the truth it is something 
I am ashamed of, and I blush and stammer and 
look ugly." 

"That is not to be endured," cried sarcastic 
Elinor. 

"Of course not. Rut I do tell a lie so pret- 
tily! Even if I am found out, people forgive 
me for the grace of the thing." 

"Oh, my dear, fulfill woman's destiny — go 
on fibbing to the end of the chapter, by all 
means." 

"You do fly about so," said Mrs. Thornton, 
"and I want to know about your heart — " 

" If I have one, I fancy it is well." 

" And there's nobody in it?" 

"Nobody but papa, you, and Tom." 

" You are on honor now!" 

"So be it, wise Portia." 

" I am disappointed," exclaimed Mrs. Thorn- 
ton piteously ; and she spoke so sincerely one 
would have sworn she was telling the truth. "I 
thought you might have some tiny confession to 
make." 

" I am sorry !" 

"Oh no, you are not — your are glad — you 
proud thing, you! Rut I am disappointed." 

In her secret soul the little serpent was utter- 
ing a pean of rejoicing. She had been dying 
to find out if any thing stood in the way of her 
plans running their natural course. By her 
plaintive earnestness she would have succeeded 
in convincing any man, but she overdid her re- 
gret and a sudden light flashed upon her com- 
panion. 

"Aha!" said she. 

At that exclamation Mrs. Thornton knew that 
she was suspected. She assumed ;it once the 
inrioccnco of a dove, and looked only smiling 
wonder. 

"Don't you got the least nonsense in your 
little head, Rosa," said Miss Grey; austerely. 

"Then it must be empty — sense never will 
stay in it. Rut I don't know what you mean." 

"Then I begin to think what you mean with 
your questions and your regrets, you little 
Jesuit." 

"Hit a man of your size — Tom teaches me 
slang!" cried Mrs. Thornton. " Rlcss me, I'd 
as soon meddle with a young panther as you ! 
Stop looking fierce. I'm married, and I won't 
be bullied and scolded." 

" Very well ! just you be discreet." 



1G 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



" As Harry Percy's wife, dear, and this time 
for the self-same reason — I don't know what 
you mean." 

" ' I do tell a lie so prettily,' " ([noted Elinor. 

"Oli, I never said so! Well, 1 hate being 
reminded of what I say — it's like having cold 
meat served to one. But I do say I wouldn't 
meddle with you for the world." 

She hastened to change the subject, and saw 
at a glance that if she would avoid working con- 
fusion to her own stratagems she must remain 
tranquil, only bringing her hero on tho ground 
and then leaving him to shift for himself. 

She immediately Hung a new dress she was 
contemplating into tho conversation, and hid 
the enemy completely under its folds. They 
were women with brains, but in an instant they 
were miles away from dangerous ground. Be- 
fore they were through they had pulled the 
contents of a great box on the floor to look at 
some wonderful lace. Their souls wero so 
quieted by that intellectual enjoyment that they 
could go to bed in peace. (What the soul of 
Miss (i rev's inn id said the next morning, when 
she had to collect the scattered finery, 1 leave to 
female imagination.) They got away from the 
new dress and the lace at last, and had another 
long talk — Rosa to tell how happy she was, and 
Mins Grey to admit that Diana's throne was 
sometimes a lonely one, and that it tired one's 
hand always to carry one's sceptre. 

So Rosa had hopes again, but she bad gained 
wisdom from her little lesson. 

" And you will give me the two months you 
promised ?" she pleaded. 

"You claimed two, you mean." 

" It's all tho same ; and it always makes me 
ill to he disappointed — ask Tom.'' 

" lam acquainted with your wiles where that 
unfortunate creature is concerned, but you must 
remember I am a woman too, dear, and know 
how hysterics are done." 

" Oh, you venomous thing, I never have hys- 
terics! And you will stay ?" 

" My dear Rosa, I'd rather be with you than 
any woman in the world. Unless I have to go 
somewhere with papa for a week I'll stay till — 
1 haven't any more new dresses with which to 
excite your envy." 

"And yon have enough for Queen Elizabeth. 
I'm bo glad!" 

"You self-sacrificing person!" 

" It looks so, hut the truth is, I have a new 
supply too. Pinchon got them over for me. I 
am dying to see if they are not prettier than 
yours." 

"Open confession is good for the soul," said 
Elinor. 

"Not as a steady diet," returned her friend. 

A I that moment there was a sound at the 
door which made them both jump as if a batter- 
ing-ram had suddenly been pushed against it, 
and Tom's voice was heard in injured tones de- 
manding his spouse, lie had sat smoking with 
Clive for a long time, and not finding his wife 
when he ascended to the connubial chamber, 



bad fallen asleep by the table and nearly pitched 
into the lamp. 

"Ik's almost three o'clock!" shouted he. 
" Elinor Grey, if you have foully assassinated 
my Rosa, at least produce her mangled remains." 

" So that you can be certain nothing prevents 
your searching for a new blossom," said Elinor, 
opening the door. " Take your treasure, Mr. 
Tom." 

She had on a dressing-gown of some won- 
derful Eastern fabric, and looked so gorgeous 
that Tom stared with all his sleepy eves. 

" Well, isn't she a beauty !" he ejaculated, 
turning to his wife. 

"Don't stay here admiring strange women 
at this time of tho night," cried she in pretended 
wrath, " keeping me up till all hours, while you 
smoke with dissipated bachelors I" 

" I like that," said Tom, "when I nearly fell 
on the lamp." 

"You are never to be trusted. If you had 
singed your whiskers I would have had a di- 
vorce. Good-night, Elinor, pet." 

" Good-night, Elinor in a pet !" added Tom ; 
and after a great deal more nonsense Miss Grey 
was left to the solitude of her bower. 



CHAPTER III. 

DAY 15Y I>AY. 

The Greys being great people, of course' ev- 
ery body who might claim the privilege of their 
Acquaintance delighted to do them honor, and 
tho father won golden opinions by his affable 
manners, and "my daughter Elinor" queened 
it in absolute sovereignty. There was no re- 
sisting Mr. Grey. I do think he could literally 
have wiled a bird off a bush if he had possessed 
any ornithological tastes. He had a way of of- 
fering his snuff-box which would have subdued 
an enemy bent on following up a Corsican wen- 
detta, and if he willed while talking to you that 
you should see black white, then white you saw 
it, if you were as obstinate as Diogenes or Mrs. 
Grundy. 

The Thorntons had a succession of visitors, 
many of them agreeable people ; the various 
country houses in the neighborhood were bedd- 
ing gala too, and the hotel at the lake was full; 
so that altogether the weeks were very sunny. 

Clive Farnsworth went about in his beautiful 
dream, so lost that he did not know r he was 
dreaming, but- let the days tloat on like the 
measures of an Eastern poem. All of which is 
pretty and poetical, and means that he had fall- 
en so helplessly in love with Elinor that he was 
ready to essay as many mad feats as Hamlet 
himself to prove the strength of his passion. 
He did not reason — be did not think, lie kept 
the doors barred between him and the past; 
the summer roses bad clustered so thick over 
them that it appeared impossible they could 
ever open; he just put every thing which had 
been and the whole world aside, and he loved 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



her. This woman so completely realized his 
ideal that it seemed as if his ideal had only 
been a premonition of her. She was like a 
pure angel who wakened every thing good in 
his nature, and made any effort easy if her 
smile should reward him. 

And so I might write for a month, and never 
say any thing worth reading. I will end where 
I began — he loved her. 

"With festivities the order of the day, Mrs. 
Hackctt could not be remiss when there were 
distinguished people to entertain. She pre- 
pared her choicest dinners, and her most won- 
derful English, and did her part with a compla- 
cent state that was a delightful thing to witness 
and entirely baffles description. I suppose, 
left to herself, Miss Grey would have avoided 
society not precisely congenial, but for reasons 
of his own — not that he gave them ; offering su- 
perfluous information was not in his line — Mr. 
Grey chose to be more than usually urbane 
toward the Golden Idol. 

The truth was, old Ilackett was a tremendous 
Bull in Wall Street— he was the meekest of el- 
derly sheep at home— and Mr. Grey being a 
very extravagant man, and a very reckless one 
in certain ways, may have been caught by the 
prospect of being on friendly terms to make fa- 
vorable future possibilities. The old Pluto 
might be said almost to hold the stock-market 
in his horny hands, and could send any stock 
up like a rocket or down like the stick if the 
whim seized him. But Mrs. Pluto held him in 
her hands naturally, so it was certain that if 
Mr. Grey wished to make ventures, here was 
the necessary support. Ho smiled on Mrs. 
Hackett, and when her spouse was visible, which 
was not often, offered him his snuff-box and 
made Pluto sneeze dolefully with the choice 
mixture, but looked the while as if the stock- 
market had no place in his world. 

Therefore, since the Plutonian halls were to 
be frequented, Elinor Grey frowned upon Clive 
and Mrs. Thornton when according to the in- 
stincts of human nature they made a jest of the 
hospitality which they accepted. Indeed the 
house was a palace and the banquets were mag- 
nificent, only there was too much of every 
thing. One's eyes ached to look down the 
golden splendor of the drawing-rooms, and Mrs. 
Ilackett in full-dress was so covered with jew- 
els that she looked literally like a heathen idol 
in great repute among its worshipers. Elinor 
did not wonder that her father and all the 
world were willing to be entertained in that 
overpowering way, but it was very wearisome 
to her, and most wearisome of all the homage I 
which Mrs. Ilackett thought proper to lavish 
ui)on her. 

In spite of herself she had to smile when 
Mrs. Ilackett was anxious to know how the 
napkins were folded at the Imperial dinner-ta- 
ble, that her own might be arranged after the 
same fashion. And Clive Earnsworth imme- 
diately asked in a prcternaturally grave voice 
of Miss Grey, if it was true that the Emperor 



17 

used a napkin with gold fringe three inches 
deep, as somebody said. But Elinor would not 
laugh, and Mrs. Thornton was determined that 
she should, not wishing her to be so much bet- 
ter than her neighbors, and added— 

"Yes, and they say one evening he got an- 
gry and threw it at Eugenie, and the fringe 
nearly put her eye out." And Mrs. Ilackett 
sat open-mouthed. 

" Dreadful !" said Clive. " Did you happen 
to see her, Miss Grey, while her face was 
scratched?" 

" It was her eye," asserted Mrs. Thornton. 

"I thought it was her left check," returned 
Clive. 

"Those newspapers never get any thing 
straight ! " exclaimed Mrs. Ilackett. She look- 
ed so earnest and so anxious to know the exact 
truth that Elinor did laugh in spite of herself. 

"I think, Mrs. Ilackett," said she good-na- 
turedly, "that it must have been in a Western 
newspaper if anywhere." 

" Then you don't believe it?" she persisted. 

" Oh, I fancy there is no doubt about the 
truth," said Clive. 

" Ah," said Mrs. Hackett in a tragic voice— 
and they knew a quotation or something re- 
markable was coming — 

" 'Uneven lies the head that wears a crown I 
I swear, 'tis better to be slowly born 
And rage with humble livers in content, 
Than to sit perked up in glistering grief— 
And wear a golden sparrow.' " 



B 



The three listeners did not burst blood-ves- 
sels, but they were very near it. That was the 
style in which Mrs. Ilackett always gave the 
poetical quotations which she studied from a 
book gotten up to save people the trouble of 
reading poems. 

Elinor went away to a window and Mrs. 
Thornton and Clive had to bear it as best they 
might, while Mrs. Pluto sat up majestic, flushed 
with the consciousness of having done an im- 
pressive thing. 

" How superb your lilies arc, Mrs. Ilackett," 
Miss Grey said, coming back from the shade 
of the friendly curtain as soon as it was safe. 
"They are favorite flowers of mine." 

"A lily ought to be the signification of the 
word Elinor," said Clive. 

Mrs. Thornton seized the opportunity and 
laughed long and wildly. She said afterward 
that it was all that kept her from suffocation. 

"Now you have spoiled Mr. Earnsworth's 
speech," said Mrs. Ilackett. 

" I shall never forgive her," he returned, and 
took occasion to get rid of a little of his own 
laughter. 

"I am afraid my garden will suffer," pursued 
Mrs. Ilackett; "my head man has met with a 
misfortune — broken a limb." 

Now Elinor had been six years away and had' 
forgotten that there is a type of American wom- 
en—thank goodness, the number grows less— 
who would die rather than say any thing but 
" limb " when speaking of the lower members 



18 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



of the human body ; so in the innocence of her 
heart she said — 

" Poor man ! Was it his leg or his arm ?' 
Mrs. Hackett's face was a picture of distress 
and horror. Could it be Miss Grey who had 
used that word in the presence of a male biped? 
It must have been a frightful slip of the tongue, 
and the good woman tried to cover the bare leg 
to the best of her ability, till between her ef- 
forts and Elinor's look of wonder, Mrs. Thorn- 
ton and Farnsworth were in a more pitiable 
state than before. It was agreed between them 
after that that the Idol had surpassed herself that 

day. 

When they insisted on going before luncheon 
her feelings were actually hurt— the portly body 
was hospitality itself— but Miss Grey had the 
matter in her own hands this time and was de- 
termined to put an end to her companions' 
sport. Her father was busy with his corre- 
spondence that morning, she had promised to 
copy some letters, and as they were to be sent 
to town to catch the ocean steamer she really 
must go back. 

" Oh, if it is a case of belles lettres, ' said Mrs. 
Hackett, " I can not say a word." 

Mrs. Thornton felt confident that if they 
waited for any more sallies she must die out- 
right, yet it broke her heart to tear herself away 
when the Idol was in such unusual high 
feather. 

"You will come before long to see us, dear 
Mrs. Hackett," she said sweetly, as soon as she 
could command her voice. 

" Of course, my love ! I ever say that a day 
at your house is an Asia in the desert of life, 
and a mosaic in memory." 

"She calls this beautiful house a desert!" 
cried Mrs. Thornton, laughing hysterically. An- 
other stroke would finish her; but she must 
linger, though Elinor was making her furious 
signs to go, and Farnsworth felt like a torpedo 
ready to explode. 

"I spoke allegorically," returned the Idol. 
" Of course I should not allow my house to be a 
desert when so much is expected of me, and I 
have a poet's love of the paradoxical. I play 
no minstrel's lute, Mr. Farnsworth, but poetry 
is quite the sustenance of existence with me." 
«« I am sure of that," he said politely. 
Elinor would go now. " I promised papa," 
she avowed, and forced them away. 

"Adieu, adieu," cried Mrs. Hackett, stand- 
ing on the portico to see the last of them. 
" Fame, beauty, wit. The three Graces desert 
me at once — cruel sisters!" 

It was dangerous to trust their voices ; they 
waved their hands and drove off in haste. As 
soon as they were at a safe distance Mrs. Thorn- 
ton relieved her feelings in a series of shrieks, 
Clive laughed till he was speechless, and even 
Elinor could not avoid joining in their merri- 
ment. Just as they were regaining their compos- 
ure Mrs. Thornton pointed her finger at Clive, 
and cried in the Idol's tones, "Oh, cruel sis- 
ter!" 



Then it was all to do over again, and when 
they reached home she rehearsed the scene for 
the benefit of Tom and Mr. Grey, and spoiled 
every body's luncheon. After that Tom used to 
ask who were the three Graces, and give the re- 
ply himself — "Fame, beauty, wit, and Clive 
Farnsworth." 

But Elinor must needs cast a cloud over my 
hero's day by reminding her father that she was 
ready to give him her assistance as amanuensis. 
" Any time will do, my daughter Elinor," he 
replied, for according to his creed she ought not 
to have mentioned the fact that there was any 
thing to be done while a guest was present — if 
"ought not" could ever be applied to her ac- 
tions. 

But Elinor took her own way with perfect se- 
renity, being Avell aware that the letters must be 
written, and not to be deterred from duty by such 
a trifle as the fact that it was disagreeable or that 
something else would be pleasanter. Indeed, 
she was a very inexplicable young woman, 
and somewhat given to making Duty a moral 
Juggernaut under which she crushed her incli- 
nations, after the habit of young women with a 
great deal of imagination whose religious im- 
pulses assume an aesthetic tone. 

" You needn't look so disconsolate," said Mrs. 
Thornton to Clive, when Mr. Grey had finished 
his regrets and allowed Elinor to lead him away. 
"You rudest of men, I don't think I am such 

bad company." 

" I was looking disconsolate because I thought 

you were going to send me off," replied that in- 
sincere wretch. 

" Say that to a woman !" cried she. " You, 
who write books and pretend to understand the 
sex ! I ought to send you off for your palpable 

fib." 

"Only you look your best when you are par- 
doning a sinner." 

"How do you know?" asked Tom, stopping 
in the window to light his cigar preparatory to a 
saunter. "You never had the good taste to 
make love to her." 

"I will, though," said Clive, " if you'll have 
the goodness to take yourself away." 

"Now I'm not blind," exclaimed sapient 
Tom. " You have been going about in a dream 
ever since Queen — " 

"Tom," interrupted his wife, "don't you 
grow poetical ; it is not your style." 

" I won't," said Tom ; " but hasn't he?" 

"I'll ask him— when you are gone." 

■'* Why, one might take that for a hint!" cried 
Tom, apparently in great astonishment. 

" One might,'" laughed Clive. "Would ' get 



i out!' be more decided?" 

Tom went off declaring himself an injured 
individual, and Clive said wonderingly, as he 

so often had — n 

" You certainly are two happy people. 
"Yes, unbeliever ! It does seem incredible, 
'doesn't it?" returned Rosa. "We wake up 
! enough every now and then to marvel over it 
I ourselves." 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



19 



Then she talked to him in the most charming 
way in the world ; never asking a question as a 
woman of less tact would have done, but bring- 
ing Elinor into the conversation, and being as 
delightful as a Rose that had dwelt near the 
queen of the garden possibly could. 

In the mean time Elinor Grey sat with her 
father in his room and had quite forgotten that 
lovers and admiration ever existed, in listening 
to certain hopes of his which letters lately re- 
ceived put in a state of sufficient forwardness to 
be mentioned. 

Mr. Grey had made a brief visit from Europe 
at the time of the election, upon which trip Eli- 
nor had not accompanied him, having the Thorn- 
tons for inmates during his absence. The voy- 
age had been made at the private request of 
the successful candidate, who was one of Mr. 
Grey's life-long friends, and during their consul- 
tation it had been decided that for the present he 
should retain his post abroad, as there were cer- 
tain matters under discussion with several for- 
eign Powers which no one could manage with 
as much skill as the artful diplomatist. 

But what the President wanted was to have 
Mr. Grey in his Cabinet, and what Mr. Grey 
wanted was to be there, and they had both wait- 
ed for a favorable occasion to bring about that 
desired result. The opportunity of enrolling 
him among the group of dignified counsellors 
had seemed at hand, and it was that reason 
which made Mr. Grey throw up his appoint- 
ment and return home to the wonder of the un- 
initated, although, in the eloquent speech he 
made at the dinner given him by the civic dig- 
nitaries of New York on his arrival, he had as- 
signed as a motive his weariness of public duties 
and his desire to spend the years that might re- 
main to him among the hallowed scenes of his 
native land, that happy home of the brave. He 
wanted quiet and repose, for life with him was 
past its prime— a life which he trusted had not 
been wholly valueless to his country; but he 
was tired, more than satisfied with the approval 
his fellow-citizens had bestowed upon his efforts, 
and now he would glide into that retirement 
which best suited his modest tastes, leaving po- 
litical honors and the interests of the Republic 
in more competent hands. 

His speech was very flowery, and brought 
tears to the eyes of the portly Alderman who 
rose to respond— at least the Alderman said 
tears, and it was well he did, otherwise the sym- 
pathetic drops might have been mistaken for the 
watery appearance that many years of public 
dinners had made habitual to his orbs. 
^ The present holder of the office which the 
President desired to give his friend was a pig- 
headed man who had been accepted as a gift 
impossible to refuse from a powerful party, whom 
the august Chief had no desire to retain in his 
council, or, to put it less mildly and more truth- 
fully, was anxious to thrust out of the donjon 
of State with the least delay. He had proved 
to be the tool of the party who offered him as 
an appropriate piece of furniture for the Presi- 



dent's Cabinet, and had displayed so much op- 
position to the policy of the Administration that 
it did not seem he could longer in decency seek 
to retain his place. 

Elinor was an ambitious woman, and her am- 
bition took the womanly form of being for the 
man she most loved, and she worshiped her 
father. I think the life of this adored object 
had not been spotless ; but that is somehow 
frequently the case with the lives of those who 
have most love and worship lavished upon them 
in this world. Perhaps there may be some 
grand law of compensation, hereafter to be made 
plain, which shall console the neglected good 
people for the present lack of idolatry — perhaps 
if the good people could engraft a portion of the 
graceful manners of the adored unscrupulous 
upon their varied and uncomfortable virtues, 
a different result might be obtainable even here. 
But we will not philosophize. Elinor Grey 
worshiped her father, and I am not telling you 
that be was unscrupulous or bad ; perhaps I 
ought to say only that he lacked fixed principle 
and had therefore beeii somewhat discursive in 
his impulses and plans. I do not mean to rake 
up his past, whatever of folly it may or may not 
have hidden ; it is enough that he was thorough- 
ly charming at that age when Balzac declares a 
man to be most dangerous — fifty-two. 

He had been very cautious to keep the enam- 
el of his reputation without a flaw for prying 
eyes to point at, and it pleased him well to be 
faultless in his daughter's sight. He admired 
her above all women, and so conducted himself 



that he was a hero to her whatever he might 
have been to his valet ; and really, unless one's 
valet developed literary tendencies and left his 
memoirs behind, I am at a loss to see the 
point of the threat held up to a great man that 
he can never aspire to heroship in that function- 
ary's eyes ? Just at present Mr. Grey had press- 
ing need of twenty thousand dollars, for, as I 
have said, he was an extravagant man with 
divers weaknesses — and I may as well hint to you 
that a passion for cards ranked among them — 
and there being no other possible way of raising 
the money, he had decided that it must come 
out of the fortune which Elinor inherited from 
her mother. 

Ask her for it ? Good gracious, no ! It was 
quite by accident that she discovered during the 
conversation how sore pressed he was, and beg- 
ged him not to think her impertinent — she could 
be so charmingly humble, that proud creature — 
but would he borrow it of her? 

He would and did : being very explicit to 
show what security he should give her, because 
it was right— which security was not worth a 
rush. But no matter; there was the Idol ready 
to make her Bull show him the way to realize 
speedily on some impossible stock which was a 
reality to a happy few in the commencement, 
and would prove a bright mirage to the unwary 
many who might later attempt to hold it. But 
he told her first of the probability there was of 
his being asked to become a Cabinet Minister, 



20 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



and Elinor only felt that the Administration was 
much more sensible than most of its kind, and 
was wise enough to strengthen itself with aid 
sought from proper sources. 

She believed her father a happy combination 
of Brutus and King Arthur, and she got as near 
the truth as people ever do with their heroes. He 
was a wily, plausible man, and cold-hearted as 
a frog except where she was concerned. His 
tastes°had been refined by luxury and self-in- 
dulgence until they were often a source of ab- 
solute pain. As for his honor— I am not pre- 
pared to say how he would have acted in a 
* crisis ; perhaps none might ever arise. In that 
case he would slip pleasantly through life, and 
go out with a halo around his head. 

It was no wonder she made a hero of him. 
He looked so elegant, leaning back in his easy- 
chair, with his softest smile on his lip, his voice 
full of tenderness, and that wonderful manner 
of his which made the most trifling act of courte- 
sy a chivalrous show of devotion. 

"You approve of my accepting," he said, 
"provided the contingency should arise?" 

" Indeed I do, papa ! I wish sometimes you 
had not been so much of your life abroad, that 
• you might have had a fair opportunity of occu- 
pying the highest position the country has to 
offer?" 

He patted her cheek softly, and showed her 
certain matters of moment which must inevitably 
arise during the next year or two, and he showed 
her also what popularity would be gained- by 
the minister who took a certain course, which 
it was equally certain neither of his future col- 
leagues would take. 

"I understand — I see!" cried enthusiastic 
Elinor. " Oh, papa, I should be so pleased !" 
" My ambitious daughter Elinor !" 
' ' Only for you, dear." 

"You give me the strongest reason why i 
should be ambitious too— at least do my best 
with such talents as I have," he said ; and taking 
the hand that lay upon his knee he kissed it just 
as I fancy Richelieu might have kissed the fan- 
fingers of his beloved and ill-fated child. 

Elinor looked up at him with a tenderness 
which softened her face in a beautiful way. ' ' It 
is so good of you to talk to me," she said. 

He smiled down at her pleasantly. "Why, 
surely my daughter Elinor knows that her little 
head is the most capable of counsellors." 

" You like to think so because you choose to 
believe me perfect," returned Elinor. "But 
indeed I ought not to be quite a commonplace 
woman after all these years of your companion- 
ship." . . . 

Then she had to kiss him again, and play 
baby to her heart's content, as only a really dig- 
nified, proud woman can do to perfection. 

" Papa," she said, getting away to thoughts 
which naturally came into her feminine mind, 
"I think if we do goto Washington we must 
have a house and arrange our worldly belong- 
ings." 

"Yes," he answered, "if I can settle those 



tiresome — that is — if you like, my daughter 
Elinor." 

"Now, papa, you are thinking something you 
don't say ! Please finish your sentence." 
" So I did," he returned playfully. 
" But not with your real thoughts. Oh, you 
bad thing, you are keeping a secret. Now I 
shall worry myself to death over it." 

" It is nothing— indeed, I spoke carelessly." 
"Just tell me, papa," she said in a whee- 
dling voice. 

" Now I shall have to, or you will be fancying 
all sorts of horrors, and it is a mere temporary 
annoyance." 

He told her about the need he had of the 
twenty thousand dollars, and talked vaguely 
of a wonderful investment he purposed to make 
with a portion which might remain beyond his 
needs. And Elinor begged him to take it of 
her, and pleaded with such earnestness that it 
would have been downright unkindness to re- 
fuse. He allowed himself to be persuaded— oh, 
so gracefully!— and Elinor could not rest until 
the order for the necessary sale of stocks was 
written and she had placed it in his hand. 

"There,"she said, blushing charmingly, "put 
it out of my sight! I feel ashamed that it is 
not all yours instead of mine." 

A man can afford to be in good spirits who 
lays such a sweetener of care in his desk, and 
Mr. Grey's spirits always sprang up elastic the 
moment the pressure was removed. 'You 
look like a queen this morning," he said. 
"Ah, what shall I do one of these days when 
my daughter Elinor meets the true prince among 
her countless worshipers?" 

" There is no danger," said she ; "you have 
taught me too high a standard." 

He shook his head in playful incredulity. 
"The day will come," said he, " but the old 
gentleman will try to be content," 

"Now, papa, in the first place ^ you shan t 
slander yourself, and in the next—" _ 
"Why, that we will leave to Destiny." 
"With all my heart; and I hope she may 
keep away from us forever." 

She hurried back to her dreams for him— the 
triumphs still in store— and he was content 
enough to listen, as Socrates himself might have 
been from her lips. 

" And you are sure you will be quite set right 
by that stypid, stupid money, which belonged 

to you any way ?" 

"Perfectly," he replied. "But don t say 
that it belonged to me, or that I had any claim, 
unless on my daughter Elinor's love ; it is pleas- 
ant to owe a favor to that." 

"A favor! O father, you make me asham- 
ed '•' 

"My peerless," he said, "it is true. I like 

to he obliged to you." 

I dare say he believed what he said. I don t 
suppose he had the slightest recollection of the 
unpleasant apostrophe he made to his wite* 
shade fifteen years before, when she died so sud- 
denly that there was no possibility of leaving 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



21 



liim the fortune he considered his own. It had 
been so given to her that dying intestate the 
whole went to her child. And if any body could 
have seen Elinor the proud, with her arms about 
his neck, cooing like a dove, he might have 
gained a very different idea from that which a 
person must have formed on ordinary occasions. 

Mr. Grey believed too that by a proper feed- 
ing of the Bull with the oil-cake of flattery, this 
money might open a golden harvest to him that 
should make his other assertion quite true. 
Perhaps if he could have seen through what 
fields he must walk during the next year or two, 
still with his eyes on that which held the gold- 
en fruition, he might have been less exultant. 

But that is nonsense. If he had been per- 
mitted to see he could not have believed. It is 
the same with all of us. We are as deaf and 
stupid as the old owls were to Cassandra, until 
we sit howling under our ruined Troys. 



CHAPTER IV. 

AN UNEXPECTED DDTT. 

It was only two or three mornings after that 
they sat over the breakfast-table, as animated 
a partie carree as you could wish to see, in spite 
of the fact that one pair were husband and wife 
and the other parent and child, when the letters 
were brought in and made a diversion. 

The others had finished the perusal of their 
epistles, and Mr. Grey looked up from the last 
of his pile and glanced doubtfully at Elinor, as 
a man always does glance at the feminine power 
of his home when he has some intelligence to 
impart concerning the effect of which he is not 
quite at ease. 

Tom was busy with his newspaper and did 
not notice ; any way he was a man, and proba- 
bly would not have remarked the glance (as a 
sex we must have a thing mash our noses be- 
fore we can see it); Elinor was occupied in 
feeding a Scotch terrier so ugly that he was 
picturesque ; but Mrs. Thornton" had her eyes 
at liberty, and seeing Mr. Grey's look she cried 
out at once — 

"Elinor, he has something to tell you, and he 
doesn't know how you will take it."" 

Elinor poised a bit of bread in her white 
hand at a tantalizing distance from Dot's nose, 
and turned toward the table. 

" What is it, papa?" she asked. 

"One needs a mask in your presence, Mrs. 
Thornton," said Mr. Grey. 

" Then I was right ! I knew it !" 

" Of course you were, dear lady. You don't 
suppose me foolish enough to deny ?" 

^"Yet that Tom often will," cried she dis- 
dainfully, "when I can see through him with- 
out a lantern." 

" Eh ?" said the accused one. 

"Oh, you may eh!" retorted she. "I do 
assure you, Mr. Grey, to this day he will try to 



deceive me, and think he is keeping a secret 
when I could read it if I only saw the end of his 
nose." 

"What ails my nose?" asked Tom, coming 
out of his newspaper and looking vacant. 

" Nothing, I am sure," said Mr. Grey. 'It 
is the noblest Roman of them all.' " 

"But what is the news, papa?" asked Eli- 
nor. 

" My old friend Mr Laidley is dead, and—" 
" Has left you guardian to something," inter- 
rupted Mrs. Thornton. 

" Oh dear," sighed Elinor ; "it's a girl !" 
"The old wretch!" apostrophized her friend. 
Elinor dropped her hand and Dot seized the 
bread, giving a practical illustration in regard 
to the proverb about an ill wind. 

" From whom is the letter, papa ?" asked Eli- 
nor resignedly. "What does it say?" 

"From her aunt. The young lady is still in 
Jamaica. Her father went there some months 
before his death. The letters have been rush- 
ing over all Europe since last March." 

"Let her stay in Jamaica, then," said Mrs. 
Thornton. 

"Yes, so she will for the present, but her 
aunt thinks — Just read the letter, my daugh- 
ter Elinor." 

And Elinor read it, and froze immediately. 
" I am very sorry for her," said she. 

" Oh, of course, so am I !" cried Mrs. Thorn- 
ton. "But she wants to stay with you, doesn't 
she ?" 

"After a time," returned Mr. Grey, witli an 
apologetic manner. 

"Ugh!" groaned Rosa. "And she'll be a 
nasty, stupid thing, you see." 

" No, I believe she is pretty, and she is a great 
heiress," said Mr. Grey. "Just read the letter 
to Mrs. Thornton, Elinor." 

And Elinor read it as if she were tasting 
something unpleasant, and Mrs. Thornton list- 
ened as if smelling something very nasty. You 
know the way women do such things. 

The letter told how grief-stricken the poor 
girl was, and the aunt said how happy it made 
her to be able to have her brother's child with 
her, and what implicit confidence they both had 
in the dead man's choice of a guardian. Then 
followed a brief eulogy upon the virtues of the 
deceased, who had gone to be a seraph, and a 
hint that after a few months the writer thought 
a change would be beneficial to her niece, with 
a palpable meaning that she expected Mr. Grey 
to take his duties in earnest and receive her 
into his home. 

"That woman has daughters of her own!" 
exclaimed Mrs. Thornton. " Now hasn't she ?" 
"I believe so— yes, three or four, "said Mr. 
Grey. 

"And they're ugly!" 

" I can't be positive about that. I have not 
seen them since they were little children." 

" Oh, I am sure of it ! The heiress would stand 
in their way, so she must be set to torment poor 
Elinor." 



22 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



" But she may prove a pleasant companion," 
said Mr. Grey. 

Mrs. Thornton ignored the possibility. 

"Never mind," said Elinor; "we needn't 
think about it for a long time yet. Don't look 
so troubled, papa." 

" Mrs. Thornton quite fills me with evil fore- 
bodings," he answered. 

"She will be a cat," said Rosa; "I know 
it!" 

"I saw her years ago," added Elinor. "I 
remember she was a pretty child, but dreadfully 
spoiled." 

" Poor Laidley has been wandering about for 
years in search of health," said Mr. Grey. " I 
dare say she has been neglected. Well, my 
daughter, I can't refuse my old friend's request. 
I hope it will not be the means of causing you 
any annoyance." 

Elinor was softened and conscience-stricken, 
and began pitying the poor creature, but Rosa 
was not to be mollified. 

"Let her go and be a seraph too,'" said she. 
" My dear, she'll be no end of trouble ! She'll 
make love to your father^-" 

"Oh, oh!" expostulated Mr. Grey. 
"There, Rosa," said Elinor, "your last re- 
stores my courage." 



said Rosa 



"She will," 
ccitful things." 

"Is she likelv to rival me? 



" girls are 



such de- 



demanded Eli- 



nor. 

Rosa admitted that it would not be very easy 
to accomplish that feat. 

"And I shall be so charming that papa will 
not remember to look at her." 

" I think I am to be trusted— after all these 
years," said Mr. Grey, very meekly. 

"Men are never to be trusted!" announced 
Rosa. ' ' There's my Tom— why, if I were gone, 
there's no telling the folly some woman would 
lead him into." 

"Oh!" said Tom again, coming out of his 
newspaper. ' ' What woman ?" 

" Any woman who took the trouble, you 
goose." 

" What's wrong?" asked Tom. 
"He hasn't heard a word!" cried the exas- 
perated Rosa. "Tom, put down that newspa- 
per! Here's Elinor over ears in trouble. 
There's an old monster must needs die, and his 
daughter's going to make love to Mr. Grey." 
" Good gracious !" Tom exclaimed. 
" Is that all you can say ?" 
"Well, just mark my words," returned Tom 
— "whoever she is, if she bothers Elinor she'll 
get the worst of it." 

They all laughed at that, and Mrs. Thornton 
declared that Tom had given her a gleam of 
comfort. 

" When you do have an idea, Tom," said 
she, "I will say it is really brilliant." 
" She wants something !" cried Tom. 
"No, I don't. The only misfortune is, you 
have one so seldom ! There, take that scratch 
for villifying my character." 



"And so you are chosen guardian, Mr. 
Grey?" said Thornton. "I am sure there's 
nothing unpleasant in being a pretty girl's pro- 
tector." 

"You atrocious wretch!" cried his wife. 
" And how do you know she is pretty?" 

"His wife is so beautiful in his eyes that the 
claim of sex makes any woman pretty," said Mr. 
Grey. 

"I forgive you for that," returned Rosa. 
"We never would have thought of it." 

"I was just going to say it," said Tom. 
"But old Laidley was very rich — wasn't he ?" 

"Oh yes; the young lady has little short of 
a million," replied Mr. Grey. 

" Richer than yon even, Elinor," said Tom. 
" It's like her impudence," added Rosa. 
Elinor looked mildly contemptuous of Miss 
Laidley's golden charms. 

"Never mind, Elinor," said Tom, "I'll show 
you how to treat her. My father was. guardian 
once to two cubs, and howl used to punch their 
heads !" . 

"Thank you," said Elinor; "if I should ever 
wish that operation performed on the young 
lady's cranium I will bespeak your assistance." 
" What is her name ?" asked Rosa. 
" Genevieve," replied Mr. Grey. 
" How affected and sentimental," said Mrs. 
Thornton, not to be pleased with any thing con- 
cerning her. "She ought to be ashamed of 
herself." 

"But she's not to blame," said Tom; "she 
wasn't her own godmother.*' 

" I wish she had been," said Rosa ; " she'd 
be an old maid now, and not want any guardian 
but a parrot." 

" Oh, wouldn't she ?" cried Tom. 
"Don't slander the sex," retorted his will. 
"Elinor, we'll call her plain Miss Jenny, jus; 
to punish her." 

" But if she isn't plain ?" demanded Tom. 
"Oh, if you are going to be witty," vow- 
ed Rosa, "I'll go to bed with the headache at 
once." 

"I remember Laidley very well," said Tom. 
" He was an old college friend of mine," ob- 
served Mr. Grey. " I have not seen him these 
ten years. He was in wretched health then — 
and made me promise to act as his daughter's 
guardian if I should outlive him." 

" College friends are always bores," said Mrs. 
Thornton. " Tom has several that come at the 
wrong time and take liberties with no better 
claim." 

"Besides," said Elinor, "it is a woman's 
duty to hate her husband's friends." 

"And I'll do my duty like a— like a—" 
" Brick," suggested Tom. 
"Like a Roman matron !" cried Rosa, men- 
acing him with the tea-pot. 

"I don't believe Cornelia herself had such a 
pretty cap, though," said Mr. Grey. 

" Oh, you want to make me forget Miss Gen- 
evieve." 

" That reminds me I must not forget. There 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



23 



will be lawyers' letters to answer, and heaven 
knows what all. My long silence too must be 
explained ; 80 the troubles begin." 

" If you will be the guardian to young women 
you must take the consequences," returned Mrs. 
Thornton. 

" But, my dear lady, you don't accuse me of 
having sought this duty ?" 

" Some achieve duty and some have duty 
thrust upon them," said Tom. "Shakespeare 
improved." 

"And this is a case of duty thrust upon one 
with a vengeance," returned Mr. Grey. 

" I do say it is uncivil of a man to fling his 
offspring in somebody's face and rush out of 
the world," exclaimed Mrs. Thornton. 

"I exonerate poor Laidley," replied Mr. 
Grey. " He was as anxious to stay here as any 
man I ever knew." 

" He used to write you such mournful letters 
now and then, papa," said Elinor. 

" Only paving the way for this," cried Mrs. 
Thornton. " Don't think to soften my heart! 
I hate plain Miss Jenny, and that's all there is 
about it." 

"If ever she sees her," quoth Tom, "she'll 
rush into a spasm of affection at once ; she al- 
ways does with a woman she abuses in advance." 
" I never abuse women, Sir." 
"Oh no! no female ever does. Good gra- 
cious ! to hear you and # Elinor when you get 
fairly started — you don't leave a character to one 
of your friends." 

"Pope said women had none," added Mr. 
Grey. 

"And Pope was a misanthropical hypocrite," 
said Rosa. 

"And as for me, Mr. Thomas," said Elinor, 
"I deny that I take away the characters of my 
male acquaintance at least." 

" Though glad enough they would be to get rid 
of them," said Rosa. 

"The very reason I leave them," said Eli- 
nor. "The worst punishment they could have 
is to bear them." 

"Bring me an umbrella, somebody!" cried 
Tom. " Go it, lovely women." 

" I think, Tom, you had better make your 
peace, " said Mr. Grey. 

" Oh, Elinor knows I am getting the bay 
fillv in training for her," observed Tom art- 
fully. 

"You are a love !" cried Elinor. " Tom, I 
have always thought Rosa treated you shame- 
fully." 

"O Judas!" said Rosa. 

"But when that beautiful creature is at 
stake, dear, you can't blame me." 

" Give her a lace collar, " said Tom ; " that'll 
bring her round." 

"I am not to be bribed," returned Rosa. 
"Besides, she gave me the last one she had 
only yesterday." 

" Now I am curious to know why?" queried 
Mr. Grey. 

"Because collars are so unbecoming to me," 



said Elinor. " Don't say women never tell the 
truth." 

" I do think those little what-you-call-thems 
in your neck are ever so much prettier," ob- 
served Tom. 

" Oh yes, just because she has a neck like a 
swan," replied his wife. "For my part I am 
willing to be disfigured — in Brussels Point." 

"I'm off," cried Tom, pushing back his 
chair in great haste. " If she gets fairly start- 
ed on that subject she will discover she needs 
a new set of flounces at least." 

" And those are ' airy nothings' which cost a 
man dear," said Mr. Grey. "Thornton, I'll 
walk with you over to the fields ; I am sure you 
are going there." 

"Of course he is," said Rosa. " One would 
think he had his soul planted among his grain, 
and was anxious about its coming up." 

Nothing more was said concerning the new 
trust that had devolved upon Mr. Grey, nor 
did he give the subject much more thought 
than the others, beyond taking the necessary 
steps toward the fulfillment of his duties. 

After a little more idle banter between the 
merry husband and wife the two gentlemen 
started on their walk, followed by a parting in- 
junction from Rosa. 

" If you stray near Mr. Farnsworth, bring him 
to luncheon. I wish to upbraid him for not 
coming yesterday." 

"I dare say we shall get over to his place 
before we come back," Tom said. " I'll give 
him your orders, and tell him of your dire in- 
tents." 

But they did not reach his place. Thorn- 
ton was so busy tormenting his guest by show- 
ing his improvements on the land that had lately 
fallen into his possession, telling how this prom- 
ising wheat-field was once a sterile plain and that 
luxuriant clover-meadow formerly a morass, aft- 
er the fashion in wbich the wisest people will 
inflict their visitors, that in his eagerness and Mr. 
Grey's state of polite boredom, neither remem- 
bered Rosa's commands until it was too late to 
go. When they came out on the road, and 
Mr. Grey stood panting somewhat after the ex- 
ertion of climbing several fences, to say nothing 
of the hill which had been the last grievance, 
along the ascent of which he had left a good 
deal of his breath and patience, Clive Farns- 
worth's house became visible in the distance, 
looking very stately and picturesque among its 
lofty trees. The view being one that Tom ex- 
pected all his guests to admire, Mr. Grey looked 
languidly through his glass, and rather than be 
bored further by going into raptures, asked if 
that was Farnsworth's place he saw. 

"Yes, that's his," said Tom. "Bless me! 
I forgot Rosa's message entirely ; we were so 
interested about that new ditch." 

Mr. Grey looked blandly at him, with a secret 
pity and indignation hidden under his smile, 
and mentally repeated the pronoun in utter re- 
jection of any share therein. 

"I suppose you don't care to walk over now," 



24 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR 



continued Tom ; " though there's a short cut 
through the fields, if you will." 

" Thank you, no ; perhaps we had hetter go 
back," replied Mr. Grey, not anxious to try any 
' short cuts,' that morning. 

Tom captured a village boy who had strayed 
away thither on some unlawful errand, no doubt 
connected with the stealing of strawberries or 
unripe cherries or some similar wickedness, 
who at the sight of the two gentlemen had 
aeated himself innocently on the fence, and was 
gazing up into the sky with as much intentness 
as if he had been an embryo Herschel on the 
lookout for wonders or worlds. He was a mir- 
acle of leanness and precocious wisdom, this 
boy, and listened readily enough to Mr. Thorn- 
ton's proposal that he should carry a message 
over to the house on the hill, when he saw the 
gratuity that accompanied the request. Tom 
scribbled on the back of a letter — 

" Kosa wants a poet for luncheon. Come 
and be eaten or abused, for want of a better. 
Dont fail, you reclaimed hermit." 

The boy put the paper in his pocket and can- 
tered oft" as if he had reindeer blood in his 
veins. When he came near the gates of Faros- 
worth's domain it seemed good to him, before 
fulfilling his errand, to stop and collect a store 
of round pebbles out of the brook that flowed 
through the grounds and crossed the road in 
that spot. So it chanced that Clive, returning 
homeward from a morning ride, encountered 
him ; that is to say, the boy jumped into the 
road at his appearance, thereby endangering his 
own neck, for at sight of the shirt-sleeved appa- 
rition the horse gave a tremendous bound which 
might have disturbed a less secure rider, then 
sidled with his back feet and pawed the air with 
his front hoofs, in a manner that appeared to 
afford the lean boy extreme delight, as if the ex- 
hibition were gotten up for his express amuse- 
ment. 

"Hallo!" exclaimed Clive, somewhat irri- 
tated, as was natural. 

" Hallo !" returned the boy easily, apparent- 
ly thinking the salutation had been meant for 
a friendly greeting which he was bound by po- 
liteness to return in the same spirit. 

"Don't you know any better than to spring 
out before a horse in that way ?" demanded 
Clive. "It's a wonder you weren't killed." 

" I don't die easy, I don't," replied the boy. 
" Why, he does it just like a circus, don't lu- ?" 
continued he, in opened-mouthed admiration 
of the prancing horse. 

Clive checked the unsatisfactory Franconi 
style of performance which had gratified the 
youngster and looked at him, somewhat amused 
by the creature's coolness. 

" What is your name, my lad ?" he asked. 

" Don't you know ? Why, I thought every 
body knew me," replied the boy. "I say, 
what's yourn?" 

" Don't you think you deserve a thrashing?" 
asked Clive. 

" Some folks says I always do," answered he. 



" But I shan't get my deservings jist at pres- 
ent." 

"I don't know," said Clive ; "I feel some- 
what inclined to prove that I agree with ' some 
folks.' " 

" In the first place you can't ketch me," said 
the lean boy ; " in the next place, I've got 
sumpthin' for you." 

"What may it be?" 

" I know," said the boy ; " but you wouldn't 
tell your name, so how can I tell you's you." 

It was useless to do any thing but laugh, and 
impossible to avoid that undignified proceeding. 
The boy looked in size as if he might be about 
fourteen ; his face might have been any age it 
was so thin and care-worn, and the hard mouth 
might have been learning reticence for half a 
century, although the sharp eyes had a certain 
good-natured twinkle in them that seemed to 
speak of uncontrollable propensities for mischief 
rather than downright wickedness. 

"A perfect Flibbertigibbet," said Clivo in- 
voluntarily. 

"That's in Walter Scott," exclaimed the 
boy ; " I've read it. Oh, ain't lie slow ! The 
Slave Girl of Moscow is worth twenty of him." 

"Where do you live?" asked Clive. 

"To hum, mostly — when I'm there," re- 
plied the boy, taking a handful of pebbles from 
his pocket, tossing them in the air and dexter- 
ously catching them on the back of his hand. 
" I was a going there now for a change, when 
Tom Thornton he stopped me." 

"Who?" demanded Clive in astonishment. 

"Tom Thornton, I told you," answered he, 
giving the pebbles another toss. " Dern it, I've 
dropped one." 

"That's not verv respectful, my boy," said 
Clive. 

"'Cause I said Tom? Lord, this here's a 
free country, this is ! You rich folks thinks every- 
body talks behind your backs as if you had 
crowns on your heads ; but they always says 
Tom Thornton and Old Hackett and Fuggy 
llainlyn, and most ginrally they call you Fom- 
pcy the Great Farnsworth, 'cause they think 
you're stuck up." 

" Since you are certain about my name, sup- 
pose you give me whatever Mr. Thornton sent 
by you." 

"That's what I come for," replied the boy, 
counting the pebbles. " I say, your trees ain't 
a going to have no harvest-apples on 'em this 
year." 

" Have you been up to examine them ?" 

"Yes ; there ain't many orchards about that 
I hain't; last year yourn had lots," said the 
boy in an injured to'ne, as if he considered the 
probable failure of the present season in some 
way Farnsworth's fault. 

" I suppose you had your share," Clive ob- 
served. 

" You bet I did. The deacon and old Gran- 
ny Cumber said if I stole I'd go to Tophet, so I 
stole right off— I wanted to plague that old tor- 
tie that keeps house for you. I go to Sunday- 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



25 



/ 



school, I do. I can say hymns like split if 
I'm a mind to — it kind o' pleases Aunt Pru- 
dence. When I'm out with the railroad men I 
can swear like blazes — that pleases them. Ye 
see that's turning to account what Saint Paul 
sa y S — i' m all sorts o' things to all sorts o' folks." 
He cocked up one eye, and looked so preter- 
naturally wicked that Clive was silenced be- 
tween his face and this novel application and 
delivery of the Apostle's text. 

" Here's the paper Mr. Thornton sent," con- 
tinued the boy, reaching it toward him. 

" And here's a half-dollar for you," said 
Clive. 

"No," replied the boy, " he paid me." 
"Take this too," Clive said, somewhat as- 
tonished at this trait of honesty after his con- 
fessions. 

The boy pocketed the money indifferently, 
stood waiting while Clive read the scrawl, then 
he said — 

" You don't want any thing more, Is'pose ?" 
"No, there's no answer needed. Would you 
like to go up to the house and get something to 
eat ?" 

" If you'll make 'em give me some bread and 
milk, I do. We hain't got no cow this summer, 
an' I miss her like a mother — that's so." 
" Where do you live ?" 
" Down not fur from the depot. Uncle Josh 
he tends depot. I'm there a good deal to keep 
things straight myself, when I ain't off on a in- 
geine or about loose. I ain't much good, you 
know — I hate old Josh wors'n the devil. I say, 
you hain't got the sequel to the Black Rover of 
the Perary, have you." 

" I don't think I ever heard of the book," said 
Clive. 

" Didn't you ? Some folks never reads. The 
newsboy down to the depot has got it, but he 
hain't the sequel." 

" Perhaps he will have sometime, " said Clive. 
"Go up to the house and find Mrs. Sykes 
and say I told her to give you some bread and 
milk."" 

" She wouldn't believe me ; I know her of old 
— she comes to see AuntPru. She's awful stuck 
up 'cause she's housekeeper up to your place. I 
fired a spit-ball right in her eye the other night 
to prayer-meetin'. She was a prayin' ' like 
all possessed,' and it brought her up with a 
ling. " 

"lam not surprised you don't care to en- 
counter her after that exploit." 

"Oh, she didn't see me — I was behind the 
post. It's good fun to go to prayer-meetin' 
sometimes. Was you ever there ?" 

Clive was forced to admit that he never had 
been. " Do you go to school ?" he asked. 

" Not now. I went last half to the deestrict, 
but the marster'n me we don't agree. He's got 
his niggersyncrasies an' I've got mine, an' they 
don't hit otf. But I'm mostly at sumpthin' — I 
lamped it awhile." 

" What's that ?" asked Clive. 

" Why, lamped it, of course ; what else would 



it be?" returned the boy. "On the railroad, 
you know. Then I kind o' helped old Josh, the 
hunks ; but the more you do fur him the less 
thanks you git. Then I newsed it — " 

"Newsed it?" 

" Yes — sold papers. I say, you don't speak 
English much, do you — been hammerin' so long 
round furrin parts ?" 

Clive, convicted of ignorance, decided to ride 
up to the house before going over to Alban 
Wood, perhaps to be certain that his toilet was 
irreproachable. He told the boy to follow, 
promising that he should have the treat he de- 
sired. 

Mrs. Sykes, who greeted the lean wizard with 
many shakings of the head and doleful groans, 
to which he responded by inquiring with an air 
of great interest "if she'd been eating sump- 
thin' that hurt her," informed her master that 
he exulted in the name of Tad Tilman, and add- 
ed the information that he was noted far and 
wide for his wickedness, and was an unfailing 
source of grief to his worthy relatives. The 
boy, sitting on the door-step of Mrs. Sykes's 
apartment, to which Clive had 'ridden, listened 
with much composure while the good woman 
detailed his numerous misdeeds, setting her 
right when she erred with a kind of conscious- 
ness of modest merit that amused Farnsworth as 
much as it irritated the housekeeper. 

" He's been a subject of constant wrastlin' in 
prayer to his aunt and uncle," said Mrs. Sykes 
in conclusion, " and the deacon has done his 
furthermost, like a Christian and a shinin' light 
as he is, but they hain't wrastled the Evil One 
out of that boy yit." 

The boy treated Clive to another twist of the 
thin visage of a nature so irresistibly ludicrous 
that it forced him to leave the room without de- 
lay. Tad sat on the door-step and quietly dis- 
posed of his milk and bread, while Mrs. Sykes 
took advantage of the opportunity to tell him 
what a dreadful creature he was, and what judg- 
ments were certain to be in store for him if he 
persevered in his present course. 



CHAPTER V. 



IN AUGUST. 



Two months passed so swiftly that fhey seem- 
ed like two weeks ; those months without much 
incident which do fly. so rapidly and yet are so 
long and golden to look back upon through the 
mist of after tempests. 

Elinor Grey had remained quietly at Alban 
Wood, though her father during the time had 
been obliged to absent himself on brief journeys. 
The pleasant old house was declared by all so- 
journers to be the coolest and most delightful 
of resting-places during midsummer heats. 

It was the middle of August now. The fields 
of stubble lay red and brown in the sun ; the 
quail piped in the meadows ; the exquisite 



26 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



hase settled every afternoon over the mountain- 
Bides and changed the scene into new beauty. 

It. had Ih'i'ii a. delipfhtful summer (<> ('li\r 
Farnsworth ; b Dew waking to life from the gloom 
of that despondency in which it. had found him. 
Of late oven the ability to write had returned to 
him ; that Incomprehensible faculty concerning 
even which a veteran author shall l>o able ii> 
give you no explanation ; which comes and goes 
as ii pleases, and Is so difficult t<> be restrained 
i>\ any wiles thai Ii i ,; not wonderful writers are 
often careless and lazy and wail vainly for the 
spirit to move. Bui the power had come back 
in ( IHve in iis most bew itching form ; the vision 
was clear and distinct ; his characters lived i>c- 
forc him as real as the men and women he met 
daily, and the plot arranged itself with as much 
accuracy as if it had been a decree of fate. ll<' 
was writing a tragedy, and each day he read to 

Elinor the scenes he had bl'OUght into shape nn 

the preceding nighl ; and of all the pleasure 
any writer over had, that of reading his produc- 
tions still frosh in his own interest to an appre- 
ciative woman is the most enjoyable. 

They had tak%n to long walks now, and there 
was nobody to remind Klinor of the intimacy 

which had grown Up between her anil this man. 

There were m> visitors at the Wood, her father 

was absent, and Kosa moved about as innocent 

as b dove and Kepi, a watchful guard on careless 

'Com, that lie should nol so much as look sic; 
nilieanl. ('li\e hail shown her his favorite 
WnlliS. The grove On the hill which separated 
his plaCO from the Thornton's became their al- 
most daily resort, ami the most beautiful tO 

Olive, for it was there he read to her his traj 
edj 

There "as to come a break now ; the first re- 
minder that he had heen wandering in the en 
chanted garden, ami that lie had not yet discov- 
ered any spell which could make it a reality j 
that it was still doubtful whether it might not 
vanish from his sight and he no more found in 

this world. Elinor was -going away. Only for 

a fortnight ; but sometimes a week is more im- 
portant than ordinary years. 

( 'live had ridden over to the Wood one morn- 
ing, and as SOOn as lie entered ihe room where 
she and her friend sat busy with a pretty female 

pretense of work, Mrs. Thornton exclaimed — 

"(Mi. isn't, she a wicked creatine? She is 
going to morrow.'' 

('live felt as if she had suddenly thrown cold 
water in his face, and his disappointment was 
so \ isible that Kosa added 

•• ii is only for a fortnight- that is some com- 
fort." 

Clivo recovered himself and said properly — 
" It. ma\ seem so when the last week is al- 
most over. But is not this sudden, Miss 
(ire\ 

•• ( >h no ; 1 told Mrs. Thornton I should have 
to Steal time to visit an old cousin of papa's. 
He wauls ns now, he wriles, and papa is tO lake 
me up on his way from tow u." 

•■ But I had settled on Saturday for my break- 



fast, or /'//c, or whatever you please lo call it," 
said ( 'live. 

"And why hadn't, you told us?" inquired 
Kosa. 

" I wanted a little surprise. I wan going to 
tell you tO-day, and send oiii the invitations." 

11 it must. wait, till Elinor comes back," return- 
ed Kosa. 

11 Thai would not be fair," rejoined Elinor, 

" though 1 shall be very sorry to miss it." 

"As ii was to be given to show Miss Grey 
my old place," said ciive, " i am afraid it must 
wait." 

And I am afraid that Miss ( i rev was so accus- 
tomed to being first in people's thoughts that, 

she rather took that ns a matter Of course. 

"Say two weeks from to-morrow Thursda\ 

fortnight,'" urged Mrs. Thornton; "thai will 

bring it. the day after the false creature's re- 
turn.'' 

" If that will please Miss (irey P" 

" I shall he delighted," said Elinor. "Hut. 
it is cruel of you to make my dull weeks still 
duller b\ the anticipation." 

So it was arranged, and while they were yet. 

talking and Clivewas teasing Mrs. Thornton by 
protending to make a vast secret in regard lo 

his preparations, Tom burst in like a hurricane 
after his usual fashion. 

" lias the world fallen in two?" demanded 
his wife. 

" 1 haven't heard," said Tom ; " I'll send up 
a hoy in a balloon to inquire. How are you, 
Favnsworth'? 1 say, the Idol is driving up in 

great stale. 1 hurried in because I want, some 
fun." 

" I must tell her about the postponement of 

my breakfast," said ('live. 

K'osa i > 1 1 1 up her lip, contemptuous. 

" Has the Idol heen in your confidence ?" she 
asked. " Dear me. Elinor, I suppose he i- 
injj to show us Dagon." 

"No, Mrs. PlutO has sent down to get him 

the bottle-imp," said Tom. " What is it ?" 

('live explained, and added — 

" I was Obliged lo tell her because 1 found 
she meant, a dinner on Saturday." 

■• A dinner in August |" cried Mrs. Thornton. 

"She OUght to he broiled on one o( her own 
gridirons," said Tom. 

" Hush," said Kosa, " there is her Carriage. 

Elinor, don't look so aggravatingly virtuous and 

BUperior, else I'll bite yon." 

" 1 was wondering if 1 mightn't no away," 

sin- said. "Tom will be sure to make me 

laugh." 

•■I'll he as grave as a judge," promised 

Tom. 

'• 1 do believe it makes you uncomfortable to 

he wicked. Miss (irey,'' observed ('live. 

" Indeed, it does seem a shame to laugh at 
any body so kind-hearted as Mrs. llaeketl." 

" Nonsense,'' said Kosa ; " don't every body 
laugh at us and every body else? Don't be 

goody, goody ! Laugh now and wear a ■ gold- 
en sparrow ' of remorse to-morrow. " 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



'-'7 



They all laughed, but she checked them, for 

a servant opened the door bearing in his hand 

the Idol's card. 

"Yes," said Mrs. Thornton, "at, h e, 

John." 

When the Idol was hoard rustling through 
the hall she rose to meet her and did the. de- 
lighted. Tint Idol exclaimed, kissed bur, greet- 
ed Elinor warmly, and said — 

"Why,}'"" have quite a Arc//, Mrs. Thorn 

ton. How is your good spOUSO ? And how do 
you do, Mr. Farnsworth?" 

"We are all well, and you are just in lime 
to mOUm with US. Have, you any sackcloth ?" 

"I could get it," said the Idol, who always 
took things literally ; and I dci'y an angel of 

mercy not to laugh at people who do. " But 

what is il, and what is it for ?" 

" There is going to he an eclipse of the sun," 
said Tom. 

"Total?" she asked. 

"Yes, bill, transitory." 

" He means that Miss Orey is going to Ioavc 
us," explained Mrs. Thornton. 

"() no, that would he too cruel!" cried Mrs. 

Hackett, really distressed. "And dear me, 
Mr. Farnsworth, your party — ah, I forgot." 

" It is no secret now," said Olive ; " I have 
had t0 tell them about it." 

" It seems you were admitted Into his mys- 
tery," remarked Rosa. 

It pleased the Idol t0 think she should have 
been. "Only by chance," sail! she. « He |o|,| 

me because I had set the same day to give a little 
pleasure to our Accidental beauty." 
Elinor frowned down Tom's face of run-Olive 

bad told them about the, twist she, gave the mag- 
nificent word < Accidental. 

" You are, all only loo kind, Mrs. Ilacketl," 
said Elinor. " It is well I am going away for 
a little ; you would spoil me ullerly." 

"YOU can not gihl refined gold," said the 

idol, with a gracious inclination of her head, 
" nor e:ui you add to the perfume of the lily bv 
the supplication of a moment." 

"Ah, Mrs. Ilacketl," said Tom, "you beat 
them all when it comes to poetry." 

" But mine are only stolen gems," she re- 
plied ; "Mr. FamSWOrth has the true blossoms 
in bis garden." 

By (his time, she had her metaphors in a stale 

<>f hopeless confusion and was proportionately 

COllti 111. 

" How is Mr. Hackett?" Rosa asked. 
"Quite well. H a QaB |„. ( ,„ j n tmvll sillcc 

Monday." 

" He is so devoted to bis business." 
' Yes, I often reproach him for il," said she. 
" I say to him what is wealth ? For my own 
part, my idea of bliss is to be a shepherdess 
with a crook." 

And on tin! instant Tom, sitting by Elinor, 
seized her pencils and began an elaborate 

sketch of the. Idol i n that costume, at which 
Elinor gave one glance and dared QOt look 
again. 



" ' As You Like It ' and the ' Forest of Ar- 
dent,'" pursued Mrs. Ilacketl, "Think of il, 

Mr. Farnsworth !" 

"lie would answer for a 'melancholy 
Jacques,' " said Rosa. 

"Is he ardent enough?" asked Tom in a 
thoughtful voice, as if he, were inedilating dee] 
ly upon the mailer. 

Elinor privately threatened him with her 

needle, and he revenged himself by sliding the 
Caricature toward her on the table, under cover 
of a book. 

"So for two whole weeks, !\I iss O rej , we :nv 

to lose you ?" continued Mrs. Hackett, 

"If you are good enough to consider it a 

loss," Elinor replied. 

"She is very meek, knowing how we shall 

regret her,* said Rosa. 

"Even Courts have had to do tUat," returned 

Mrs. Hackett; for the chief ground on which 
She based Miss Orey's right to admiral ion was 
the fact that the newspapers said the Fmpeior 
bad praised her appearance. 

Yes, it was absurd, as you say, but, I think 

the chronicles of our time report similar in- 
stances dear, blessed republican people! 

"Have you hod a lawsuit, Elinor ? asked 
Tom. 

"Ah, you know what I meant, Mr. Thorn- 
ton," said Mrs. Hackett. "You have not for- 
gotten that letter." 

"Oh yes," Said Tom; "stupid of me! one 
of the triumphs Of our accidental beauty." 

"So you like my little title for her?'' asked 
the Idol complacently. 

" Nothing could he heller suited, " said Tom. 

" As opposed to oriental, you know." 

" Precisely, " said Tom, with an Overwhelm- 
ing how. 

" Mr. FamsWOrth ought to show himself a 

pool laureate on the occasion of Miss Grey's de- 
parture," said the. Idol. 

" Beautiful lines of Tennyson," said Tom, 
quoting Bon Gaultia/s wicked parody — 

" l oh, who would lie a poet laureate? 
oh, that would be the post for me I 
W'iiii pleat v in get and nothing to < i • > 
But in deck " i»'i poodle in ribbons of blue. 
Ami wiii, tin a i mil' in the Queen's cockatoo, 
Ami scribble of versos remarkably tow, 
And, at evening empty u bottle or two, 
Quafflngly, quafflngly. 1 " 

" Tennyson ?" queried the Idol, for whom the 

mention of the name was enough. " Beautiful, 
of course! But I want our American Laureate 

to wreathe a chaplet." 

Olive w.i ; not so well pleased. He objected 
to Mrs. Hackett's making him ridiculous what- 
ever she might do with herself. 

" I want, our children dfrgenius to assert 

themselves," said she. "I am truly patriotic, 
Miss Grey." 

Elinor bowed anil said that her sentiments 
wen- praiseworthy, and Mrs. Thornton, dread 
ing a grand spread of the Slar-Spangled Ban- 
ner and a Mutter of the Eagle's wings, immedi- 
ately asked some question which changed the 



28 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



conversation. Mrs. Hackett was given to wor- 
shiping the immortal bird in theory, and run- 
ning mad after foreign pomps and vanities in 
daily practice. I suppose she is a solitary in- 
stance, is she not ? 

" When do you go to Newport?" Rosa asked. 

"Indeed, I ought to be there now. I shall 
go and return for Mr. Farnsworth's fete. ' I 
wish I could persuade Miss Grey to accompanv 
me." 

But Elinor showed the impossibility and ex- 
pressed her regrets in a civil way. The Idol 
had lately returned from a trip to Saratoga, and 
she expressed her sorrow that Miss Grey had 
not appeared there. 

"People were so disappointed," she said. 
"But I told them you were as fond of retire- 
ment as Marie Antoinette herself,* and were 
buried in the country, lost in Ethiopian dreams." 

Mrs. Thornton upset her basket of worsteds, 
and she and Clive were very busy hunting the 
stray balls. Elinor bore it like a martyr, but 
Tom cried out with his blankest look — 

" Are you going to be a Colonizationist, Eli- 
nor?" 

"No, no, you mistake," explained the Idol 
patronizingly. " I did not speak of actualities — 
I referred to an old poem ; whose was it, Mr. 
Farnsworth?" 

" I really forget," Clive said, diving behind 
a great chair in search of worsted. 

"At all events," continued she, "it is about 
fancy and retirement — unreal, you know — an 
Ethiopian dream. Ah! Mr. Thornton, you men 
of this generation do not read enough ; you are 
too busy thinking of the vile dross." 

' ' I only wish one had enough without think- 
ing," said Tom, catching her expression as she 
spoke, for a last touch to his caricature. 

"Oh, don't let us be mercenary," she ex- j 
claimed ; " let us be light and airy and fanciful." 

" And Ethiopian," added Tom. 

"By all means," said the Idol. 

" How well that would suit the Accidental 
Beauty," said Tom. 

Elinor gave him a beseeching look, but Mrs. 
Hackett was blissfully unconscious. 

"That is what I told them at Saratoga," pur- 
sued she; "I told them that I too was weary 
of the vortex of pleasure, and loved more and 
more my Ciceronian shades." 

" She means Plutonian," whispered Rosa to 
Clive, and they both had to hunt for more 
worsted before they could venture to resume 
their scats. She went away at length, and Clive 
was heartily rejoiced ; he could not endure to 
have this last day desecrated. 

It passed as pleasantly as the others, not that 
any thing more definite came of it ; perhaps in 
a certain sense it was the more enjoyable on 
that very account. 

I may tell you that those had been pleasant 
weeks to Elinor Grey herself, and perhaps her 
heart had gone nearer his than it had ever been 
drawn toward that of any other man, but there 
had been nothing to make it necessary for her 



to rouse herself or think, and she had drifted on 
in the sunshine. 

They sat under the trees on the lawn, they 
drove out when the summer twilight cooled the 
air, and Tom kept them all amused by his high 
spirits. It was not farewell either that had to 
he said when they returned, for Clive was to 
stay all night, and they were to see Elinor to 
the station the next morning. 

" I don't like even this break," Mrs. Thorn- 
ton said, as she and Tom sat on the piazza, and 
Clive and Elinor walked up and down in the 
moonlight. "Things so seldom go on just the 
same after any change." 

"No dismal auguries," said Clive. 

" She would be vexed in a moment if any 
body else croaked," said Tom rashly. 

" Croaked!" repeated she. "You said once 
I had a voice like a dove, you monster." 

"And somebody talks about the low com- 
plaining of the dove," said Elinor, "so perhaps 
it is part of the old compliment, Rosa." 

"That suggests a fretful dove," replied she. 

"The natural transformation women under- 
go," added Tom. "First they are innocent 
doves, then turtle doves, and then fretful ones. 
Elinor is an example of the first, my Rosa of the 
last." 

"Any thing is better than being innocent," 
cried Rosa ; " that means you don't know any 
thing. I used to hate it when I was a girl, he- 
cause I knew I wasn't innocent." 

" That is a confession," said Tom. 

"No matter," retorted she, and curled her 
head down on his shoulder, pretending to be 
cold and sleepy, and watched Clive and Elinor, 
who had pursued their promenade and stood at 
the end of the porch looking across the moonlit 
garden. - 

"After all," Clive said, "I believe Mrs. 
Thornton was right — even brief partings are dis- 
mal things." 

" And one gets into such idle, dreamy ways 
in this Castle of Indolence," replied Elinor. 
" I think it will do me good to be roused by a 
little change." 

" Only the dreamy ways are so pleasant." 

Elinor agreed to that, but made a movement 
to resume their march, and Rosa mentally vitu- 
perated her for spoiling the pretty picture they 
had presented standing together in the yellow 
radiance. 

" I shall expect you to have reached the last 
act of the tragedy by the time I get back," Eli- 
nor was saying as they passed the place where 
Rosa and Tom sat. 

"Bah!" thought Rosa, "haven't they got 
away from that tragedy all this time?" 

"I am afraid I shall lose my inspiration," 
said Clive. 

' ' Oh, you arc so far along in it now that you 
must not stop," she replied. "I have fully 
made up my mind to see it played next winter, 
and you must not disappoint me." 

"Suppose it shares the fate of most trage- 
dies?" asked he. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



" You will have done the work, and done it 
with all your power, so you need not be dis- 
couraged. But it won't fail." 

"I shall be certain of success now," said he. 
"I believe in your prophetic instinct, you 
know." 

Rosa heard that too, curled up on Tom's 
shoulder, while he yielded to a pleasant doze. 

"Prophetic instinct!" quoth she, in high 
scorn. " If he can't do better for himself than 
that I'll break up the sitting and go to bed." 

"I shall be anxious for the last act," Elinor 
continued. " You have not told me any thing 
about that." 

"Then you will remember to think about it ?" 
Clive asked. He had been on the point of saying 
" me," but recollected himself and wisely added 
the neuter pronoun. 

Elinor gave him one of her beautiful smiles, 
but that was not an encouragement, although 
agreeable, for he had seen her smile at other 
people in the same way. " Of course I shall 
remember it — when your heroine is my name- 
sake." 

Clive thought of a thousand graceful things 
he might have said to any other female, but 
somehow they sounded weak and overstrained 
when he wanted to offer them to this woman. 
She looked so grand, so unlike any body un- 
less some vision of ancient poetry, wrapped in a 
scarlet shawl which became regal drapery as 
she folded it about her. her great eyes mournful 
and soft in the moonlight, and so womanly and 
gentle with it all— how could he say any "thing 
worth her hearing ? 

They stopped again when they reached the 
limit of their promenade, and talked for some 
time. Rosa gathered heart and allowed Tom 
to dream in peace, smiling to herself. But she 
might have listened ; Elinor was still talking to 
him about his play, and bestowing that subtle 
flattery which only a woman can do ; and having 
faith in his genius, meant every word. Then 
perhaps they did both yield a little to the influ- 
ence of the scene, and talked somewhat dreamily 
about life and hope and the silver mist setting 
over the garden, but not going very far, because 
as they walked back and neared Mrs. Thornton 
Elinor was saying — 

"Oh, the first night— I shall sit in a stage- 
box and be sternly critical." 

"I'd like to box your eais !" thought the ex- 
asperated Rosa. ' ' You are the most aggravating 
she-leopard I ever knew, and that Clive's a 
muff." 

She gave Tom a push and roused him without 
mercy, and he with a propensity common to 
human nature desired to show he had not been 
asleep but hearing every word that had passed. 
"It's just like her!" said he. 
"Why, I vow you are clairvoyant!" cried 
Rosa, and laughed. " Good people, moonlight 
is pretty and I am pretty therein, but I am going 
to bed now that I may be pretty to-morrow. I 
shall have a cold in my head if I stay here any 
longer. " 



Of course they all went in, and she was ,.. > 
ciless in ordering every body away. 

"I'll have some sort of revenge," thought 
she. "Horrid things! My nose aches with 
the cold. I know it's red." 

But she relented when she remembered Elinor 
was to go the next morning, and the conse- 
quence was that they sat there and talked till 
some preposterous hour. That was one of the 
pleasant things about Alban Wood — people 
never got to bed. 

The next morning was gorgeously beautiful 
—the only part of an August day in which one 
is willing to be alive— and the train would be 
at the station early enough to make a punctual 
breakfast necessary. So it was pleasant to the 
last — very pleasant. 

Tom drove them over in his new trap, and 
Rosa insisted on sitting by him. "He is so 
careless," said she ; " and I feel safer where I 
can watch him with these new horses." 

Now Tom, who was the exquisite whip only 
the owner of American trotters ever is, looked 
aghast and irate at this abominable slander, and 
Rosa pinched him slyly. AVhat she meant he 
understood just one hour and a quarter after — 
it takes that length of time for a female plot to 
get through a masculine head. 

There were not more than five minutes' space 
for last words. The express came shrieking up 
and halted ; there stood Mr. Grey on the plat- 
form ready to receive his princess and utter and 
return hasty greetings. 

u Bring her back in just a fortnight," cried 
Rosa, " or I'll never forgive you." 

" I could not keep away from you any longer 
if I would," replied Mr. Grey. 

Clive handed Elinor up on the platform— she 
diappeared— the engine shrieked again, and they 
were gone. 

A flower had fallen from the bouquet Elinor 
carried and lay at Clive's feet; he committed the 
old, old folly that will always be new and always 
pretty— hid it in his vest and turned to join his 
friends. 

"I feel as if she were gone forever,"- said 
Mrs. Thornton dolefully. 

Clive's very thought. A sudden gloom swept 
over him which took the brightness out of the 
morning sky. They drove round by his place 
and deposited him at the gates, and he walked 
slowly up the avenue, to learn what existence 
would be like deprived of Elinor Grey. 



CHAPTER VI. 

AT EASTBURN. 



Those were not exhilarating days which Mr. 
Grey and " my daughter Elinor" spent with their 
venerable relative ; but similar visits are among 
the penalties all lives must undergo, and they 
endured the sojourn with such philosophy as 
could be summoned. Still and uneventful 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



i ..gh the time had slipped by, until Elinor 
rose one morning and remembered that the 
next but one would be her last day. 

Her father and his cousin were going off 
upon some expedition, and Elinor would have 
the hours between the inhumanly early break- 
fast and late twilight entirely at her disposal. 
She meditated several things, then woman-like 
sprang at something entirely different and pro- 
ceeded to act upon her newest impulse. She 
was only two or three hours' journey, thanks to a 
portion being by rail, from the little village, 
nestled among the hills, where she had once 
spent several quiet weeks years and years ago. 
She had always wanted to visit it again, and 
she had determined not to go back without 
carrying her wish into execution. 

This day was the most favorable opportunity 
imaginable, and as soon as she was left to her 
own devices Miss Grey ordered a vehicle to 
take her to the station for the first train, not 
being in the least helpless or fine when she 
really desired to do any thing, and equal to 
a good deal more than a brief journey without 
a protector. 

She had always remembered that village with 
so much pleasure, having spent some weeks 
there the summer she went to Europe. Aunty 
Olds, the mistress of the farm-house where she 
lodged, had been a sempstress in Mr. Grey's es- 
tablishment when he was at one time settled in 
New York during Elinor's childhood, and had 
petted her so much and sent her occasional let- 
ters since, written in wonderful English, that 
Elinor remembered her pleasantly and had prom- 
ised her a brief visit when she came within reach 
of her. At the railway terminus she found a 
conveyance to carry her on without delay, and 
it was still early in the morning when she reach- 
ed the village and drove along the one street it 
could boast, marvelling to see how exactly the 
same all things appeared. Perhaps the maple- 
trees had gained in their spreading branches ; 
Mrs. Olds's house maybe looked somewhat gray- 
er as she walked up the yard, but there was no 
other perceptible change. 

The good woman was in a state of such ex- 
stasy at her visit, and so full of grief that it 
was to be so short, that Elinor would have been 
repaid even if it had cost her some trouble. 
She had to hear every thing that had happened 
during those long years, as far as Mrs. Olds's ex- 
perience was concerned ; an elaborate account 
of Mr. Olds's death included, witli particular 
mention of the different sorts of " doctor's stuff" 
he had taken and how wickedly his children be- 
haved because the farm and every thing apper- 
taining thereto was left to their step-mother. 
Elinor was properly sympathetic and indeed 
suffieiently interested. The incidents narrated 
by a quaint body with any individuality are not 
half so wearisome as the affairs of our every- 
day friends, be they potentates or high-priests. 
After she diverged to the history of the village, 
and Elinor remembered the pretty girl whose 
beauty had so impressed her artistic tastes and 



who had been her companion in daily rambles 
among the hills. 

" And Ruth Sothern ?" she asked. "What 
has become of her, Aunty Olds ?" 

The good woman shook her head. 

"Oh, .1 hope she is not dead, or married to 
some man that has allowed her to work her 
beauty all away." 

" Either one or t'other would have been a 
blessing," replied Mrs. Olds. 

"What has happened to her?" Elinor ask- 
ed. 

"Deary me, deary me," exclaimed Mrs. 
Olds ; "I do say I felt sorry for her. But la ! 
you couldn't say so here to this day ; folks hain't 
no mercy." 

" But where is she ?" asked Elinor. " Does 
she live up in her grandmother's house?" 

" Bless you, no ! she hain't these three years 
and more. Old gran'ma's dead ; there aint 
nobody in the house now. Ruth she rented it 
to Miss Jinkins, but she went out West to live 
with her son and there hain't ben nobody there 
these three months — " 

" Do tell me about Ruth," Elinor interrupted, 
fearful lest she should hear a long narrative 
about Mrs. Jenkins and her expedition instead 
of the story of the poor girl. 

" Oh clear, 'taint to tell," said the old wo- 
man. "Not but what such things happen often 
enough, as I used to know when I was young 
and lived in towns ; but away up here — it did 
seem as if the Devil must be sharp to hunt up 
a poor gal 'way here." 

Elinor waited. The good woman must tell 
the tale in her own way if she told it at all ; 
any attempt to shorten it would only put her 
ideas in hopeless confusion, i 

" It was all that fellow getting hurt and stay- 
ing there — what was his name ? It wasn't John- 
son — my head is just like a sievefor all the world, 
But he did stay and stay, long arter I thought 
he might better ha' gone, but 'twant for me to 
say so. Wal, he went, and fall came and Ruth's 
grandma died sudden, and there was Ruth all 
alone — oh, my dear!" 

"Poor Ruth!" 

" She stayed shet up there, but oh, it wasn't 
long afore folks began to talk, and I wouldn't 
believe it — " 

"You good heart, you." 
" Yes, but oh deary, I had to! It come 
along a'most to March, but it was dreadful cold 
weather and we'd had a terrible fall of snow. 
In the middle of the night who should come a 
pounding at my door but Miss Jinkins's little 
boy — he'd ben to Ruth's ever since gran'ma 
died. ' Git up, git up ! ' says he. ' Ma's afeard 
Ruth'll die afore morning." ' 

" I slipped into my clothes and paddled away 
through the snow and got up there at last. I 
don't never want to see another such a sight. 
There was the doctor and Miss Jinkins, and 
Ruth a screaming and raving on the bed, and 
oh, my dear, afore daylight her baby was born 
and died, and I just knelt down and prayed that 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



she might die too ; — but the Lord didn't see fit 
to have it so." 

The old woman broke off to cry a little, and 
Elinor cried too with her womanly sympathies 
thoroughly roused, having passed that age when 
girls are such severe judges of their own sex. 

" What became of her ?" she asked at length. 

"As soon as she got well she went off, leaving 
Miss Jinkins to live in the house." 

"Did she never come back or write?" 

' ' Never. You can guess where folks said 
she was gone, but I al'ays told 'em I guessed 
their thoughts was blacker'n Ruth's life." 

"And the man?" 

"Oh la! no more of him of course. Some 
said she'd gone to him, and some said she was 
a doin' worse, and Miss Jinkins stayed there 
till three months ago." 

"And have you no idea where Ruth is?" 

"Yes, I have, my dear, and I'll tell you. 
Jest about the time Miss Jinkins went away I 
had to go to Luckey's Mills on some business, 
and there I see Ruth Sothern. She cut down 
another street— she needn't ha' ben afraid of 
me — but it was Ruth. She's a workin' in the 
Mills, and may be a doin' better than them that 
wouldn't speak to her." 

"How far is it to the Mills?" Elinor ask- 
ed. 

" It must be thirty miles and more. There's 
a railroad though into ten miles of here." And 
Elinor discovered that she could return that 
way and still reach home by the time her 
father would arrive. 

"Mrs. Olds," said she, "I am going round 
by Luckey's Mills to see Ruth." 

" And it'll be the blessedest thing you ever 
did," replied the good creature. " Tell her the 
house is empty, and jest to come back and live 
in it and farm her little lot and let folks talk, 
instead of working herself to death in them 
dreadful mills." 

She gave Elinor some luncheon at once, that 
she might start, and disregarded her own disap- 
pointment at this hasty departure, in her sym- 
pathy for the unfortunate girl. 

"It'll be like a new lease of life to her," 
said she. "And who knows, Miss Grey, how 
you may help her on? I jest believe the Lord 
sent you to-day, for he never forgets." 

"The Lord never forgets!" They were sim- 
ple words, but many and many a time when 
troubles gathered about Elinor Grey, and her 
burden seemed harder than she could bear, 
those words came to her mind and gave her new 
strength. 

" But you'll come to see me agin, Miss 
Elinor?" 

" Indeed I will ; perhaps not till next sum- 
mer, but I'll come then and stay two or three 
weeks." 

" That'll be better'n a pictur-book to me all 
winter," said the old dame. " You always do 
remember a promise, so I know you'll come." 

Elinor was in haste to be gone, and it was 
not until she was seated in the train and 



whirling away among the picturesque hills that 
she reflected whether her visit might be wise. 
That it would have been considered Quixotic 
and highly improper by the generality of guides 
for young women did not trouble her in the 
I least. "lam sure it will do the poor child 
' good," she thought. "She'll not be afraid of 
me after the first moment, and the little thing 
will be glad to speak freely for once in her life 
of secrecy." She was so busy with her reflec- 
tions that she was surprised when the conductor 
shrieked in an unearthly voice, "Luckey's 
Mills." 

Miss Grey found several mysterious-looking 
vehicles at the station, and entering one she 
ordered the driver to take her to the Mills, and 
was rattled through the busy town with so much 
noise that she might have believed she was 
travelling at high speed. But the Mills were 
silent and deserted ; a workman told her there 
had been some accident and business couldn't 
go on for a week. There was a clerk in the 
office, he thought, and being an Irishman he 
showed her the way with the greatest alacrity — 
any thing was better than keeping to his wheel- 
barrow. So Miss Grey, " familiar with courts," 
as Mrs. Hackett was wont to remark, stepped into 
the office and confronted the inky gentleman 
who ought to have been busy with the ac- 
counts but was munching peaches instead. He 
was so much abashed by her sudden appearance 
that he swallowed a peach-stone, and being a 
nervous, hypochondriacal man, for days after 
fancied that he could hear it rattling in his 
aggravated interior every time he moved. He 
found voice to answer her inquiries ; rubbed 
the peach-juice from his mouth with a red silk 
pocket-handkerchief, and told her where Ruth 
Sothern might be found. 

She was not at the boarding-house for the 
Mills. He went to the door and pointed out a 
little cottage up a lane and informed her that 
the young woman made her home there, then 
stopping to draw breath he became suddenly con- 
scious that he had done for himself and the 
peach-stone and recollected what an immense 
one it was. At first he thought it must be in 
his throat and he choking to death without 
having known it. He stood before Elinor with 
his face so changed and disturbed by the horri- 
ble fear, and the convulsive efforts he made to 
swallow, that she was inclined to think him mad. 

" I am much obliged for your kindness," said 
she, turning to go. 

" Not at all, not at all," returned he, clutch- 
ins at his throat to ascertain if the mount- 
am was perceptive to the touch. "It's gone! 
| its gone !" he added in a tragic voice. 

"What is it?" Elinor asked kindly, con- 
firmed in her opinion that those wearisome 
lines of figures on the pages of the open ledgers 
had proved too much for his brain. 

" Oh, nothing, nothing— nought, nought — as 
Hamlet says," replied he, for he taught the " dis- 
trict school" in the winter and was conversant 
with elegant literature. 



82 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



" He must be mad," thought Elinor, and got 
out of the office with all speed, leaving him to 
marvel about her and to fancy a hideous pain at 
his vitals. 

]\Iiss Grey walked up the grassy lane and 
knocked at the door of the little cottage, which 
looked very home-like and pleasant with its 

porch covered with woodbine and hitter-sweet. 

It happened that Ruth Sothern was alone in the 
house, and sitting in the room into which a door 
gave entrance from the porch. She rose and 
opened it and found herself face to face with 
Elinor (irey. She knew her at the first glance, 
retreated a step with one heavy, sobbing breath, 
and stood irresolute. 

" My dear little Ruth," said Elinor, seizing 
both her hands lest her next impulse might be 
to run out of sight, " 1 am so glad to find you! 
1 came on purpose. Have you forgotten me?" 

"No — no — 1 remember you," she replied in 
a hurried, breathless way, like a person that had 
been running till almost exhausted. 

"And 1 hope you are glad to sec mc," said 
Elinor. "I had not forgotten you in all these 
years. You look exactly the same — you look 
so young." 

"How did you know where I was?" asked 
Ruth, eying her with sudden keenness, in 
doubt apparently how to act. 

"Mrs. Olds told me, dear," replied Elinor 
softly. "1 came from Eastburn." 

The impulse was strong again in the girl's 
mind to run out of the room, but Elinor laid 
her hand on her arm. "Are you not glad to 
sec me, Ruth ?" 

" You know then — they have told you?" 

" 1 know that I pity you very much, dear — 
isn't that enough?" 

Sull'ering had not made the little creature 
hitter, nor had it given her that hard Strength 
it does some women. She. melted at the voice, 
and retreating to the table sat down and hid 
her lace on it, sobbing drearily. Elinor knelt 
by her and whispered comforting words out of 
her great heart, for she. was a true woman in 
spite of her impcriousness, her pride, and her 
legion of great faults. After awhile Ruth could 
look up and even smile in a wan, hopeless way. 
"1 haven't cried in a. good while,'' said she; 
" but it came so sudden — von are so kind." 

"Then you are glad I have come?" 

"Oh so glad! I'm so lonesome — oh, I'm so 
lonesome !" And the complaint, like that of a 
child, was very touching. 

Elinor kissed her and put back her hair, and 
when she had quieted her said — " I have a 
long hour to stay with you, Kuth ; can't you 
take me to your room so that we can talk?" 

Ruth led the way up to her chamber; the 
prettiest, daintiest room, in spite of its plain- 
ness. There were hooks on a row of shelves, a 
few pots of (lowers in the windows, a bird sing- 
ing in his cage among them, and that inde- 
scribable air of purity which Elinor's womanly 
instincts comprehended at once. That little 
room showed certain unerring traces of the 



character of its occupant, and the cheerful, well- 
assorted colors, the attempt to brighten its sim- 
plicity, betrayed the love of beautiful things 
and the warm imagination which might have 
helped to lead her into trouble. 

" What a pretty place it is," Elinor said, sit- 
ting down near the window. 

" 1 tried to make it so," replied Ruth ; "I'm 
always here out of mill hours." 

" Is the work hard ?" Elinor asked. 

"Not very, now I am used to it. Oh, I 
shouldn't mind if it was, though I'm lazy by 
nature ; but any thing to make the time pass." 

"And you like to read," said Elinor, glanc- 
ing at the shelves of books. "I am glad of 
that, it is such a help." 

"But it's novels and poetry, I nm afraid," 
returned Ruth; "I am such a simple creature 
and always shall be." 

Elinor thought it would not be she who 
would give the poor creature a lecture as to the 
bad effects of romance and poetry on the mind ; 
let her read both and forget the real world if 
she could. 

A sudden red burned in the girl's checks, 
and she added in a shy, frightened way — " But 
that isn't all the truth. I did try to study — 
sometimes I do now. I thought — I thought — 
if ever he should come back he need not ho 
ashamed because 1 was ignorant.'' 

The last words burst from her with sudden 
violence; she could not control herself if the 
every-day restraints were in the least forgotten, 
and now she was down at. Elinor's feet with her 
face hidden in her dress, sobbing piteously — 
"Rut be won't come — he won't come." 

Whoever the man might be that had wrecked 
her life the girl loved him yet, and Elinor (irey 
recognized there a different and in some respects 
better nature than her own, in that it could for- 
give. She felt that in a similar strait she 
should be full of bitterness and scorn, with a 
mad desire in her soul to prove a very Medea 
to the deceiver. Rut she could sympathise 
with and pity the girl all the more that she 
loved him still. And now she wanted to make 
her talk and tell her poor story, that she might 
know how it would be best, to act, for Elinor 
had no mind to solace the girl by an hour's vis- 
it, and leave her with her daily life more deso- 
late than before. 

"Do you know where he is, Ruth?'' she 
asked. 

"Not now," she replied, without lifting her 
head. '* Once in a great while he writes to an 
address I sent him; but he doesn't know where 
I am ; and I haven't heard, oh, in so long." 

"Did he promise to come back, Ruth?" 

"No, no! Oh, don't think he was a bad man, 
Miss Grey — he wasn't bad! He pitied me so 
ho couldn't take me then — he wasn't wicked — 
von must not think that !" 

If she could have seen the lightning which 
Hashed from Klinor's eyes, and heard the men- 
tal wish she breathed that be stood there at the 
moment, Ruth might have doubted whether 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



Miss Grey was prepared to consider him so 
leniently. 

"Will you tell mc his name?" whispered 
Elinor, her soft hands resting on Ruth's head 
and giving her a feeling of repose by their 
toueh. 

"May I show you his portrait?" asked Ruth. 
" I found it among some papers of his. Some- 
times it's such a comfort to mc — sometimes it 
breaks my heart — but oh, the hardest of all — 
my baby, my baby!" She gave way to such a 
passion of weeping that Elinor was almost 
alarmed. 

"I know I ought to be ashamed," she sob- 
bed, " but I can't help it. If 1 could have kept 
my baby! Perhaps if he never comes it would 
have grown up and hated mc — but so many 
years first — and it would have been all mine — 

and I'm so lonesome, so lonesome." 

Elinor reminded Iter in whose care it was, 
and tried to speak the words' that sounded so 

"Yes, I know," moaned([ltu|^''"%''s§y , 'if i^> 
myself; but I miss it — I'm Wane." 

When she was quiet again she rose and went 
to a drawer kept locked and took out a minia- 
ture. "It's so like him," she said, looking down 
at it; "but he must be altered. It's more 
than three years ago, and I have never seen 
him since."* 

Elinor held out. her hand for the picture and 
Ruth gave it to her, sinking down in her former 
attitude with her head resting on Miss Grey's 
knee. Elinor looked at the picture — grasped it 
hard in her hand and stared at it as if unable 
to believe the evidence of her senses— then she 
dropped it with a gesture of loathing and hor- 
ror. It fluttered down on Ruth's shoulder and 
she seized and hid it. 

Elinor Grey had received the most sudden 
and violent shock she had ever felt, and she sat 
absolutely stunned. 

"He was very handsome," Ruth said softly, 
"and so gentle and tender. I pitied him at 
first— I think that was the way — I had to nurse 
him after his hurt." 

Elinor was relieved by the sound of her voice. 
It was something to be called back to the pres- 
ent; to be obliged to concentrate her thoughts 
upon this child— in so many ways she seemed 
oife still ; to have a little time before reflecting 
on this terrible blow which might well shake 
her faith in all things. 

Ruth told her story with the pathos of deep 
feeling, and Elinor listened with such pity as 
she had never known for any human being; 
the while, an under-current in her mind rolled 
toward the man who had worked this misery 
wiili such scorn and anger that she would have 
been startled at her own powers of hating could 
she have had leisure to reflect. 

" And you love him yet, Ruth?" 

"Look at me !" cried she, with sudden pas- 
sion. "I'd rather to-day meet death at his 
-land than be a queen. I'd suffer tortures just 



to sec his face ! 



I know it is wicked ; I can't 



help that— I love him ! I can only feel like ,us 
wife waiting for him to come — waiting." 
" And you (bought he would come back?'' 
"He never told me so— he didn't lie. Oh, 
he was not bad! He was young too. We 
didn't either of us think, but just, floated through 
those blessed weeks. Don't despise mc— I was 
so happy! He could not marry me; when he 
had to go he told me so. That woke mc. I 
waited for him— waited and loved him — I loved 
him !" 

Thero were no words possible; there was 
nothing to be said. Useless to argue, to say 
what another Avould have done. She had ex- 
pressed the whole;— she loved him. 

"If you could read his letters— he suffered 
too. I did think he would come — yes, 1 did. 
It made mc study— I tried to grow like the 
women in books— I wanted him to find mo so 
altered and improved that he need not be 
^ifdiamed. I couldn't help but feel I was his 
w«e— I do yet. I know what I am ; but oh, 
in/ God's eyes — He is so merciful !" 

And Elinor Grey felt that if the man were 
there present she could have set her foot upon 
his neck and crushed him. The girl looked so 
young, in spite of every thing Elinor could 
scarcely believe she was only a year the older. 
The brilliant loveliness of her earliest youth was 
not gone ; t!hc pink still dyed her cheeks ; her 
great brown eyes were soft and beseeching— she 
was such a fairy of a thing after all her suffer- 
ing. 

"And I have suffered, M she said. "Some- 
times I thought I must die; but I dared not 
pray for that, it was too wicked. I came away 
from the old home— I couldn't endure the old 
faces. I wanted to be lost. I have work — I 
couldn't touch his money, you know. I've 
seen the months grow into years and here I am, 
and still I keep saying — to-morrow — to-mor- 
row ! ' ' 

She accepted meekly the consequences of her 
sin — she did not rebel under her misery — she 
could believe it right that she should be barred 
out of the world — but she could not root the 
love out of her soul or even make an effort to 
struggle against it. 

Elinor could not give her hope — what was 
there to offer ? She did the kindest thing she 
could — gave her gentle words and made her 
feel that at least to one human being she was 
not a Pariah and an outcast. 

"Nobody knows mc here," Ruth said; "I 
came back six months ago. I was in Massa- 
chusetts before that. Rut some day they'll 
find out my story, and then — " 

She broke off with a shudder : Elinor held 
her fast in her arms, her eyes flashing as if she 
had the whole world to battle and was prepared 
to defend her. 

It was like having new life given to the des- 
olate creature, that privilege of talking freely 
after those years of self-restraint and conceal- 
ment. It was pitiful to hear and think of the 
record of the long, long months, with their 



34 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



varying feelings from brief hope to the apathy 
of despair, and back through the aching round, 
but never once maddened, as would have been 
the case with many natures, by sudden despera- 
tion, when to rid herself of existence seemed the 
easiest way and the best ; submitting patiently 
to her fate, doubting neither heaven or her love, 
acknowledging always the justice of her punish- 
ment. 

Another trait in her character came out by 
chance. In speaking of the time she lived in 
Massachusetts, during one of her bitterest sea- 
sons of suffering, when she did wonder why she 
was left here since life was ended, she told how 
mercifully she was shown the way out of the 
gloom by having work given her and being made 
to remember that even her blighted existence 
might be of use. An infectious fever had 
broken out among the people employed in the 
mills, and this girl, weak and childish as she 
looked, had labored day and night in the hos- 
pitals, shrinking neither from danger nor fatigue. 
It was not till long after, that Elinor heard the 
full account from other lips, for Ruth only in- 
cidentally mentioned the occurrence, and knew 
that she had shown a courage and devotion 
equal to that of the women whose names go 
down in history linked with the remembrance 
of heroic deeds ; but there was no one to chron- 
icle the fortitude of this outcast but the angels 
up in heaven. Ah, perhaps when we read their 
records written in letters of light we may un- 
derstand more plainly how poor our judgment 
was here. 

"It was such a comfort to me," Ruth said, 
" to know that I could be of use — that I was 
permitted to be. And O, Miss Grey, some of 
them blessed me when they were dying! I 
could not feel that 1 was all alone after that.'' 

Elinor had to go away at length, and though 
for a few moments Ruth clung to her with the 
sensation a drowning man might have as he felt 
the last spar slipping from his hold, she was 
able to control herself and to take in Elinor's 
words of hope. 

"I shall not leave you for long, Ruth," she 
said; "I can make no arrangements now, but 
I promise that you shall see or hear from me 
very soon." 

"A letter from you Would do me so much 
good," the poor girl said humbly/** 

"You don't understand, Ruth," she replied. 
"In some way I mean to change your desolate 
life ; but I can't yet tell how." 

" Why should you be so kind ? I have no 
claim on you — " 

" Hush, dear. There, keep yourself quiet 
and trust me. I shall not forget." 

" I know you will not. But I mustn't 
think!" 

She was crouching on the floor at Elinor's 
feet ; as she spoke she closed her eyes, sitting 
quite still, with the palms of her bands pressed 
tight together. The youth and brightness had 
gone out of her face. Elinor could fancy her 
sitting thus in her loneliness until tlue posture 



had become habitual. The picture was too 
painful. ' She rose to go, and knew that it was 
better to make the parting brief. 

Ruth did not weep now. Elinor thought 
that the wildest passion of tears would not be so 
sorrowful to witness as that pale, silent resigna- 
tion which she had forced herself to learn, and 
which was as foreign to her nature as it would 
have been to that of an impulsive child. 

They parted, and Ruth went back to her lit- 
tle room and was alone with the familiar suffer- 
ing, all the more dreary that she was so well ac- 
customed to its every phase. 

Elinor was soon on her return journey and 
reached the farm about the time her father and 
their host returned. Mr. Grey was quite as- 
tounded when she told him of her day's expedi- 
tion, omitting any mention of Ruth in her ac- 
count, and praised her courage as much as if 
she had been Madame Pferffer just returned 
from one of her impossible voyages. 

Elinor Grey had the whole night before her 
to think and reflect, and it was not a quiet one. 
The next day they were preparing for their de- 
parture, and several times Elinor pleased ami 
someAvhat surprised her father by the energy of 
the compliments she lavished on him. "I do 
believe you arc the only true man in the world, 
papa," she said; "with the others, the fairer 
the outside the worse they are in reality." 

" Solitude has made you misanthropic," he 
replied. But Elinor persisted in her opinion 
and revered and worshiped him more than ever. 



CHAPTER VII. 

A 

THE END OF THE FETE. 

During that fortnight Clivc EarnswoVth led 
quite a hermit's life, and very impatient he had 
grown of it. It was difficult to settle to any thing. 
He could not have written a line only that the 
desire to obey Miss Grey's slightest wish was .111 
anchor with which to stay his restless thoughts. 
He had few visitors; every body had gone to 
Newport or sought some other place of summer 
gayety. Even the Thorntons, two days after 
Elinor's departure, were seized with a desire to 
make an expedition, and fled to the White 
Mountains, trying in vain to carry the moody 
Clive with them. Yes, two very doleful weeks 
they had been, and time had appeared absolute- 
ly to stand still. 

It was the first break in Olive's dream ; a 
favorable opportunity for numerous ghosts to 
flit out of the past and torment him, and the 
unquiet shades did not hesitate to come. The 
lonely marches on the terrace had to be re- 
sumed, and many and many a night the stone 
flags resounded to his tread until the gray 
dawn put out the watchful stars. There was no 
possibility of sleep, and Clivc knew too well the 
torture of attempting to woo slumber under 
such circumstances to be deluded into the effort 
even by bodily fatigue. Sometimes in those 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



35 



gloomy vigils he almost determined to go away 
and never see Elinor's face again ; but lie could 
not do that, and tried to quiet himself with the 
old sophistries wherewith men 'have sought to 
soften their sins to their own consciences since 
the Flood. 

But time had moved on notwithstanding ; 
the last days of waiting began to shine. The 
Thorntons were at home again, very much 
weather-beaten and in wonderful spirits; the 
whole neighborhood was gradually returning, 
and Clive commenced preparations for the sec- 
ond of September. That was to be the day of 
his fete: the Greys would be back on the first. 
Clive was determined that the festivities should 
be in a style worthy of her in whose honor they 
were to be given, and he was one of those fortu- 
nate beings able to carry his conceptions into 
execution. 

It did come, the day that was to bring Elinor 
near him, although Clive had felt in regard to 
it somewhat as he used when a child looking 
forward to a holiday. Before sunset he made 
an excuse to ride over to Alban Wood to con- 
sult Mrs. Thornton about some arrangement 
for the morrow, and his subterfuge was so appar- 
ent to the crafty little woman that she was de- 
lighted to see him properly punished— the Greys 
had not arrived. 

" Can any thing have happened to delay 
them ?" queried Clive anxiously. " The trains 
on those cross-roads are such traps to keep peo- 
ple waiting in all sorts of horrible places." 

" Yes," said Rosa, provokingly calm ; " you 
men of influence' ought to protest against* it. 
Fancy Queen Elinor detained for hours in some 
out-of-the-way den, and Mr. Grey forced to cat 
a country inn dinner." 

" What a tease you are, Rosa," said Tom. 
Clive did feel that; he would have liked to suf- 
focate her — a little. 

"We have had a telegram, Farnsworth," pur- 
sued Tom. " They'll be here this evening." 

" I could have told him that if he had ask- 
ed," said Rosa. "I didn't think he seemed 
anxious." 

'Then all my plans for to-morrow are at 
stake," said Clive reproachfully, trying, as the 
wisest men will under similar circumstances, to 
make it appear that such were the grounds for 
his anxiety. 



Oh, of course that is the reason," retorted 
Rosa. 

And she teased him and snubbed him, as the 
children say, and scolded Tom about some lit- 
tle matter concerning which she was profound- 
ly indifferent, and made herself almost disagree- 
able, though she looked very pretty and mis- 
chievous the while. At last Clive was glad 
to take himself off, which was just what she 
wanted. 

" You are too wicked," said Tom, when he 
had gone. " The poor fellow wanted to be ask- 
ed to stay." 

" He's a stupid, my dear, and you are anoth- 
er," explained Rosa complacently. " Ten to one 



Elinor would have been offended at finding him 
here." 

'• And nowshe'll snub him because he isn't " 
said Tom. " Oh, gentle women, vc be ' rum 
critters.' " 

But Rosa proved to him satisfactorily that be- 
ing a man he was not capable of forming an 
opinion, and as she began to grow restless for 
the hour to send to the station, she tormented 
him till he was almost cross. Having effected 
that result she made love to him and smoothed 
him down, just as when a girl she used to wor- 
ry her pet cat and rub his fur the wrong way 
till he emitted electric sparks, and then coax him 
into equanimity. 

In the end she was punished. The Greys 
arrived, and Elinor had a terrible headache and 
would go straight to bed, and was no more 
mindful of Rosa's desire to sit with her than 
Rosa had been of Farnsworth's wishes. But 
she never remembered that it was a case of 
righteous retribution, and would have been vex- 
ed only PLlinor did look so pale and tired that 
her heart softened. "There's something the 
matter," thought Rosa. "She looks as she 
used to when she was a little girl and had been in 
a great passion over somebody's injustice and 
had her feelings hurt too." 

The day came to an end and Clive walked 
up and down the terrace; but he vowed that 
it should be his last forced march for some time 
—the sun would shine to-morrow. To-morrow 
came and literally the sun did shine, however 
it might be about the fulfillment of Clive Farns- 
worth's metaphorical allusion. 

It was a glorious day, and by three o'clock 
the grounds were a pretty si-ht with the striped 
tents spread here and there and the gay groups 
flitting about. Hosts of people made their 
greetings, and Clive had time to be expectant un- 
til he hated every thing and every body, and com- 
pliments were drugs and the whole crowd a set of 
unnatural monsters, whom, if he had been Fros- 
pero,he would have ruthlessly annihilated by an 
earthquake. All because the Alban Wood party 
did not appear, though Mrs. Thornton had prom- 
ised that they would be early. The troops of 
guests began to grow impatient for breakfast ; 
and Clive saw it and exulted, and was sorry the 
repast had not been a dinner that it might be 
completely spoiled. But the carriage did drive 
up the avenue at last, and Farnsworth was on 
the steps to receive them. 

Rosa came first, and as he helped her out she 
whispered—" I am so sorry ; it was Queen Eli- 
nor. I thought she never would be ready." 

Clive turned back to assist her majesty, and 
stood petrified at the first glance, while the 
words of welcome absolutely froze on his lips. 
Miss Grey was looking at him very much as she 
might have looked at Caliban had he suddenly 
appeared prepared to play the gallant. But oh, 
she was so courteous ! She replied to Clive's 
awkward words with graceful speeches, and all 
the while transfixed him with those solemn 
eyes. 



3G 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



"You have made a fairy scene," said Mr. 
Grey ; and Rosa and Tom joined in the compli- 
ments till Clive wished them dead at his feet 
and himself a howling Dervish in an Indian 
jungle. 

He gave Elinor one imploring, wondering 
glance. She saw it, and her eyes began to burn 
and a cruel smile answered him. She compli- 
mented him too, very prettily, and every word 
stung like a hot needle, and Clive felt as if he 
had been neatly flayed alive in about ten sec- 
onds. After that pleasant exercise she left him 
and became the centre of a group at once. Ev- 
ery body that knew her and every body that want- 
ed" to were constantly surrounding her, and she 
was in her most brilliant mood, charming all be- 
holders, and the very soul of amiability. 

Clive Farnsworth wandered about a misera- 
ble man, but had no leisure to speculate as to 
what this change toward himself might mean, 
for there were scores of eager people expecting to 
be amused, and he was host. He was so miser- 
able ! There was a blur before his eyes which 
confused the throng into pink and blue clouds — 
only he could see Elinor Grey distinctly where- 
ever she moved, brilliant, radiant. At least he 
could feed the menagerie and so get on toward 
the evening. The bugle sounded recall to the 
wanderers, and they poured in a stream toward 
the gavlv-decorated tents. 

Every body knew that the fef was given in 
Miss Grey's honor, so Clive had to go up to 
her again and offer his arm. She was seated 
by him at the table. The airy sweep of her 
draperies touched him as he sat, the delicate 
violet perfume which always pervaded her dress 
dizzied him with its subtle fragrance. She was 
in a gayer mood than he had ever seen her ; 
she talked and laughed with the men who hov- 
ered near her chair instead of finding seats ; she 
was elaborately civil to Clive, and nearly drove 
him mad with every word. 

He must speak— it was impossible to be dig- 
nified or proud— he was too sorely hurt. ' ' What 
have I done ?" he managed to whisper. 

She looked at him in smiling surprise. 
" Given a lovely fet&," said she. 

"You have not tasted a morsel, Miss Grey," 
interrupted her neighbor on the other side. 

Clive had noticed and been quick to interpret, 
but he would make one other offer— if he could 
gain the least consolation ! He selected a bunch 
of rare grapes from a dish near and offered 
them to her. "You know the Arabian prov- 
erb ?" he said, with a miserable attempt at play- 
fulness. 

She took the grapes. "I do, replied she," 
and I believe in it." "The purple cluster 
dropped on her plate. She gave Clive that 
double glance only a woman can give — the mouth 
smiling for the "benefit of the lookers-on— the 
eyes fairly menacing as they shone on him 
through the contracted lids. 

Indeed it was a dangerous moment. There 
was an impulse in Elinor Grey's mind to sit 
there and tell the truth to the whole assembly 



and let him writhe under the very fullness of 
scorn and obloquy. She could not trust her- 
self; she could not remain another second. 
She rose from her chair, took the first arm 
which offered, and left Clive in the desert. 
The breakfast was over 'at last ; the groups 
spread through the grounds again. 

The gorgeous sunset burned to its full glory 
and faded into a pearly twilight; a few stars 
shut up in the cloudless sky ; the band on the 
platform erected down by the bowling-alley be- 
gan to play, and exhilarated as people always are 
after being fed, the real pleasure of the enter- 
tainment commenced. 

Clive went about doing his duty. He 
danced— he talked ; he could see Elinor Grey 
' dancing, and again he wished that a friendly 
earthquake might swallow the whole crowd. 
As the twilight deepened the colored lanterns 
cunningly hung among the tree-branches began 
to blaze, "and the scene was as pretty as possible. 
"When Clive saw other people admiring and 
happy he felt as if he was standing in the dark 
and looking into some enchanted land whither 
he might not enter. 

But. he would speak to Elinor Grey— she 
should tell him what had come between them. 
He could wait no longer— his love, his hopes, his 
anguish — he must pour out the whole. Just 
as he was growing desperate enough to have 
snatched her away from all astonished behold- 
ers, and really thought he saw an opportunity 
of getting near her, Mrs. Hackett seized his 
arm and took that occasion to deliver a long- 
winded compliment which she had carefully 
prepared several days before. Clive had recent- 
ly escaped from three damsels who had fired a 
batterv of small exclamations at him, and now 
the Idol rustled up in her purple draperies and 
wonderful decorations, looking like some huge 
tropical bird. 

"I would come back from Newport," she 
said ; " I only reached home last night. I 
could not miss this day." 

Clive said it was kind of her, and mentally 
called her dreadful names and periled his soul 
by the wishes he silently breathed in her behalf. 
The Idol looked about* to be certain that there 
was a sufficient audience within hearing to make 
it worth while to sound the grand trumpet, 
shook her plumage and waved her fan. 

" I call it the Peri's offering to the queen of 
the fairies," said she. And a young gentleman 
near, who wanted to be invited to the Idol's 
balls next winter, cooed admiration. Unlucki- 
ly he did it at the wrong moment. The Idol 
fixed him with her glittering eye, took in his 
full proportions, and registered a vow that she 
would not forget him, and that after her re- 
turn to town he should never cast his shadow- 
athwart her ball-room and coo in the beginning 
of one of her best speeches. She recovered 
herself and continued impressively— 

"Paris has truly cast the golden apple at Ye- 
iius's feet this day'"— she waved her hand toward 
Miss Grey to point her words— " and Troy 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



37 



may as well burn itself" — indicating the house 
— "since it can never surpass this golden 



rain. 

There was a good deal more in the same 
style, but Clive managed to get away without 
doing her mischief, and left her to listen to the 
praises of her satellites, while several Boston peo- 
ple who never visited New York and looked 
upon it as a second Gomorrah, and consequent- 
ly did not care for the Idol's favor, laughed 
among themselves and congratulated each 
other that gold did not rule in Modern Athens. 
By the time Clive was at liberty, Elinor 
Grey had disappeared. He sought her vainly 
among the crowd, and was constantly being 
stopped to hear or say pretty things or bid fare- 
well to people who had had enough and were 
going home. At least a moment to himself, 
that he must have ; and Clive passed behind 
the dancers and down the platform steps into the 
shrubbery. Fate had led him in the right di- 
rection, whether kindly or not he could have the 
rest of his life in which to ask, for as he turned 
into the first side-path, he saw Elinor Grev 
seated on a rustic bench looking away through 
the night. 

The moon had come up, the broad white Sep- 
tember moon, and her rays trembled across the 
branches of the late-flowering shrubs and quiv- 
ered at her feet. The shorn turf gave back no 
sound under the tread, and Clive was close to 
her before she saw him. " Miss Grey," he said 
hurriedly, " I have been looking for you every- 
where." 

She surveyed him with the level glance which 
had so annoyed him at their first meeting, but 
there was something worse than indifFerence in 
it now. " I came here for a moment's quiet," 
returned she. ' ' I suppose Mrs. Thornton wish- 
es to go. I am sorry you should have had so 
much trouble on my account." 

" She is not going yet," he answered, scarce- 
ly knowing what he said. "I wanted to see 
you — to speak with you — " 

She looked coldly surprised, and checked his 
words. "A privilege you can claim as my 
host," said she. 

Clive gave himself no time to think ; he was 
too wretched to be angry. " Will you tell me 
how I have offended you ?" he askf d, in a voice 
sharp witli pain. 

"Have I been so lacking in courtesy that you 
could think me offended?" she returned. "I 
must beg you to pardon me." 

"Oh, Miss Grey, you know the courtesy that 
cuts like a knife," cried Clive ; " worse than a 
man's blows." 

" Surely to-day's triumphs might satisfyeven 
a man's vanity," said she. She was merciless. 
Feel ? Yes, if he could feel he should be stabbed 
home. 

"Will you tell me what I have done?" he 
asked. " Another woman I might accuse of 
coquetry, but Elinor Grey is above that. There 
must be some reason. You are so changed ; 
and we parted friends— if I may use the word." 



" Yes, friends— you are right," replied Elinor 
Grey. " Go on, Mr. Farnsworth." 

" How can I ?" he exclaimed. " How can I 
question as I would of a friend — it is more than 
that. You are crushing my heart under your 
feet, Elinor Grey, for I love you!" 

He had not meant to speak those words — he 
did not know what he had meant — but the 
avowal was made and his passion burst out in 
hot utterance that would not be restrained. She 
did not interrupt him ; she sat motionless, not 
so much as looking at him. 

"Answer me," he pleaded. "Say some- 
thing—tell me that you hate me if you must— 
don't sit there silent !" 

She looked up now— looked him full in the 
face. " Mr. Farnsworth," said she, " I have 
been in Eastburn." 

He gave one heavy breath that was like a 
groan, and stood mute. Strange, all day while 
racking his thoughts for a clue to her altered 
manner, he had not once thought of the miser- 
able secret and the barred-out sin. 

"I need give you no other answer," contin- 
ued she. " I have seen Ruth Sothern. Now 
you come to me with words of love on your lips 
— you dare to love me ! For what woman do 
you take me, Sir, that you venture to throw the 
insult of your love in my face ?" 
He did not speak. 

" I did trust you — I did call you friend — I 
believed you honorable and good — and I find 
you a man the very touch of whose hand is con- 
tamination to any woman. I had no mind to 
come here to-day; but I kept your secret. 
You were very near hearing it told before all 
those people." 

"I wish you had," he groaned; "I wish 
you had ! What are they to me ? Oh, Elinor 
Grey, if you could know the suffering, the re- 
morse — " 

"Remorse, when you could have atoned for 
your sin?" returned she. "Don't treat me to 
a rhapsody from a French romance, Sir 1 Suf- 
fering ? You talk to me of your suffering when 
I come from the sight of that poor girl whose 
life you have destroyed !" 

" And my own with it," lie groaned. 
"Yours? Oh no! such sins are venial in 
a man; the world pardons them. I am un- 
womanly, unmaidenly, no doubt. I ought to 
have shrunk from your victim and come back 
to accept your hand with smiles. The fault 
is in my nature that I can not act like the 
world. I can hold her by the hand and feel no 
shame — the very air you breathe is pollution to 
me." 

She looked grand in her 6Corn ; and though 
her language at another time might have seem- 
ed overstrained, it was natural in that excited 
state of feeling. 

" I deserve all that you can say," he answer- 
ed. " You can not loathe me more than I have 
loathed myself."' 

His pale, wretched face did appeal to her 
womanly impulses, but she would not permit 



;;s 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



herself to be softened. " Why did you speak 
such words to me ?" she cried. 

•• Beeause I tried to lie to myself," he said. 
» I tried to accept the world's creed ; to say that 
one error should not blight my life.'' 

"And you can't do it!" she exclaimed ve- 
hemently. " Oli, don't make me believe you as 
miserable as the common herd— leave me my 
faith in you — earn your pardon of God." 
"What can I do?" he asked. 
" Claim your wife— she is your wife in the 
sightof Heaven. Right her in the face of men 
and angels— save her from more agony. If 
you knew what she sutlers !" 

" And make myself a jest and a by-word — 
put myself beyond the pale of society— be a 
laughing-stock—" 

"Re an honest man who feared God and dared 
to atone for his sin." 

"I have wanted to; will you believe me? 
Oil, don't think my sin has not burdened my 
soul. Rut marry her? It would make her as 
miserable as I should be." 

" No, for she would have your heart to rest 
on. Mr. Farnsworth, be true to yourself— do 
this. She is young yet— she loves you so! 
Who is to ask of the past— if you will think of 
that ? Rut if the whole truth known would 
bring her suffering as youv acknowledged wife, 
think what it will be for her to meet it alone." 

1 ' Have 1 not thought ? Do you believe I am 
the sort of man that sins without remorse— 
and that one sin for which I had most abhor- 
rence, the meanest that ever stained a man's 

soul?" 

Elinor was conquered ; her loathing and her 
scorn gave way to womanly pity. "Win are 
not base, you arc not vile," she exclaimed; 
" you will redeem this one error. I tell 
you, it is your only hope of peace. Think of 
going on toward age with the blighting of a 
human soul on your conscience — what a mock- 
cry fame and honor would be. Save yourself 
and her. Decide now. Mr. Farnsworth, if 
ever Almighty God pleaded with a sinner, I be- 
lieve he is pleading with you." 

In his remorse, his doubt, his agony at the 
sight of the heaven of this woman's power of 
loving which might never be shed on him, 
Farnsworth groaned aloud and flung himself 
on his knees with his face hidden on the bench, 
lie felt Elinor's hand laid softly on his head. 

" Friend," she said, "my friend, pray to him. 
Oh, do not mind the weak philosophy men put 
between themselves and the Father ; pray, and 
lie will hear." 

" He has seemed so far off," answered Clive. 
" I said he could not hear— that it didn't mat- 
ter." 

"And so we all do, and think ourselves 
brave. Mr. Farnsworth, be a true man, and 
own him and obey him. Oh, my friend, you 
will go to Ruth— you will give her back her 
happiness." 

"I loved you so," burst from him. "I 
loved you so ! Don't be angry." 



" I am not angry. 1 beg your pardon for 
insulting you as 1 did. I am so hard.'' 

" And if she should ask me if I loved her?" 
She is so good, so trusting, she will never 



ask. She. will take her happiness and be con- 
tent. And you will love her — you did love 
her." 

11 I thought so ; I didn't know you then." 
" Only don't think of that. Will you go?" 
"My life can't be more dreary," he said; 
'• why "should 1 hesitate?" 

" And it will brighten — believe that. You 
would never be loved as she loves you ; not one 
woman in a thousand is capable of such devo- 
tion." i 
" A child — an untaught — " 
" No, no ; she has studied — she is so graceful 
— so thoroughly lady-like and gentle. Only 
go and see her. Yon can make of her what 
you will. Any man might be proud of her 
love." 

" I wanted yours — forgive me." 
"Rut think if I had loved you — oh, my 
friend, the misery for both. It would always 
be the same. No woman worth loving would 
marry you if you told the truth. If you con- 
cealed it, and she found it out after— why then 
Heaven help all if 1 were that woman." 

"Could you have loved me? I ought not 
to ask ; but see — never again in this world can 
we talk so — give me a little comfort." 

" No, you ought not to ask ; 1 ought not to 
answer even if I could. Re glad that I have 
had no time to think; you are going to Ruth." 
"Other men and women don't judge like 
this," he exclaimed. "The whole world would 
say 1 had done my part in placing her beyond 
the reach of want— that any thing mure was 
Quixotic and absurd when I could not even 
plead love as a cause." 

"It is true," she replied. " Rossibly some 
men might sneer if they knew it — some women 
maybe. Does that alter right? Do these decis- 
ions satisfy your conscience? Have you had 
peace ?" 

" God knows I have not." 
"And never will have except in following 
the right, 1 believe the Rible— I am glad and 
thankful to own that I believe every word— and 
if the. Rible^ teaches any thing it teaches the 
doctrine of expiation : we must atone to make 
repentance availing." 

'• Oh," he said bitterly, ' ; I know your High 
Church doctrines. I am not prepared to go to 
such lengths, unless I become Roman as well as 
Catholic, and set up for canonization." 

" You would be sorry after, if you said liar 1 
tl-.ings," she replied softly. " I do believe, and 
it is blessed to be able. I don't mean to preach 
to you, Mr. Farnsworth, but indeed. I don't. 
know how to urge you except by asking you t 
seek the Father's help." 

"I beg your pardon. I know how poor and 
weak it ail is; 1 thought 1 was more of a 
man." 

" And in what you call your weakness you 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



39 



arc nearer true manhood than ever before. I 
must so now ; we shall be missed." 

"The last time," he said sadly— " the last 
time." 

" And you will go to her — you will begin the 
new life." 

" If not, I shall never see your face. You 
need not be afraid." 

"You will think it over — you will go 
Good-bye now ; you are a better man than you 
knew, oh my friend." 

Ho took her hand, held it for an instant in 
both his, and then hurried away. Elinor Grey 
sat still for a few moments, leaning back in her 
seat, pale and exhausted from the effects of her 
excitement and emotion. She closed her eyes, 
and at length two great tears trembled on the 
lids and rolled slowly down her cheeks. 

" I am glad he is not here to ask me again if 
I think I could have loved him," she said bro- 
kenly ; " I am sure now." 

Presently she rose and went her way, and 
came upon Tom, who vowed that he had been 
searching everywhere for her. "Most of the 
people are gone,'' said he, " and Rose and your 
father are in a fever." 

So they went away too, and Clivc Farns- 
worth was not to be found that they might say 
their farewell, but Mrs. Thornton talked of every 
thing except that on the way home. She felt 
certain that a consummation had been reached, 
but of what nature she could not imagine, and 
though burning with a desire to know if her 
wishes had succeeded, she possessed too much 
tact to give Elinor an inquiring glance. 



CHARTER VIII. 

CLIVE FARNSWORTIl's JOURNEY. 

For two days nobody in the neighborhood 
saw any thing of Clive Farnsworth, though 
every one was talking about the fete and pro- 
nouncing it a success, ready to lavish a due 
_meed of praise upon him when he should 
emerge from his modest seclusion. On the third 
day Clive, marching up and down the stone ter- 
race, saw the Alban Wood carriage pass, and even 
at that distance through the break in the trees 
he could distinguish Elinor Grey seated therein. 
He called at the house, certain of finding no- 
body, left his regrets at not seeing them, with 
the news that he had been summoned away 
from home very suddenly and was then on his 
way to the train. 

Clive Farnsworth had gone. 

When the party returned from their drive 
Rosa picked up the card on the hall-taWe, and 
seeing his name exclaimed— " Mr. Farnsworth 
lias been here. Too bad. 1 wanted to sec him. 
1 mean to send and order him back to dinner." 
She noticed the hasty lines scribbled underneath, 
read them, and cried out— " Why, he's gone!" 
and stared at Elinor in wrath and consternation. 



" Gone?" echoed Tom. " Where ?" 
" Goodness knows where — to the moon for 
his wits, I hope," returned the exasperated 
Rosa. 

" What does he say ? Let me read it," said 
Tom, taking the card from her hand. He read 
out the brief lines. " What can have called 
him away so suddenly?" he queried. " It must 
have been some business about his oil stock." , 
" Business!" repeated Rosa in high disdain, 
and glared at Elinor once more, and only by a 
strong effort kept herself from being rude and 
telling her lord and master that he was some- 
what less than three removes from an idiot. 

" He is different from men of his craft in gen- 
eral," remarked Mr. Grey, "if he is in the 
habit of attending to business punctually." 

" Oh, there is a good deal in Clive, if he does 
write poetry," said Tom, after the sapient fash- 
ion in which ordinary people are wont to speak 
of such a trifle as genius. 

Elinor Grey's heart had stood still for a 
second and then given a great bound of exulta- 
tion and joy. He had gone to redeem himself — 
to fulfill her belief in him — and she rejoiced. 
Tom's voice recalled her to herself. 

"What do you say to this, Elinor? Come 
down to reality, my queen — Clive Farnsworth 
is gone." 

They were all looking at her. She was a 
little pale, but there was a beautiful smile of 
triumph on her lips which no one there could 
have interpreted. "I am less surprised than 
you," said she, " for I knew that he thought of 
going." 

"Indeed!" returned Rosa sharply. "And 
pray why didn't you say so instead of letting 
the news come like a thunder-clap?" 

"I thought a surprise would be a pleasant 
variety," said Elinor. 

" Humph !" quoth Rosa. 
" We shall miss him greatly," observed Mr. 
Grey. " He is a charming man — I scarcely 
know his equal — eh, my daughter Elinor ?" 

" He is one in a million," she exclaimed 
with sudden energy. "He is brave and true 
and noble beyond ordinary comprehension." 

" Bravo!" cried Tom, and stood open-mouth- 
ed. 

"Could she have sent him off?" thought 
Rosa. " She couldn't speak out like that if 
sheloved him. Butwhat does she mean ? Oh, 
the aggravating thing." 

" My daughter Elinor does not praise by 
halves," said her father, laughing. 

"Because I feel strongly," replied she. "I 
like Mr. Farnsworth — I admire and honor him." 
" And I agree with you thoroughly," returned 
Mr. Grey. 

" And you'll drive me mad among you," con- 
tinued Rosa in thought. " I'd like to shake 
her till 1 got at the truth." Then aloud, and 
with such elaborate acid sweetness — "Tom, 
dear, unless you are quite stunned and sense- 
less, perhaps you would have the goodness to 
ring the bell." 



40 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



" Certainly," said Tom, " but I'm blest if I 
know what I've done wrong to make you so 
very polite." 

" Done," said she, giving vent slightly to her 
irritation, "just what men always do — nothing. 
As for Clivc Farnsworth, he's the greatest idiot 
and the rudest man I ever knew ; to dash off 
in this absurd fashion, nobody knows where, and 
Elinor standing there, like a Roman what-you- 
call-it, to sound his trumpet." 

She swept away in high state, and scarcely 
spoke to any body except Mr. Grey for the rest 
of the morning, during which she was consumed 
by an inward fever. That night she did appear 
iii Elinor's room as playful and caressing as a 
pet kitten ; she wanted to get at least a conject- 
ure with which to steady her mind. She started 
" around Robin Hood's barn" with a vengeance, 
and emerged from under the folds of number- 
less contemplated dresses to exclaim suddenly, 
"And why did you send Clive Farnsworth 
away, my love ?" And Elinor left her more 
perplexed than ever, acute as she was, insomuch 
that the little woman went to bed in high 
dudgeon and would not allow the name of the 
absent to be mentioned in her presence for three 
whole days. 

Clive Farnsworth had gone after that brief 
delay, which was not of reflection or purpose, 
for he was incapable of either. Two days of 
chaotic thought alone in the darkness ; the 
world had reeled quite out of sight and borne 
Elinor Grey with it. He would go back to the 
little village where she had found that poor girl 
in her humble innocence ; beyond that he did 
not attempt to look or plan. 

It was still early in the morning when Clive 
walked toward the brown cottage standing be- 
yond the village, with the maple-trees waving 
about it and the late summer flowers withering 
in the neglected yard. He knew that Ruth 
was not there, still the impulse first to visit that 
haunt had been stronger than he could resist. 
The doors were locked, but he gained admittance 
by a back window, went through the kitchen 
and passed into the little sitting-room. Old 
Mrs. Jenkins had left the dwelling in perfect 
order, and it had not been closed long enough 
to make it seem dreary and deserted. 

Clive flung open the shutters and set the outer 
door ajar, and the warm sun streamed in over the 
home-made carpet and lighted the room into 
cheerfulness. It was so little changed it might 
have been yesterday that he had sat there and 
watched Ruth tending her flowers under the win- 
dows, or hastening in, her face aglow with happi- 
ness at the mere sound of his voice calling her 
nunc. There was the comfortable lounge in 
the corner where he had liked to lie in the luxuri- 
ous idleness of returning strength ; the table 
near it, just as it had been placed that his books 
might be within easy reach ; yes, even some stray 
volumes that he had left still lying upon it. i 
The room was homely and simple, and yet pos- j 
sessed a grace of its own from the art with which 
Ruth had beautified it in numberless little ways. 



so that its plainness would have been pleasant 
to the most fastidious taste. Over the lounge 
hung a water-color drawing. Clive remem- 
bered it at once. It was a sketch he had made 
of Ruth and bidden her hang there that he 
might have it to look at when her light duties 
called her away from his side. He crossed the 
room and stood before it. The soft eyes beamed 
down on him with such gladness ; the rosy 
mouth half parted in a smile welcomed him 
with a host of dimples. 

The sweet, beautiful, innocent face — how it 
wrung his heart. He remembered that the pe- 
culiar way in which the hair was dressed had 
been a caprice of his — twisted in a knot at the 
back of the head and falling over the left shoul- 
der in soft brown waves, separating here and 
there into glossy curls. A face which gave no 
evidence of great strength of intellect, but of a 
vivid fancy, a love for the beautiful, an appreci- 
able nature which in proper companionship 
might be taught to admire and sympathize with 
aspirations that it could not comprehend ; and 
beyond all, the large brown eyes made the chief 
loveliness of the countenance. Their expres- 
sion was that which we only find in eyes of that 
color, a half-beseeching, half-eager look like 
those of an animal ; and a woman with those 
brown eyes has devotion to the man she loves 
as the chief attribute of her nature. 

There Clive Farnsworth stood and looked at 
the girlish face while the past came sweeping 
back and brought before him the minutest de- 
tail of that season which had seemed a brief 
episode in his life and was in reality life's turn- 
ing-point upon which all after-existence must 

hinge. 

Three years ago — more than three years — for 
it was in the month of May when Clive Farns- 
worth first saw that quiet village. He was 
young still, and his youth had been a passionate, 
"restless one with impulse for a guide. He had 
been the spoiled favorite of a wealthy uncle, who 
humored his boyish whims till it was no wonder 
he grew selfish and ready to believe that his own 
inclinations were the most important things the 

world held. 

He had a brilliant career at college, and 
graduated very young; he had published his 
book of poems and been pronounced a prodigy, 
and his uncle's pride and exultation in this heir 
to his name and wealth knew no bounds. Then 
had followed the tour in Europe, and the elder 
Farnswortfi's companionship had been no re- 
straint. Every error was a youthful indiscretion, 
and he believed to the fullest extent in the mis- 
erable old maxim— Jlfavt quejamesse se passe. 
So he stood complacently by to see Clive's youth 
fulfill itself, and was thoroughly satisfied that 
his plan was the only good one ; having faith in 
himself because he was a sceptic in regard to 
most things; pluming himself on the possession 
of a bold and vigorous mind because he accept- 
ed Voltaire's sophistries and dogmatic declara- 
tions. ' 

It was fortunate for Clive Farnsworth that his 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



41 



instincts were delicate and refined. Excess in 
any form would have disgusted him at once. 
He loved pleasure as he did champagne, on ac- 
count of the excitement, but he wanted his cup 
wreathed with roses, and his ideal and his youth- 
ful dreams went with him and kept him from 
sinking to darker depths. But those years left 
their effects — it could not have been otherwise ; 
the aimless, purposeless life, in spite of its bril- 
liancy, would of itself have eaten like canker 
into his soul. They had returned home, and 
after a winter in town, during which Clive had 
disgusted himself with a new book, and tried to 
believe himself in love with a woman not worth 
it that he might be misanthropic as youth likes 
to be, he was glad to get away from the whole 
world for a season. 

He started, and a mere chance as he believed 
it — not having grown wise enough to know that 
the commonest incident in the commonest life 
is under guidance — the reading of some descrip- 
tive newspaper paragraph, led him into the 
neighborhood of the Vermont hills. Early in 
the season as it was, he was charmed, and the 
fresh keen air was like new hope and strength 
to his fretted soul. He came to Eastburn, and 
the still loveliness of the little hamlet so fasci- 
nated him after the feverish whirl of the past 
years that he settled down there in transitory 
content 

He found a horse which was easily trained 
into tolerable riding order — a vicious young 
brute that pleased him by his wickedness, be- i 
cause he was fond of ruling whatever did not 
like to be subdued — and he splashed about the 
muddy roads at all hours. Only a few days 
elapsed before returning one bright sunset from 
his ride, the vicious colt became frightened at 
a loaded wagon, and in the first instant man- 
aged to dash himself and Clive with such force 
against it that he broke Clive's arm and com- 
pleted the thing by stumbling and sending Clive, 
powerless with the sudden pain, quite over his 
head. The wagoners stopped and picked up 
the senseless rider and carried him into old 
Mrs. Sothern's house, which was close at hand. 
Clive came to his senses to find himself lying 
on a bed in a strange room, a gentle hand bath- 
ing his forehead, and one of the loveliest faces 
he had ever beheld gazing anxiously into his 
own. 

That was the beginning. 
A physician was sent for, who after a deal of 
manipulation announced that his shoulder was ] 
dislocated and proceeded to set it with such skill 
as he possessed, and luckily for Clive Farns- 
worth it was equal to the occasion. But he ' 
could not be moved, or he would not be, and 
had very soon so charmed the old lady's heart 
that it was agreed he should stay there and be 
nursed. He was able to use his right hand, and 
he wrote to his uncle, giving a careless account 
of his accident, wherewith the old gentleman 
was forced to content himself, being held fast 
at home by the leg— that is, he was suffering 
from a sharp attack of his enemy, the gout, and 



there never was a man whose self-indulgent life 
rendered him a more lawful prey to the insid- 
ious tyrant. 

Clive trusted too much to his strength, and 
was very ill for a week from his imprudence. 
There he lay delirious with pain, and Ruth 
Sothern watched him morning and night. He 
talked about all manner of foolish things, as we 
do in delirium, and very often lay and babbled 
French or Italian or some other foreign tongue 
which had grown familiar in his wanderings, 
and it was just as well that Ruth knew no lan- 
guage but her own, for somehow when he talked 
English there was nothing unpleasant to be 
heard. Indeed, the recollection of her face as 
he saw it when waking from his swoon haunted 
him most, and he said such wild things, and ut- 
tered such rash vows, that poor Ruth grew ac- 
customed to his love-making before he was con- 
scious of putting forth any powers to please. 
Then followed the delightful weeks of conval- 
escence, and the delicious idyl that drifted into 
midsummer. 

I am not seeking to palliate Clive Farns- 
worth's sin — it is the one of all others which I 
hold in the utterest abhorrence — but I will free 
him from the stain of deliberate wickedness. 
He was as entirely without thought as herself; 
then they were so wholly left to themselves ; night 
after night, when he was restless and in pain, 
she must sit by him and soothe him; read po- 
etry to him ; perceive that her hand on his fore- 
head had a magnetic influence which lulled his 
feverishness ; grow accustomed to have his nerv- 
ous fingers play with her hair. It was not at 
all strange — God help them both. 

It was not long before Clive wakened from 
his dream ; and when summons after summons 
came, calling him back into the world, he real- 
ized his sin and cursed himself and fate. But 
Ruth Sothern's summer vision only deepened to 
new richness, till at last the blow fell with cruel 
suddenness. Clive was obliged to go away. 
His uncle's health was failing ; he prayed him pit- 
eously to come back in one breath and in the next 
threatened, ill as he was, to hunt him up and 
discover what insanity held him there. Clive 
could not hesitate longer; he had* to go, and 
here the blackness of his sin began. He did 
like other men, pitied her, execrated himself — 
but never once allowed his conscience to be 
heard when it commanded him to set her right 
before the world at whatever cost to himself. 
The bitterest pang was that she believed in him 
so entirely ; his will was so completely her law 
that his decision was like that of fate. Could 
he ever forget how her first cry of anguish rang 
in his ears ? " Going away ? You can't leave 
me, Clive, you can't leave me !" And when he 
showed her the necessity — the humble resigna- 
tion, the attempt at smiles harder to bear than 
thrusts from a dagger, the beseeching look in 
the tearless brown eyes which showed the agony 
worse than death. For years Clive Farnsworth 
had been pursued by that picture ; countless 
nights he had wakened from sleep to the echo 



42 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



of that plaintive cry, "You can't leave me, 
Clive, yon can't leave me!" And he had left 
her, lying to his own soul to the last, for he 
knew that he could never go back. 

In her girlish ignorance the poor creature did 
not comprehend the fullness of her misery and 
suffering until he had been gone for weeks. 
Even then she did not send him word — she 
could not bring herself to name it — he might 
come back — she was always waiting. 

For nearly a year Clive was closely occupied 
with his uncle. He made that an excuse to 
himself. When he knew the worst he silenced 
conscience by the thought that it was too late, 
he could not help her now. If he were to 
marry, her the mere fact of her humble birth 
and training, all else concealed, would be enough 
to kill outright the sick man who was so proud 
of his lineage and blood which had borne hon- 
ors and titles in the old world beyond the sea. 
That was his first excuse, and when months 
passed and that obstacle was removed by the 
death of his unwise guardian, conscience and 
remorse were not so strong as his fear of the 
world. 

The world's opinion looked very small just 
then — expiation might not present itself pleas- 
antly — the new wound might ache and throb — 
the path might be rocky and sterile — but any 
thing would be a relief which buried remorse 
and left him to feel that his soul was no longer 
cramped in that desolate hell. 

The sunlight streamed in at the open win- 
dows ; the song-sparrows flitted past with joyous 
trills of melody, and Clive tried to bring his 
soul out of the darkness and make it see the day. 
He flung himself in a chair, and leaning his 
head on his hand sat quiet, not so much lost in 
thought as resting from the excitement of the 
past days. 

There was a step on the moss-grown thresh- 
old ; a figure paused an instant in the open 
door and a pair of eager eyes looked wondering- 
ly into the room. An instant's hesitation only; 
the wonder changed to an ecstasy of happiness, 
and before he could turn or look up Ruth Soth- 
ern was at his feet, her hands clasping his knees, 
her voice crying out — " You have come back to 
me ! Clive, Clive, you have come back!" 

It was so sudden, so unexpected, that he 
could not stir, and she called his name again, 
as a spirit just landed on the Hidden Shore 
might call some loved one seen standing afar 
off in the brightness — "Clive! Clive!" 

The surprise, the joyful shock had proved too 
much. She writhed at his feet, still clinging 
fast to his knees, in a hysterical spasm which 
was pitiful to witness, sobbing brokenly — "Clive 
— come back — Clive !"' 

He had to raise her, to hold her fast in his 
arms, to address her by endearing names, fright- 
ened out of any thought beyond the exigencies 
• of the moment. At length she laid her head 
down on his bosom, and then came a blessed 
rush of tears which partially restored her com- 
posure. 



" Speak to me, Clive, - ' she whispered. " Let 
me hear your voice — hold me fast — oh, it isn't 
a dream !" 

" Ruth, my little Ruth," he said softly, pity- 
ingly ; and he knew now that however his soli- 
tary vigil might have ended had he been left to 
fight his demons unaided, the matter was settled. 
He knew that with the pronouncing of those 
words he had bound himself irrevocably. 

" Say it again," she pleaded. "I am your 
Ruth — your own little Ruth. Oh, it isn't a 
dream — make me sure it isn't a dream !'' 

" My little Ruth, my poor lamb !" 

Her face lifted itself imploringly toward his ; 
all that was purest and best in Clive Earnsworth's 
nature was fully roused as he pressed his lips to 
hers and gave life back to her in that tender, 
pitying kiss. "I was afraid it was a dream," 
she murmured, closing her eyes like a tired 
child with a smile of ineffable content. " Some- 
times I used to see you so plain — to hear your 
voice — and it was dreadful to wake up in the 
dark. Oh, my Clive, my Clive!" 

I should lie if I attempted to say that Clive 
Farnsworth did not sit there with death in his 
heart ; but after the first dolorous pang, he put 
every thought of himself aside and would hear 
and see only her and her happiness. 

"You love me still?" he said. "You love 
me, Ruth ?" 

"My heart grew fast to yours — I couldn't 
tear it away," she answered, flinging her arms 
convulsively about his neck. "I knew you 
loved me — I knew you would come back." 

No thought beyond — no reproach — no ques- 
tion. He had come • — he loved her — it was 
enough. 

" I haven't been here before, Clive; I didn't 
know why I came to day ; I couldn't help it. 
Are you glad I did, Clive — glad to see me in 
the old home?" 

" Very glad— best here," he answered. 

" It was so long to wait ; oh, so long! But 
I knew you would come. I tried to make my- 
self believe I didn't expect you, but I knew yon 
would come." 

" Will you forgive me that I waited so long, 
my Ruth ?" 

"I'll forgive you any thing when you call 
me that and look at me so kindly. Oh, the 
dear eyes — the old look — my Clive ! my Clive !" 

He held her close to his heart; she wanted 
no other assurance. 

"It doesn't seem long now," she hurried on : 
"sitting here it seems as if all these years had 
been a bad dream." 

"And vou are happv? Say you are hap- 

py-" 

" Happy ? Oh, Clive, I haven't any words — 
I am only afraid I shall die." 

If they might both die then and there, perhaps 
it would be the choicest boon Heaven could 
grant, Clive thought sadly. But there was no 
room in her heart for any chill from his reflec- 
tions to strike ; it was too full of happiness. 

"Do I look the same, Clive?" she asked. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



43 



" Have I faded and grown old? Am I much 
altered ?" 

"It might be yesterday we sat here for any 
change there is in you," he told her, and she 
was content. 

"I don't think I'm quite an ignorant thing, 
Clive," she said humbly. " I have tried so 
hard to study, and tried to like it — for your sake 
— that you wouldn't be ashamed of me when 
you came back." 

It smote his heart more deeply than any re- 
proaches could have done to see the evidences 
of faith sustained through those years of false- 
hood and desertion. He could not remember 
so bitterly then the sacrifice he had brought 
upon himself, and the world looked further and 
further away in the presence of her restored 
bliss. 

"You will tell me if you have missed me 
some time, but I'm tired now, Clive." And she 
leaned her head back on his shoulder, then raised 
it quickly to ask — "But did you miss me — did 
you think of me?" 

" There neverwas a day or night in all these 
years that I did not think of you and curse my- 
self," he fairly groaned. 

"No, no," she pleaded, unable to support the 
thought of his suffering; "you could not help 
it. I always told my heart that. We won't 
talk about it, darling. You are here ; I can't 
think of any thing else. Let me rest, Clive — 
I'm so tired — just let me rest." 

He sat there and held her in his arms, and 
she lay quietly reposing in the only haven this 
world had for her, uttering broken words of 
gladness at times or catching his hands close in 
hers to be certain that she was not dreaming. 
She went to sleep at length, nestled upon his 
breast, and Clive laid her gently down on the 
lounge and sat watching her. With the feat- 
ures relaxed in slumber he could see how they 
had changed : she was more lovely perhaps ; 
the face was singularly young, and the mouth 
had kept its childish smile ; but the change was 
there, the waking and development which troub- 
le and weary expectation must bring. And 
sitting there Clive Farnsworth realized more and 
more that there was but one course open to him. 
He would not think of the future as it concerned 
his own heart ; he could make her happiness 
complete at least. 

She woke very soon, refreshed by her sleep, 
and smiled up in his face. "You are here," 
she whispered. "I was half afraid to wake. 
How good you are' to me." 

"Don't say that, Ruth ; you break my heart." 

" But I will say it. How pale you are, Clive. 
Are you always so now ?" 

"Time doesn't stand still with any body but 
you," he replied, trying to speak playfully. 

"But you are grander than ever. There's 
nobody in all the world like my Clive." 

He must endure it — these loving words — the 
caressing way in which her restless fingers 
twisted themselves about his — the thousand un- 
conscious tokeus of tenderness ; not only endure, 



but keep her from feeling the chill at his hear-*, 
or ever suspecting the bridgeless gulf which la*" 
between their souls. 

" To think of my coming here this very day 
I couldn't think of any thing else since she came 
Oh, I haven't told you about Miss Grey." She 
told him then of her visit and her kindness, 
and Clive listened and answered that he knew 
the lady. 

"You know her? I am glad. She said 
she would not forget me — that she would come or 
write." 

"And after that you longed to see your old 
home ?" Clive asked, not anxious to pursue 
that branch of the subject further. 

" Yes, indeed. I couldn't bear to think of it 
standing empty and lonesome. There was no 
work in the Mills—" 

"What?" interrupted Clive. 

"Oh, I didn't mean to tell you. Don't be 
angry, dear. I am so sorry I mentioned that." 

"Have you been working, Ruth? Didn't 
you receive my letters regularly?" 

"I couldn't take the money, Clive — don't 
scold me — I couldn't, dear. And work was 
good for me — it wasn't hard. See my hands — 
they are as soft and white as they used to be 
when you kissed them and said such dear, fool- 
ish things about their beauty." 

The fail', dimpled hands — Clive kissed them 
again with a more poignant pang of shame and 
self-loathing. 

" I am glad I did not know it," he said ; " I 
should have gone mad." 

"But you are not angry, dear? It wasn't 
wrong?" 

" You are more an angel than a woman, 
Ruth," he said slowly. "Heaven make me 
half worthy of your love !" 

' ' Worthy, my King Clive ? I always thought 
of you when I read stories about Marshal Saxe 
and their brave, handsome men — only I knew 
they weren't half so handsome or brave." 

He let her talk her pretty folly till he saw 
her begin to look tired again, then he made her 
lie down. Poor child, it was the first time after 
all those years that she had not been under the 
excitement of expectation — night and day wait- 
ing ; no wonder she was weak and exhausted 
now that the strain was removed. 

Clive had to speak of other things. There 
must be no delay ; he could not trust himself. 
There was a nobler reason too — he could not lose 
any time before giving her every rightwhich could 
atone for his wrong. He asked her if she would 
go away or be married there in the old house. 
He tried to speak quietly, dreading the effects 
of any more agitation upon her, and shrinking 
from it himself. She began to weep at that 
question, and it was difficult to calm the over- 
tried nerves. 

"I will stop as soon as I can," she kept say- 
ing. " Oh, Clive, I am too happy ! I don't de- 
serve it." 

Through the pleasant afternoon Clive Farns- 
worth walked down into the village and found 



44 



MY DAUGHTEE ELINOR. 



the old pastor, who at first did not remember 
him, and when he did ventured on no word of 
reproach or reproval ; there was that in Olive's 
face and voice which taught him this was a mat- 
ter beyond his attempts at counsel. Ruth had 
wished it, therefore Mrs. Olds was bidden like- 
wise to come up to the cottage. 

The first step toward expiation was taken. 
Clive Farnsworth stood in that quiet room and 
pronounced the solemn words which bound him 
for life to the heart that had so trusted him. 



CHAPTER IX. 

MRS. HACKETT'S MANIA. 

Mrs. Hackett was seized with a mania, and 
a mania is a good thing to have, no matter on 
what subject, when one has leisure ; the more 
ridiculous it is the more amusement one gives 
one's friends and so becomes a public benefac- 
tor. 

Certainly in that way Mrs. Hackett had done 
her duty as became her station ever since she 
had a station to adorn. To be fashionable was 
not a mania with her ; that was the one grand 
purpose of her life. She had floated up gradu- 
ally to her present height. Had she looked 
back she might have recalled many rebuffs in 
the early part of her career, when Pluto was be- 
ginning to grow rich and she to blossom. How 
unmercifully she had been snubbed, and how 
patiently she had toiled under the smarts until 
the day came when great men awoke to the fact 
that old Pluto was their leader, and their elegant 
wives discovered that it would not do to slight 
Mrs. Pluto, since her husband could work such 
detriment to their spouses if he saw fit. But to 
do the Idol justice she bore no malice ; indeed 
she had literally foi'gotten that she had not al- 
ways been exhibited upon the dazzling pinnacle 
on which she now stood, and her faith in herself 
was really sublime. 

It was just when one of the numerous Nica- 
raguan colonization schemes chanced to be the 
rage ; and she heard a great deal about it, for 
among his countless plans Pluto was interested 
in some Central American canal and railway 
bubble which formed the basis of the other un- 
dertaking. Mr. Grey himself had been dazzled 
by the ship-canal speculation ; it did show won- 
derfully well — on paper ; and he talked so much 
beautiful sentiment about the colonization move- 
ment that between his talk, the excitement 
among business men, and the eagerness of a lot 
of restless people going about in search of doing 
good on a grand scale and in a noisy way, the 
Idol herself became interested and at last took 
a fine fever. She cared nothing for the railway 
and canal, she averred — gold was dross — but 
here was a Paradise opened to the sons of toil, 
and she meant to drive them all into it whether 
they would go or not. 

I will say for her that she gave liberally, and 
somebody among the societies in which she in- 



terested herself pocketed the funds. But she 
was not satisfied with ordinary measures ; she 
wanted to immortalize herself. She deter- 
mined to write a pamphlet for private distribu- 
tion which should be spread far and wide, 
read among her own set with admiration, and 
dazzle the fancies of the poor who were to he 
aided. It would be a splendid beginning to 
her winter's campaign. Indeed, the more she 
thought of it the more probable it seemed her 
work would bring her such praise that when she 
returned to town a crowd of distinguished citi- 
zens would give her a triumph like that of 
Cornelia — she meant Corinne ; but no matter, 
it was something Roman — and in default of a 
Capitol would bear her with loud acclamations 
to her Murray Hill mansion. She was so much 
in earnest, too, that before leaving for New 
York she wanted to send all the laboring people 
in the county seaward, and be certain that they 
were on their way to the tropical garden of 
Eden. She was untiring in her efforts. She 
talked incessantly about the Land of Promise ; 
she drove from village to village and tried to 
inflame the working classes ; she went boldly 
into people's houses and waved her flags, and 
sometimes met with unpleasant rebuffs. The 
children of toil being free-born American citi- 
zens too, and poverty not appalling their ener- 
getic natures, she was freojuently recommended 
to mind her own business, and was even told by 
one virago that "she didn't want no stuck-up 
Yorker a comin' to put fleas in her boys' heads." 
"They are so blind," said the Idol when she 
repeated the story ; " but it only gives me new 
zeal. I have hung out my banners — I shall 
march to Birnam Wood." 

I am afraid that wicked Tom Thornton sug- 
gested the idea of the pamphlet : she snatch- 
ed at it like aPythoness at an oraclefrom hergod. 
She was soon hard at work. A young gentle- 
man glad to secure himself comfortable quarters 
for a few weeks was only too happy to act as her 
amanuensis. " The double labor is too much 
for me," she told her listeners. "My thoughts 
seethe and burn, and often I am forced to pace 
the floor while I utter the words." 

" It's quite like inspiration," said Tom Thorn- 
ton. 

" I assure you it is," replied she in all seri- 
ousness. " Actually, I felt yesterday almost 
nervous; like those people who say they are 
impelled by the spirits — only I know there can't 
be any thing in that, for our set has never 
noticed it, though I believe "the Emperor was 
quite interested in Mr. Home." 

"Ah, with you it is unaided genius," Tom 
told her ; and she believed it. 

She was very busy ; for, although the youth 
managed to be tolerably grammatical in the 
structure of his sentences, she would have her 
grand words put in, and she jumbled up Para- 
dise and ancient Rome, the Goddess of Liberty 
and the old-time nymphs and dryads, and flung 
them recklessly about in a very sensational man- 
ner indeed. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



Rosa said the Idol was the only amusement 
she had now, for every body had grown stupid, 
except Mr. Grey — and he was always writing 
letters — and Clive Earnsworth gone off in that 
absurd fashion and never sending a line. 

The Greys were soon to take their departure ; 
they had several visits which must be made, and 
Elinor wanted to have them over and be settled. 
She was tired and dreamy and in no mood for 
playing any body's guest, but the penalty of 
having too many friends must be paid, besides 
it was due to her father that she should assist 
him in every way possible. She was sitting 
with Mrs. Thornton one morning, listening to 
her lamentations and plans for the winter, when 
Tom rushed in waving a letter in the air. ' ' He's 
done it !" cried he. "I never was so astonish- 
ed ! You'd never guess, either of you." 

Elinor comprehended in an instant. It was 
news from Clive Earnsworth at length — he was 
married. 

"Are you out of your senses?" demanded 
Rosa. " Tell me this moment what has hap- 
pened." 

" I'll give you three guesses, and a diamond 
ring to a pen-wiper that you're wrong every 
time." 

" I am not a Yankee," said Rosa. "I dare 
say you have no news at all. Go off, and don't 
disturb us when we are quiet." 

"All right," said Tom; " good-bye, fairy 
Faineante." He turned toward the door ; Rosa's 
indifference was gone in an instant. 

" Tell me what it is, you wretch !" She 
sprang toward him and tried to snatch the let- 
ter, and Tom dodged about among the chairs 
and tables and she after him, being very much 
given, that absurd pair, to every species of im- 
proper and inelegant performance when there 
was no one near who could be shocked. Elinor 
took that opportunity to grow very cold inter- 
nally, and very calm and self-possessed in out- 
ward appearance. She had quite prepared her- 
self by the time Tom threw himself on a sofa 
and begged for mercy 

" Then tell me," said Rosa. 

"Clive Farnsworth is married!" shouted 
Tom. 

" I don't believe it !" shrieked Rosa. " It's 
just some stupid story. Who wrote it ?" 

" He did, and I suppose he ought to know." 

"He isn't — he shan't be!" snapped Rosa. 
" Give me the letter." 

" There it is in black and white," said Tom; 
"read and be convinced, Mrs. Obstinacy." 

Rosa looked fairly dazed ; took the letter and 
read- it slowly and wonderingly. The epistle 
was brief and apparently written in haste. He 
wrote to say that he was married and on his 
way South. He must snatch leisure to ask his 
dear friends to remember him and to pardon his 
reserve — he never had any faculty of telling 
things about himself. 

"I never heard the like," cried Rosa, and 
flung the letter on the floor and looked over at 
Elinor. 



Miss Grey sat placid. 

" Were you ever so astonished, Elinor?" ex- 
claimed Mrs. Thornton. 

" Many times," said Elinor. 

" Did you know of this ?" 

"Partially." 

" And I thought he was in love with you," 
said Rosa, divided between wrath and disap- 
pointment. 

" And a fine romance she wove," added ma- 
licious Tom. 

"I am sorry it .should have been wasted," 
returned Elinor. 

"You are a pair of traitors!" exclaimed 
Rosa. "I'll never have any faith in human 
nature again." 

"You told me yesterday I was not human," 
said Tom, " so that doesn't apply to me." 

"I tell you now you are a — a — " 

" Howling Hooshier, " suggested Tom. 

" I don't care," said Rosa, " it's too bad." 

"Elinor," said Tom, "you ought to be 
ashamed to thwart my Rosa. What do you 
mean by such conducts as those, young wom- 
an ?" 

" I beg her pardon," replied Elinor. " The 
next time she wants me to marry any body she 
must say so." 

" Say so!" repeated Rosa in an annihilating 
tone, 

"It's rude to repeat people's words," said 
Tom ; "I read it in a Guide to Polite So- 
ciety." 

" If 'I had so much as looked it you'd have 
hated him at once," pursued Rosa. "Elinor 
Grey, you'll be an old maid ; and that's what 
you'll come to, with all your mind and your 
money. " 

" I am resigned, dear." 

" Ugh ! Think of having one's maiden name 
on one's tombstone, followed by ' aged seventy- 
six,' " shuddered Rasa. "Bless me ! marrying 
Tom was better than that." 

" Thank you, love," said Tom. 

" I am not your love. I hate the world. I 
mean to make a Trappist of myself." 

" They are all men," suggested Tom. 

" You don't think I'd go among them if they 
were all women, do you ?" retorted she. 

" But where was he married, and to whom ?" 
asked Tom. 

"Not a word does he say," replied Rosa, 
looking at the letter again. " Not a word ! 
There never'was a woman so tormented by the 
people about her, I do think." 

" ' Died of curiosity ' will be on somebody's 
tombstone in capital letters," said Tom. 

"Not on mine — for Clive Earnsworth," re- 
plied she. " He's made a fool of himself, that's 
one comfort." 

"That's good. How do you know, when 
you never even heard her name ?" 

"I don't wish to hear it. But I know hi 
has — men always do when they get married." 

" My love, I can't be impolite enough to con. 
tradict." 



iG 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



,c Oh, I'm sick of politeness— this is what 
comes of it. I mean to go and be a Nicaragua 
colony or something." 

" Elinor," said Tom, " you have a great deal 
to answer for. If I am at charges for a straight- 
jacket through your means — " 

"She wouldn't care,'' interrupted Rosa. 
" See her sit there like a statue. Bah ! I am 
glad I'm not ice." 

"Oh, good heavens, so am I," cried Tom, 
brushing his hair on end so that he looked 
dreadfully frightened. 

Rosa fairly drove him ont of the room, and 
he went off laughing. She came hack and sat 
down opposite Elinor. 

"This is your fault," said she. "Now don't 
deny it." 

'• You will not let me speak." 
" Don't tell fibs. That man loved you — I'd 
stake my life on it. You sent him off." 
"1 think not," replied Elinor. 
"Now he has gone in a fret and married 
some dunce," continued Rosa, not heeding her 
words. " 1 don't think I ever can forgive you, 
Elinor Grey." 

"Let the verdict be, 'Recommended to mer- 
cy,'" said Eliuor, finding it very difficult to sit 
there and jest, but bearing it as women will 
bear small tortures with a fortitude a Coman- 
che might envy. 

"The next time—" 

"Alt, the next time don't make plans, you 
wicked Rose. Do you want to lose me that 
you are anxious to marry me to the tirst-eomer ? 
.lust think. I could not visit you half so freely ; 
why, it would spoil all our enjoyment." 

"That's why I wanted you to marry Farns- 
worth," said Rosa. " Every thing would have 
been right then." 

Elinor did not care to pursue the subject. 
She was meditating a flight, and wondering 
what excuse would be sufficient to procure her 
an hour's solitude without risk of exciting some 
suspicion in Mrs. Thornton's mind. But Rosa 
kept talking, and kept leading the conversation 
back to the theme uppermost in her thoughts, 
so that Elinor was actually glad when Tom's 
voice was heard in the hall in animated greet- 
ing to .Mrs. llaekett. 

" The old cat !'' gasped Rosa, unable to bear 
any more. " Tom called her a whale. I wish 
with all my heart she was in her native ele- 
ment." 

" Married !'' the Idol was exclaiming as Tom 
opened the door and disclosed her a statue of 
astonishment on the threshold — "Mr. Earns- 
worth married !" 

"Now we shall have to listen to her ver- 
biage," muttered Rosa. " That miserable Tom, 
not even to give one the satisfaction of telling 
the news one's self." 

"Married!" repeated the Idol in a voice like 
that of Constance before her first incredulous 
wonder changes to wrath — " married ! Y'ou strike 
me dumb. My dear Mrs. Thornton — my 
charming Miss Grey — how are you both? how 



sudden this is! Were you not astonished? 
Tell me all about it." 

" Really, I can only tell you that Mr. Farns- 
worth is married," said Rosa. " The happy pair 
have gone South, and after awhile I suppose 
they will appear." 

"I hope Genius has found a fitting mate," 
said the Idol, seating herself and spreading out 
her draperies. 

"And speaking of genius," said Tom, "how 
does your work get on?" 

"Ah, do not apply the word to my poor ef- 
forts," replied the Idol, who began to think 
herself an author of long standing. "I have 
been wrapped in my task all the morning, and 
came here for a little relaxation ; the flow of 
reason's soul invigorates one after mental la- 
bor." 

"Arc you nearly ready for the printer?" 
Rosa asked. 

"Nearly; I am anxious to make the closing 
pages — the prologue, so to say — impressive." 
" I am sure it will be," said Tom. 
" You are too kind. But oh,' Mrs. Thornton, 
it is a thankless task to try to show people what 
is for their good." 

" Indeed it is," replied Rosa, giving Elinor 
a reproachful glance which delighted Tom. 

"But what new instance of moral turpitude 
have you met, Mrs. llaekett ?" Tom asked. 

"Only yesterday 1 heard that a young me- 
chanic down in the village— Brainard, I think — 
1 remembered him because he had done various 
things at the house — " 

"I know him," said Tom; "a fine young 
fellow." 

" Well, he is lately married," continued the 
Idol, " and yesterday 1 had to drive to the village 
and I went to see him and show him what an 
opening the Nicaraguan field would prove to a 
young couple like them." 
••And what did he say?" 
"I was quite overwhelmed by his imperti- 
nence, though he did not mean it for that. The 
climate,' said I, ' is paradisaical. Then I sought 
to bring it down to their comprehension. 1 
said it was so warm that clothing, except of 
the simplest and most inexpensive sort, was 
unnecessary." 

"And that was an important point, I am 
sure." 

"Cue would think so, in these times. But 
the wife, a pert little thing, said that she pre- 
ferred to stay where people wore clothes, and 
her husband had read in the newspapers of the 
way the natives went about." 
" And she didn't approve ?" 
" I was quite shocked, and came away. 
But we shall succeed ; I am sure of that." 

"What name do you give your pamphlet, 
Mrs. llaekett?" asked Elinor, from the necessi- 
ty of saying something. 

•• Indeed. I am undecided. Several have 
occurred to me. I want something alterative 
and attractive." 

Tom's face was a study. "Y'es," said he, 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



47 



there's every thing in a name, Miss Capulct 
to tlic contrary notwithstanding." 

" Oh, I care nothing for her or Miss Martin- 
cau either," said the Idol, supposing him to 
speak of some literary woman, and being deter- 
mined to show her ability to quote names too. 

Mr. Grey entered at that moment, and when 
the Idol had finished her elaborate greetings 
and been charmed into a more perfect state of 
self-complacency by the diplomatist's honeyed 
words, Mrs. Thornton said — 

" We were speaking of Mrs. Ilackett's book." 

"The theme of all tongues," returned Mr. 
Grey. 

" You overwhelm me," said the Idol. " And 
ah, do not dignify it by the appellation of book, 
Mrs. Thornton ; it is only a brief effort." 

" At least we may hope that its complete suc- 
cess will induce Mrs. Hackett to pursue her lit- 
erary labors," said Mr. Grey. 

Elinor looked almost reproachfully at her 
father ; in her present mood such talk was more 
distasteful than usual to her. She hated to 
think that he was like the rest of the world 
even in the most trifling matters. But Mr. 
Grey was wise in his day and generation, and 
certain actions of his during the past week had 
made him more than ever interested in the 
grand canal project, so that he was desirous of 
attracting attention toward the country in every 
way possible. If Mrs. Ilaekctt with her money 
or by making herself ridiculous could serve any 
purpose in that direction, of course she must 
be fooled to the top of her bent. 

"Who can tell?" the Idol was saying in an- 
swer to his remarks ; and she looked as if count- 
less poems and scores of romances were seething 
in her brain. 

"At all events we may hope," he said. "Have 
you found a name yet?" 

" I am still undecided," she answered. 

"You mentioned several to me the other 
evening," said Mr. Grey, " which sounded ef- 
fective and poetical." 

"The difficulty is to choose." 

" Embarras de richesses," said he; and she, 
half catching the French words, replied hastily — 

" Oh, very embarras indeed." 

Tom Thornton was silently and sweetly 
choking in the corner. 

" I thought of the ' Golden Gate,' " continued 
she. 

" Pretty," said Mr. Grey. 

" 'A Haven for the Weary.'" 

"Beautiful sentiment," said Mr. Grey. 

" Ah, I fear you are a sad flatterer," returned 
the Idol. "You praise all my efforts." 

' My dear lady, you must make them less 
perfect if you wish to be depreciated." 

"I am more and more interested every day," 
said she, " in this grand scheme. Dear Miss 
Grey, I wonder you are not a little more — what 
shall I say ? — enthusiastic in regard to it." 

"I am afraid my philanthropy will not bear 
so long a journey, "said Elinor. 

"But the distance makes half its charm," 



replied Mrs. Hackett. " Every-day plans, to 
be carried out just about us, look so prosaic ; 
this distance lends a charm like — like a hazy 
mountain-top in the blue expanse." 

She got the metaphor somewhat confused, as 
she always did, but I wonder if she was not an- 
imated by the feeling which governs so many 
philanthropists? 

"It is a wonderful country," said Mr. Grey. 

" Yes, " added Tom Thornton, "and my opin- 
ion is that this grand railway project will prove 
a grand fiasco." 

"My husband has great faith in it," said 
Mrs. Hackett majestically. 

"Oh yes, and of course he is not going to 
burn his fingers," replied Tom coldly. 

" I believe Mr. Grey shares his opinion, " con- 
tinued she. 

" At a safe distance," returned Tom. 

Mr. Grey did not look uneasy, he was not ca- 
pable of any such weakness, but he gave a slight 
push to the conversation. " But what interests 
Mrs. Hackett," said he, "is the plan for sending 
out emigrants." 

"That is my object, of course ; and as Mr. 
Ritter said in his lecture the other night — the 
lecture you would not attend, Mr. Thornton — 
' a more noble enterprise never dilated the hu- 
man soul or indented the human mind.' " 

What the man might have said no mortal 
could tell, but that was the w.iy she heard it. 
Tom used to say there must be a twist in her 
tympanum. 

" And so it is," continued she, " and the des- 
tiny of the American people must bear them to 
the furtherest limits of this broad Continent, un- 
til they sink in the Southern sea." 

"Yours is a thorough Monroe policy, Mrs. 
Hackett," said Mr. Grey. 

"I hold it the only true one," replied she, 
like an oracle. " I believe it to be as irremedia- 
ble as the irremovable hills." 

Mr. Grey took a pinch of snuff. 
The idle talk went on, and Elinor found it 
more and more difficult to keep her thoughts 
within listening distance. She felt colder and 
more tired, as if exhausted by fasting and a long 
walk in a wintry wind. Other thoughts came 
up — every thing present slipped far away. She 
was roused by her father saying gently, "My 
daughter Elinor !" She came back with a start, 
perceived that the Idol was uttering poetical 
farewells to her, and managed to give discreet 
and coherent answers. 

She got out of the room in the departing 
one's wake and went straight to her chamber, 
sending her maid off with an intimation that 
she was busy, for Rosa's benefit, if that restless 
female should be prompted to follow her. She 
sat down in the old listless, weary attitude, and 
the world, life, and all things looked very poo.r 
and faded to Elinor Grey. , 

She tried to be thankful that the girl she had 
pitied was restored to happiness ; she tried to 
be glad that this man in whom she had believed 
had redeemed himself — that he was as far re- 



48 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



moved from the common herd as she had 
thought him. But her attempts at thankfulness 
and exultation were miserable failures, and sit- 
ting there in her loneliness, Elinor shed some 
bitter tears. She was not of the order of women 
who cry so easily that they are ready to baptize 
every incident with the sacred dew; indeed, 
weeping was usually a very tumultuous business 
witli her, involving so many dry sobs, and so 
much expenditure of nervous strength, that she 
had a dread of the recreation. But she wept 
easily and quietly now, and after a time she 
cried the bitterness away and was ready to re- 
proach herself for her ingratitude and selfish- 
ness. 

Nevertheless the world looked a poor place, 
and her life seemed more and more empty. 
Before that she had been healthy enough in 
mind and body to outgrow the restlessness and 
the morbid cravings which torment people in 
early youth, to take existence as it came and 
enjoy it with a certain zest. Now she began to 
wonder in a profitless fashion why she was liv- 
ing, and pleasant things were a weariness to her, 
and people's attentions and kindness only an 
added bore. 

The feeling went with her through her round 
of visits, but her new fickleness of manner and 
her caprices only made her more charming, 
people said. She had been a little too cold and 
evenly statuesque before ; now if she had seasons 
when she would not talk, or was haughty and 
imperious, she atoned for them by showing es- 
pecially witty and brilliant when her mood 
changed. But the sense of solitude and drear- 
iness remained. It followed her like a shadow 
to town, where it was now fitting that reasonable 
people with a proper regard for their duties to 
society should establish themselves. 



A- 



CHAPTER X. 

AT A BALL. 



The season commenced brilliantly, for it was 
one of New York's grand speculating eras. 
Every body was growing rich, or was dazzled 
by the speedy prospect of so doing, and Murray 
Hill blazed into splendor in consequence. 

Mrs. Hackett had finished her pamphlet, and 
it had been flung about liberally in all quarters. 
The favored farmers in the country had a fair 
opportunity to puzzle their brains with its high- 
sounding paragraphs; specimens were sent to 
every newspaper to which the word Nicaragua 
not having become a horror and a bore would 
be likely to give the merits of the work due 
consideration ; and countless copies, elegantly 
bound in crimson silk, were distributed among 
the Idol's very broad and somewhat eccentric 
circle. , 

Every body read it, and every body ridiculed 
it in private and gave Mrs. Pluto her meed of 
praise to her face. It was well and safe so to 
do, because great as Pluto had been for years 



he was now a more potent Bull than ever 
Bashan produced. He had only to point his 
finger at the wildest scheme — it took shape 
and rolled a new fortune into his cofl'ers. No 
wonder Society was willing to go down in the 
dust at the Idol's feet, for it was gold-dust. 

She was not precisely greeted with a Roman 
triumph on her return, but it came very near 
it, and I have not the least doubt that the 
Mayor and the whole Corporation would will- 
ingly have arrayed themselves in togas, and 
bound as to their temples with garlands, have 
gone out to meet her and cast laurels in her 
path if it had been hinted to them that an ova- 
tion of that nature would be acceptable. The 
Idol rose lightly to her new eminence, believed 
in her literary fame, and sometimes spoke in 
the nominative plural when discussing authors. 

It would be expected of her under the cir- 
cumstances, as she was fond of saying, that her 
entertainments during the winter should be 
numerous and unique in their magnificence ; it 
would be expected, and she was prepared to do 
her duty. New furniture for the drawing- 
rooms had come over from Paris ; a wardrobe 
which in its variety of dresses must have filled 
Queen Elizabeth's shade with envy if she had 
been anywhere about ; the conservatory en- 
larged into an absolute flower-garden, and all 
things in keeping. 

The Idol gave the first grand ball of the 
season, and stood clothed in rainbows, like an 
overgrown and matronly Iris, smiling and con- 
tent in the midst of her guests. And there 
Elinor Grey met Leighton Rossitur, one of that 
odious order called " the rising men of the day." 
But Mr. Rossitur was not odious ; he was polish- 
ed and agreeable, with a well-shaped head 
which was given to plotting, and a nature fiery 
enough to need all the restraints the head could 
give. He was poor, and he was ambitious, and 
his position of under-secretary of something 
connected with "Washington affairs would have 
poorly supported his claims in the world if it 
had not been for the perquisites — " pickings 
and stealings," the servant girls call such 
things when applied to their class — which of late 
years are so abundant to the initiated and Aviso 
holding any office under our easy-minded Gov- 
ernment. 

Mr. Grey was already acquainted with him, 
and the greeting he brought procured him the 
reception of a friend. Astute Rossitur con- 
gratulated him, on the strength of rumors grow- 
ing into matters of belief among the Wash- 
ington set, that the coveted Cabinet appoint- 
ment would soon be offered. The present 
Minister differed with the President, and it 
was known from Maine to Georgia, of course. 
Indeed, one energetic Western newspaper had 
announced that in the height of a little disturb- 
ance in the family the belligerent Secretary had 
throttled the illustrious Head of the Republic 
in the presence of the assembled Cabinet. 
Naturally the English journals caught at that 
and announced a new instance of Yankee bar- 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



49 



barity. The House of Congress had been in- 
dulging in a Bacchanalian revel and had burned 
the President in his bed. There was no donbt 
of the truth of the story, and Britannia groaned 
over the enormities of her transatlantic cousins, 
and wondered they could not have remained 
content under the rule of the sapient George, 
and so have been an enlarged garden of Eden, 
like Canada and India and Ireland, even to 
the present day. 

Mr. Grey looked smilingly impassive in re- 
turn for Rossitur's congratulations, but he gave 
what would have been a sure sign of pleasure 
to any body who knew him — he took Mr. Ros- 
situr by the arm and led him through the lab- 
yrinth to the place where Elinor was hold- 
ing her little court, very much bored by her 
adorers because one of her gloomy moods held 
her fast. 

Elinor's first sensation was that of absolute 
repugnance as she looked at the pale, aristo- 
cratic face, which had no youth in it although 
it was young still, with lines that might have 
come either from dissipation or intense thought. 
Fortunately for Rossitur, his active life made 
most people ascribe them to the latter cause, 
and the face was handsome enough to win the 
generality of feminine opinions in its favor. 
Elinor Grey looked at him and felt such unrea- 
soning and unreasonable aversion that I believe 
actually her impulse would have been to turn 
her back and never look in his face again. But 
as one can not well indulge in such honest little 
ebullitions of feeling she did the next best thing, 
was courteous and scolded herself for her absurd 
nervousness. 

He talked with her, he danced with her, and 
he did each well. Miss Grey forgot her ridicu- 
lous internal shiver, and probably if he had left 
her after that first dance would have forgotten 
all about Leighton Rossitur. But he did not — 
he was at her side many times during the even- 
ing, and was sufficiently unlike the jaded men 
of society to be a relief; an unutterable boon 
where keeping aloof the Youth of New York was 
concerned. 

For the Youth was there in full force. The 
Idol was good-natured and really liked young 
people, so there the Youth was, more marvel- 
lous than usual as to its white ties and the 
parting of its back hair. It danced and it 
smiled, and the worst thing was, it would try to 
talk. It always will — oh, why? For the 
Youth of New York is a genus by itself. Bos- 
ton has nothing like it ; neither London nor 
Paris ever fnrnished the model, although it is 
travelled and is quite foreign in tastes. No- 
where beyond the limits of Manhattan Island 
has the race been discovered. It is suckled 
between Harlem and the Battery, fed with the 
pap of mild learning at Columbia College, and 
is only seen to full advantage at Saratoga or 
within the bounds of its native isle. It came 
about Elinor in a wearisome train. It was 
slightly afraid of her ; but she was a woman to 
be known, and the Youth would do its dutv and 
D 



be seen dancing with her, and after it would 
avenge itself over a broiled oyster at Delmon- 
ico's by declaring that she was dreadfully over- 
rated. 

Leighton Rossitur gazed at Miss Grey's pale, 
still face, with the far-off look in her eyes rath- 
er too apparent for the occasion, and wondered 
what subject he could touch that would bring 
her within reach as they walked up and down 
between the pauses of a waltz. His fates led 
him to choose the only one which would have 
served his purpose ; he talked about her father, 
and Elinor listened. But though the subject 
proved a success, Mr. Rossitur, as was natural, 
did not care to sound those praises for any 
great length of time, and he cast about for 
something nearer his own interest which should 
still keep her within reach. 

"Do you enjoy this sort of thing?" he ask- 
ed. "I know that is stupid, but I can't help it." 

"I suppose I did once," replied Elinor, and 
it seemed to her just then as if the time must 
lie far back. 

"I don't know," he said slowly; "yes, I 
suppose we all did. Ah, now I see the trouble, 
Miss Grey." 

"Do you ? Then enlighten me, I beg." 

"Your soul doesn't rest in your heels," said 
he. "Look at that couple yonder. The youth 
is evidently fulfilling his mission, and the young 
lady has been dancing ten .years to my knowl- 
edge — was dancing while you wore bibs — and 
isn't tired yet." 

"Poor thing," said Elinor. "But you need 
not laugh." 

" Not I ; on the contrary I am filled with pity 
for her ill success and admiration of her forti- 
tude. How many years ago the opening sea- 
son must have been a forlorn hope ; and yet she 
perseveres. " 

"It is very easy to sneer," replied Elinor; 
" but if girls are taught that husbands are abso- 
lute necessities, what can you expect ?" 

"That they should gyrate until they get 
them, if there is no other way, by all means." 

He thought Miss Grey's eyes were going off 
again, and what he had said did not sound so 
witty as he had expected. 

"I think society must have been pleasant in 
the old days," he continued, "when the French 
world was most brilliant, for instance. Then 
flirtation had a purpose ; a woman had a polit- 
ical end to gain by every smile or repartee." 

" It made a little excitement, certainly," re- 
plied Elinor. 

" And some women need a purpose," he said. 
" If you could have come with one to-night you 
would not be enduring boredom as I am forcing 
you to now." 

Elinor laughed. " Pray go on, said she ; " I 
really believe you will make amends." 

"Encouraging, at all events." 

"Are you sure yours was not an instance of 



' How much we give our thoughts a tone, 
And judge of others' feelings by our own?' " 



she asked. 



50 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



" I was dreadfully bored the early part of the 
evening," he answered; "then you came, and 
1 was interested in watching you." 

" Such a pretty littlo old compliment." 

"No, it was a rudeness in fact, considering 
my thought." 

"Then you shall tell it to me. Nobody ever 
is rude — do be peculiar." 

" I will remember your hint when I study a 
style." 

" Hut tell me what you thought ?" 
" I looked at you, and — " 
"Dear me, was I doing any thing very im- 
proper ?" 

"No, you were dancing and smiling, and be- 
ing quite decorous in every way ; but I looked 
and thought — ' What a pity that lady has left her 
soul at home. She considered it too precious 
to bring, and her eyes aro looking back after 
it.' " He stopped, then said quickly, " I do beg 
your pardon. Was that rude?" 
"It was very pretty," said Elinor. 
" And it's original. 1 declare to you I did 
not read it in a hook." 

"If I find it in one I shall know the author 
stole your idea." 

" And wasn't it true?" he asked. 
" Bather exaggerated, that is all," she re- 
plied. "I believe I was absent and preoccu- 
pied." 

" That is not the word. If you had been 
preoccupied your eyes would have had a differ- 
ent expression." 

"Your skill at reading eyes and faces is ap- 
palling. Pray how did I look?" 

" As if you wanted something to occupy you, 
some pleasant, engrossing thought; as if the 
'halls of mirth, 'as Mrs. Hackett says, looked a lit- 
tle empty and dreary to you." lie had come very 
close to tho truth — she began to look at him 
now. " Put I am talking stilted nonsense," 
said he. 

" We must talk nonsense, you know; I don't 
sec that the sort makes much difference." 

" Hut isn't it a pity that-- Oh, Miss Grey, 
here come three men from three different di- 
rections ; ^please waltz with mo before they can 
get here." 

She let him whirl her away. He was more 
agreeable than any body else would he; at least 
he was different. 

••They rush so frantically along," said he, 
looking back, "that I'm afraid there will lie a 
collision. There, now they discover that you 
have vanished —blank amazement on every face. 
Oh, see that one with the marvelous tie stare at 
the ceiling. Can he think you have been 
transformed into that frescoed damsel?" They 
waltzed until the pursuers had flitted off in search 
of other prey, then he advised her to get a breath 
of air in the great conservatory in which a few 
people were walking up and down. 

'• But what did you begin to say when those 
men appeared ?" she asked. 

'• You are very good to remember that I be- 
gan to say any thing." 



" Which you don't mean, of course ; it is thu 
sort of answer all men make." 

"I'll tell you why I made it. I was trying to 
think what I meant to say, or to make up some- 
thing if I couldn't recollect." 

"You said, 'Isn't it a pity that— '^ 

" And then the invaders stopped me, the 
Goths." 

" But you are to remember what it was ; I'll 
have nothing substituted." 

" I know what it was. I was thinking it is a 
pity one must always talk nonsenso with peo- 
ple at first ; so often one sees something in a 
stranger which quite drives the nonsense away, 
and ono wants to speak real, earnest things in 
reply to what is in the new face." 

" Probably the new face would be very much 
astonished." 

"I knew you would laugh at me. Admire 
the sweetness of my nature : I gave you the 
opportunity after having had time to make up 
something else." 

"And I think it is true, too," said Elinor, 
"if I did laugh and if it docs sound a little — " 

"Like Owen Meredith or some one of that 
school," he added. 

" No ; not even that. We keep finishing each 
others' sentences." 

"And since you have said 'we,' how can I 
beg your pardon for being uncivil ?" 

"You can't; but to punish you I shall not 
conclude." 

" That is because you have forgotten. I 
saw your eyes going off. Please come back. 
Miss Grey ; it is lonesome." 

He said his odd things gracefully', and all 
the while his face looked pale and earnest, anil 
even when he laughed the faint twin lines be- 
tween his eyes never disappeared. Elinor look- 
ed at him again and discovered the fault in 
his countenance — his eyes did not laugh. Wheth- 
er there was something cold and secretive in his 
character from which her instincts had at first 
recoiled, or whether it was because his nature 
really was so deep and serious that this talk was 
the merest society work rather a bore to do, she 

could not decide. 

"You will tell me sometime," said ho qui- 
etly. 

" What shall I tell you ?" she asked, but feel- 
ing a little guilty. 

" What you were thinking — 1 know you were 
making up your mind whether to call me en- 
durable or to hate me outright." 

"Which do you prefer?" 

" To be hated ; there is nothing so odious as 
indifference." 

•• 1 can imagine your having a stronger feel- 
ing toward any one who ran counter to your 
wishes or plans," said she. « 

" You fancy me a good hater ? Do you agree 
with Dr. Johnson ?" 

"No," she replied ; " and I can think of no 
greater self-torment than to be hating some- 
body." 

'• Nor I," said he. "You see you did me a 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



51 



little injustice, Miss Grey. I never even bear 
malice." 

" I did not mean to be rude." 

" I do not think you were. I ought to have 
said — • As if Miss Grey could be.' You were 
very good-natured to form an opinion or to 
think me worth one. But don't fancy me going 
about cherishing fell designs toward those who 
rouse my enmity, and making a modern Corsi- 
ca!! of myself." 

"I did make an absurd speech," said she; 
"but you might be generous enough not to 
laugh." 

"I imagine that is the only vengeance I 
should ever seek under any provocation," he re- 
plied, lie was very playful ami said a number 
of amusing things, but beneath there was a sin- 
gular anxiety to remove the impression from 
her mind, which had been only a passing thought 
after all. There came an interruption — a new 
invasion of the Goths — and this time Elinor had 
to yield. 

As they entered the ball-room the Idol in her 
magnificence bore down upon Leighton Rossi- 
tur. "I am doomed," he whispered in Eli- 
nor's car. " Pity me — remember me — ' it may 
be four years and may be eleven,' before we meet 
again." And indeed, the Idol was an over- 
whelming sight swooping down upon one de- 
voted man. To say that she looked like a ship 
under full sail would bo trite ; a whole fleet 
v/ould not be a comparison ; nothing could ap- 
ply but some immense noiu^ of multitude. 
Gorgeous and bedecked, she was reflected in 
countless mirrors till she seemed no longer one 
Idol, but the entire collection from Abou Simbel 
or some other heathen place with more idols 
and a more unpronounceable name. 

"You are not to stand here lamenting our 
princess," said she, tapping Rossitur's shoulder 
with her fan in gigantic playfulness. " You arc 
too rare a visitor in town to be allowed to hide 
your light." 

" I am content to watch your shining," said 
he. 

" No compliments," returned she with another 
sportive dash of the fan. 

" No wonder you are weary of them," he re- 
plied. " And what an insatiable woman you 
are ! Not content with ruling society, you 
must needs go and dim the sheen of all our 
our authors' laurels." 

" I never meant to," she returned with sweet 
humility. . " No, no ; I leave the bays for 
broader brows. To benefit my kind was my 
leading-star— not fame. Rut come, a score of 
lovely young ladies want to converse with you ; 
you are growing famous, you know." 

" Mrs. Ilackett is always surprising one with 
pleasant news." 

" Yes, yes ; wo shall yet see you classic in the 
senatorial halls," said she. "What docs By- 
ron say?— 'A pedestal— a bust — and a worse 
fame !' How misanthropic he was — glorious 
soul." 

RossituB was willing to compound for a waltz 



with Hecate to escape from the present inflic- 
tion, lie allowed her to lead him whither she 
would. And ho did his duty ; watching Elinor 
Grey afar off, and revolving many things in his 
busy brain. 

Mr. Grey bad met the Bull prowling discon- 
solately for a few moments about the gorgeous 
halls and looking stolidly miserable and astonish- 
ed at his own magnificence, as if he felt inclined 
to bellow. Mr. Grey had swept him off to ad- 
mire a picture, and had whispered a few ques- 
tions about certain stocks and schemes, and 
looked radiant after the Bull had softly lowed a 
hopeful response. 

The night culminated and waned as all such 
nights do, and after supper Leighton Rossitur 
found himself near Miss Grey again — found 
himself there in the most accidental manner 
possible, as he had been trying to do for the 
last half-hour. 

" What is ' pleasure's twirl?' " he asked. 

" I don't know," said Elinor. 

" Nor I cither; but Mrs. Ilackett said it was 
an ' entrancive thing,' and I think it must be 
that which has brought me near you again. I 
had no idea I could find you a second time in 
this mob. That woman must know ten thou- 
sand people at least, and I should think they 
were all here." 

" But she is so kind-hearted that one has not 
the cruelty to laugh at her vagaries." 

And Leighton Rossitur thought — " Now shall 
I give her an opportunity to lecture me, or shall 
I do the scorn for peoplo who court wealth and 
then sneer ?" He compromised like a modern 
statesman. " I do laugh about people," said 
he, " and am sorry after." And ho said it so 
honestly ; and Miss Grey liked people to be 
honest. They stood talking for a few moments, 
then Mr. Grey came up. 

"I am quite ready, papa," Elinor said; "it 
is dreadfully late." 

" How long do you stay in town, Mr. Rossi- 
tur?" Mr. Grey asked. 

" Only a week," ho answered. " You know 
I am not a free man ; I come and go under 
orders." 

" I know," said Mr. Grey, " that you are tak- 
ing the right course to be one who gives orders 
long before you are my age. I like to see a 
man have an aim and follow it." 

" Miss Grey looks approval too," said Rossi- 
tur, his lips smiling and his eyes as cold as ever. 

"Who would not?" she asked. "Look 
about at these saltatory disciples." 

" They certainly have an aim," said Rossitur. 

"And don't let us be severe, my daughter 
Elinor," added her father. "Perhaps you 
would do us the favor to dine with us to-mor- 
row, Mr. Rossitur ? We have a few friends en- 
gaged — let us havo the pleasure of adding you 
to the list." 

Mr. Rossitur would be only to happy. So 
much for saying the right thing in the right 
place ; it had served his turn before. 

" We are enduring the weariness of life at a 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



hotel," said Elinor ; " it is a real favor to help 
us in our desolation." 

" What would satisfy you?" he asked. 

"I want papa to settle in Washington and 
take a house: I think I would rather live there 
than here; I should be quite content then." 

So would Mr. Rossitur, and her words sent 
him oft" in high spirits. He held his position 
under the Cabinet appointment certain to be of- 
fered Mr. Grey before another fortnight, who in 
his acceptance of it would not desire to make 
any changes so late in the Presidential term — 
at least, not in Rossitur's case. He thought that 
the confidential relations which would thus be 
brought about between himself and Mr. Grey 
would be a satisfactory aid to the pursuance of 
the daughter's acquaintance. He blessed the 
obstinacy of the present incumbent and his pro- 
pensities for recalcitration, and was glad to 
know that the President had every intention of 
taking immediate advantage of the new breach 
which had occurred between him and the pig- 
headed honorable, the pig-headed having put 
himself in a position where he must resign his 
office to give a decent appearance to his going 
out. 

Elinor and her father went in search of the 
Idol to make their farewells, and she was over- 
powering in her modest depreciation of what 
she felt to be one of her grandest efforts. " You 
are too beneficent, Mr. Grey, to say that you 
have enjoyed yourself, " she gasped in return to 
his pretty speeches. '• But if my poor efforts 
have succeeded in giving a passing lightness to 
a mind briefly to be oppressed by new political 
emoluments — you see I repeat those far-spread 
bird-whispers — happy am I — too richly reward- 
ed." Then more smooth words from him, and 
Elinor began to be impatient with the good 
woman and to reproach herself therefor. 

" I have so regretted our dear Thorntons," 
said the Idol, as she took Elinor's hand. 

" Yes, Rosa hoped up to the last moment she 
should be well enough to come to town, but she 
wrote me yesterday that her influenza was worse 
than ever." 

" The brightest blossom must have its blight," 
said the Idol ; " this has been mine in my even- 
ing of roses." 

"But your guests have had no opportunity 
to think of any thing but the pleasure you gave 
them," said Mr. Grey. 

"Thanks. Your praise is my guerdion," 
said she, bringing out the word as if it had 
twenty-four letters at least in it, and putting in 
an extra vowel according to her wont. 

And Elinor on her way home recollected 
Leighton Rossitur, and took the trouble to ask 
her father who and what he was. After she 
was alone in her room she recalled several odd 
things that he had said — queer, contradictory 
speeches — in keeping, she thought, with his face, 
which had no business with that smiling mouth, 
else was belied by the cold eyes. She remem- 
bered too the feeling of repulsion which had 
come over her when she first looked at him, al- 



though while listening to his animated conver- 
sation it had passed from her mind. She re- 
membered it and doubted if her impression in 
regard to him was favorable notwithstanding 
his pleasant talk. When his hand touched hers 
in the dance, the light grasp of his gloved fingers 
had something unconsciously hard and firm in 
it. "That is the way he would hold to the 
least whim," she thought. "And he could 
hate — in spite of all he said. Yes ; he was 
so anxious I should think he could not." Then 
she forgot him altogether, and sat for a long 
time by the fire looking down into the glowing 
embers and thinking how strange it was that 
she should be so solitary — she whom people 
courted and envied. She did not allow herself 
to understand why her thoughts were gloomy, 
but there she sat and dreamed instead of going 
to bed like a sensible, practical young woman. 
To her credit let me add that her maid was 
never kept up on such occasions. Elinor Grey 
had her faults, swarms of them, but she was not 
mean, and she never made a dependent suffer 
for her caprices or enjoyment. 



CHAPTER XL 



AN OVATION. 



During the week that Leighton Rossitur re- 
mained in town he had frequent opportunities 
of meeting Miy Grey, and he made the best 
possible use of them toward establishing a basis' 
for an acquaintance which should give him the 
advantage over other men when she made her 
appearance in Washington. When she was in 
his society and listening to his conversation 
Elinor liked him ; but somehow whenever she 
remembered him in her quiet hours — she had 
very few just then — the first feeling toward him 
would come back, and she found it so impossible 
to analyze, that on their next meeting she was 
more cordial by way of atonement for the crook- 
ed thoughts she had indulged. Leighton Ros- 
situr was — now let me see what he was — at once 
very artful and rashly impulsive, with hot passions 
and a clear brain. He never forgot himself and 
his own interests except when one of his insane 
fits of temper seized him ; at such times he was 
capable of ruining the dearest plan he had at a 
blow, and in or out of temper he would have 
made a bridge of his mother's coffin to cross any 
gulf which blackened between him and his 
wishes. He liked to plot and scheme ; it was in- 
grained in his nature ; but his manners took their 
color from his impulsive qualities and were ab- 
solutely fascinating. (Forgive my employing 
that ill-used word of all work.) He wanted 
political position and he wanted money, and he 
did not intend that any trifles should stand in 
his way toward procuring both those desirable 
aids for carpeting the rugged path of this world. 
He conldlove — burn and pant ; but in the height 
of his fever he could have wrenched his heart 
away from its idol if it had been to serve his 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



53 



ambition. lie would have known that he must 
suffer, and suffer bitterly perhaps, but he would 
have known too in the first moment that the 
pain would pass and that if he allowed his heart 
to stand in the light of bis reason he should 
curse himself after, whereas the heart would 
find a new aim. 

He irfet Miss Grey at somebody's dinner-table 
the night before he left town, and had the good 
fortune to be seated next her. "I had quite 
made up my mind that you would not come," 
he said, when he had an opportunity to speak 
with her. 

"Why so?" Elinor asked. "People don't 
usually accept invitations and stay away." 

" No ; but it is my last evening in town, so I 
was prepared for a disappointment." 

" If you were prepared, no great harm could 
have come of it." 

" I was trying to put the matter in a decorous 
way. But I should have been so disappointed 
— I may say that, mayn't I?" 

"Certainly you may, and I shall believe as 
much as seems good to me." 

"Ah, you had better believe the whole. It's 
so nice to believe. Nobody docs believe any 
tiling nowadays, and it is pleasant to believe 
things." 

" Do you expect me to believe that you are 
in the habit of going through the world with un- 
limited faith in every thing you meet?" 

"I suppose you will not, and yet I have a 
great deal of faith. I know it is antiquated, 
and one ought to be ashamed of not being blase 
and misanthropical, but I can't help it." 

"If you are in earnest you are to be praised 
for not adopting the modern creed." 

" And I am in earnest. I suppose I get 
laughed at, but as I don't know it, what mat- 
ter?" 

"And if you did, what matter?" 

" Still less. I am afraid my self-esteem over- 
balances my vanity. I am not afraid of the 
world's laugh." 

Fear of this world had been one of Clive 
Farnsworth's chief weaknesses ; that thought 
came into Elinor's mind and at its heels another 
— why should he be in her mind at all ? 

"Do you think I am wrong?" Rossitur 
asked. 

"I think you right," she replied. "You 
have touched the chief of my pet insanities." 

"lam glad. Now I shall care less than 
ever." 

"When you arc certain that the world and 
not your judgment is in fault." 

"That of course." He talked quite eloquent- 
ly ; it sounded to Elinor fairly like an echo of 
her own thoughts, and she liked him better. 
It was very pretty and he was very sure of his 
ground. He had overheard Miss Grey express 
some opinion upon the subject a few nights be- 
fore, and knew where he stood. "I don't want 
10 go away to-morrow," said he suddenly. 

" Do you find town so much pleasanter than 
Washington?" 



"But you see Washington doesn't hold Miss 
Grey." 

"Unfortunate capital!" 

"It is all very well to laugh. Still, I am 
glad to go back to my work ; nature or habit 
make me more content when I am busy." 

" And you are ambitious too." 

" I don't deny it. I don't believe you blame 
me for that." 

" I can't pay you personal compliments, but 
imagine me offering a tribute to ambitious men 
in general." 

" Among whom you would be if you had 
been a man ; as it is, yours is all reserved for 
your father." 

"The pleasantest sort, I am sure, and one 
of the advantages my sex has." 

"The very pleasantest. Sometimes it is 
dreary work being ambitious for one's self with 
nobody to share the feeling." 

" It would be unless the motive were stronger 
than the desire for personal distinction." 

"Yes, I know what you mean — one needs to 
remember it too. Then sometimes the work is 
hard, and one forgets both the aim and liking — 
and looks about at other men enjoying ease and 
luxury." 

" Would they content you ?" 

"I hope you believe they would not. But it 
is very nice to be rich," he continued, laughing. 
" Now you know I am not, and to a certain ex- 
tent money is power. I don't set up for a 
Diogenes — I am rather fond of luxuries, and 
wouldn't be a Spartan if I could help it." She 
liked him for such frankness ; she looked at 
him and thought, if he was really as open and 
honest as his conversation sounded, how much 
she had wronged him in her judgments. " Some 
men sell themselves under such circumstances," 
said he. 

"To a party or an heiress," replied Elinor. 
" I do not know which is the meaner." 

"Really, I have often wondered — one wonders 
about all sorts of things. There's that Miss 
Jones we met last night— they say she wants to 
change the family escutcheon — which was a 
saddle — for a good old name." 

"You see Miss Jones has an ambition." 

"Yes, but if I were she I'd take my saddle 
and ride out in search of a better aim." 

" Then you don't approve of the buying and 
selling?" 

"It is just disgusting;" and he began to 
laugh. 

" At what?" asked Elinor. 

' ' Why, I quite forgot you were an heiress ; 
but being a Grey on one side and a Courtenay 
on the other, a reputation for a beauty and a 
wit, I don't see in what direction vou are to 
ride." 

"Wait till Cuba and Mexico have each an 
Emperor," returned she, entering into the jest, 
fearful that he was troubling himself lest his idle 
speech about heiresses might not have been 
civil. 

"That will do," said he; "and I shall be 



54 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



President and flutter the Monroe policy in jour 
imperial faces when you come over." 

"I shall bring in the plea of being an Ameri- 
can citizen." 

" Oh, you would be sure to outwit me in some 
way." 

"Being a woman," said she. 

Of course this talk had been in fragments, 
wide apart, but it is easier to set it all down to- 
gether. The ladies were leaving the table now, 
and Leighton Rossitur did not get near Elinor 
again till the party was about breaking up. "I 
shall not marry Miss Jones," said he. 

"Has she asked you ?" 

"No — not exactly; she has spoken to me 
twice." 

"What did she say?" 

" Once she asked me if I didn't adore Verdi 
— that was when I was introduced." 

" And you assented." 

"No, I hate Verdi. His screaming operas 
ruin the voices of half the women." 

"What did she say next ?" 

" She said she adored blonde whiskers like 
Colonel Audley's — that Englishman — and as I 
only wear a mustache and it's almost black — " 

" It was not encouraging." 

' ' But yon know every man thinks Venus de 
Medici would come off her pedestal and marry 
him if he asked her." 

" Most men," replied Elinor ; "but I do not 
fancy that those who think so talk like you." 
And he saw that he was leaving exactly the 
impression he had desired — an agreeable con- 
sciousness to carry away. 

' ' Now I must say good-bye," said he. "Think 
of it! — I start by the early train." 

' ' Hadn't you better wait and ask Miss Jones 
to reconsider the subject of blonde whiskers?" 

" I would in a moment — if I loved her. But 
you see I like sensations ; and I've never been 
in love yet. Miss Jones's money wouldn't stop 
me — some men it would. That is just as cow- 
ardly and mean as marrying for it." He had 
touched the right chord — Miss Grey's own 
creed. "And you will come to Washing- 
ton ?" 

"Probably." 

" Oh, it is certain ; they need your father 
and must have him. I am glad, glad." He 
said it boyishly. How young and frank the 
mouth looked with its smiles ; his eyes were 
cast down so that they sent no shadow over his 
face, and the narrow lines between them 
strengthened and ennobled the whole expression. 
He took his leave, and when the next night 
came with its ball, Elinor looked about among 
the men and fairly regretted him. There were 
enough of them agreeable and cultivated, but 
it was the old, old model slightly altered to suit 
individual characteristics, and Leighton Ros- 
situr had been in every way different. On the 
whole, Elinor went through her duties in a 
rather fatigued manner, and I am afraid disap- 
pointed people very frequently. Many a man 
of the world looked at her pale face, with its 



lines of force and its capabilities of passion, and 
realized that she could feel, and hated her be- 
cause he knew that he had no power to rouse 
the slightest stir in her fancy. As for the 
Youth — indeed, I don't believe it approved of 
Miss Grey, although it pranced about her a 
little, just to tell that it had pranced in her neigh- 
borhood. On the whole it preferred Miss Jones, 
who adored Verdi and went into ecstacies abont 
blonde beards, and did not take its little breath 
away by glances of indifference or forgetful- 
ness. 

The Thorntons came to town and established 
themselves for the winter, and it was under- 
stood that if Elinor and her father removed to 
Washington, the conjugal doves were to make 
them a visit. " And we are charming to have 
as guests for a little while," said Rosa. " One 
mustn't have too much of us — we are like pre- 
served peaches or Indian pickles." 

"I am the peaches," added Tom, "and she 
is pickles — of the most exasperating sort." The 
Doves were as happy and full of spirits as ever, 
and pecking at each other constantly in a play- 
ful way which would have been dangerous for 
most matrimonial birds to attempt, but which 
answered perfectly in their case. They were 
at the Clarendon, too, so the old intimacy was 
pleasantly resumed. 

One morning the Idol descended upon Elinor 
and Rosa as they were promising themselves a 
quiet day. Mrs. Hackett loomed larger and 
more important than ever; the Colonization 
movement was going on at a rapid gallop, and 
the directors assured her that her literary labors 
had done much to bring about that desirable 
state of affairs. There were numerous doleful- 
ly good people engaged in the work now ; any 
number of restless women whose homes did not 
offer a sufficiently broad scope for their talents ; 
the men connected with the railway scheme 
were favorable ; and Mrs. Hackett had done 
what in her lay to make the undertaking fash- 
ionable, which would give it the certain stamp 
of success. That morning there was to be a 
grand convocation of the directors, and persons 
interested in the matter were desired to be 
present. Unfortunately for the meeting, as far 
as Fashion was concerned, it was to be held in 
some impossible locality, to consult the conven- 
ience of "energetic sons of toil," the notice 
said, who might wish to present themselves and 
perhaps be excited into putting their names 
down upon the list of emigrants. The Idol had 
promised to be present by way of representing 
the Goddess of Fashion, and had been rendered 
complaisant in regard to the unhallowed quar- 
ter by a private hint that a small tribute of ad- 
miration and gratitude would be offered her in 
the guise of certain extra ceremonies which ' 
might read well in the next day's Herald. She 
had checked her chariot wheels at the hotel for 
the purpose of inducing Rosa and Elinor to go 
with her, and as Tom consented to accompany 
them they went, Rosa to see the fun and Eli- 
nor because she was really glad to oblige Mrs. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



55 



Hackett, in regard to whom she could not help 
having qualms of conscience. 

There the directors were on the platform — 
fat, sleek men ; lank, long-haired men ; men 
with their hair brushed straight back from their 
foreheads and with beaming, philanthropic ex- 
pressions for the world in general, as if they 
felt their smiles to be sunshine and would do 
their duty in diffusing them for poor human 
nature's benefit. There were several women 
of the strong-minded order seated on prominent 
benches, looking very severe and manly, and a 
group of flowing-tressed males hovering about 
them, as flowing-tressed men always do hover 
about females with virtuously short locks and a 
mission for setting the universe to rights. 
There were the eager women who craved work 
in the Lord's vineyard — in prominent places ; 
there were sensation preachers who looked much 
better there than in their pulpits ; here and 
there a keen business man who had leanings 
toward the railway scheme ; and then the ordi- 
nary flock of mortals. Not a large one, how- 
ever. It was humiliating, but after all the ef- 
forts the audience was sparse. A few "hard- 
handed sons of toil " congregated near the doors 
and looked wonderingly about. Sundry of the 
order of gamin had sacrilegiously intruded, and 
were making audible remarks expressive of 
their desire to learn what species the row of 
strong-minded women belonged to, in spite of 
the vigilance of the attendant policemen who 
thumped the smallest boys unmercifully and 
looked as majestic as Trojan veterans ; and a 
band of Sunday-school children had been pro- 
cured for the occasion. The eager women al- 
ways rushing about the Vineyard are never at a 
loss to produce a set of the most precocious lit- 
tle hypocrites. As the Goddess of Fashion en- 
tered the directors met her in a body and led 
her to a high place in the synagogue, while 
Tom and the two ladies followed, feeling they 
had not quite understood where they were to be 
brought. At the same moment the Sunday- 
school children struck up a melody composed 
for the occasion, which began with — "I long 
for Nicaragua, "sung to the refreshing air famil- 
iar in such establishments, "I want to be an 
angel." They sang loud and clear, and at a 
signal from their leader the troop filed past the 
seat on which the Idol sat enthroned and point- 
ed spectral fingers at her, chanting — 

"And she'll lead us there, and she'll lead us there!" 

Elinor and Rosa were ensconced behind the 
Idol, and to their great joy quite concealed from 
observation. The children filed back to their 
places. The applause was deafening and the 
Idol wept tears of delight. One of the direct- 
ors made a speech in which he called her a va- 
riety of names, beginning with Helen of Troy 
and ending with Miss Nightingale, and the 
strong-minded women commenced to shake 
their heads and mutter among themselves — a 
good thing might be overdone. 

There Mas not much business transacted be- 



yond proving that the society needed money, 
and Mrs. Hackett headed the contribution-list 
with a sum which made the eyes of the sleek 
mert water. Suddenly one of the strong-mind- 
ed women bounded to her feet. "I should like 
to observe a remark," said she, and was frowned 
down by the women of the Vineyard, and one 
of the lank men said that the business would 
be transacted solely by the directors, although 
they were glad to have all friends present. The 
row of strong-minded women groaned in con- 
cert, rose from their seats, and in solemn majes- 
ty paced down the hall. At the door they 
paused. The leader — a gaunt, bony woman 
accustomed to public speaking, the head and 
front of Womens' Rights battlers, to whom the 
darkest isms were transparent as moonshine — 
elevated her spectacled nose and exclaimed in 
a thin, sharp voice which seemed to belong to 
somebody else, "We retire! We came here 
thinking to be illumined by the light of the far- 
visioned Present; we find ourselves in the 
gloom of the Past, and hear the rattling of the 
chains which bound our foremothers. We will 
none of them ! We renounce you — you and 
your pitiful scheme which will disappear like a 
bubble of Lethe — you with your slavish wor- 
shiping of vulgar wealth and imbecile fashion — 
with your antiquated prayers and mummeries 
which offend Nature!" The troop groaned in 
concert and swept out, followed meekly by the 
long-tressed men, leaving a general confusion 
which could not be quieted for some moments. 
When order was restored one of the chairmen 
requested such sturdy sons of toil as might be 
present and desired information to come for- 
ward, or if any wished to put their names down 
among the adventurous band who were about 
to seek a broader life in golden lands — here he 
bowed to the Idol in token that he quoted from 
her pamphlet, and she, forgetful of dignity in 
her agitation, nodded her head in return like a 
Chinese mandarin strung on wires — why now 
an opportunity offered. The women of the 
Vineyard drew near the directors' table — they 
would at length have a little occupation to busy 
their restlessness ; the regular meeting was 
over — they could talk and ask questions. 

Near Elinor was seated a little fat, puffy 
woman in rusty black, who had been making 
notes with a stumpy lead-pencil on soiled slips 
of paper, stopping occasionally to refresh her- 
self with bonbons from a flat reticule on her 
arm, and at intervals emitting from an inquisi- 
tive nose which looked as if afflicted with a 
cold of long standing a series of short sniffs that 
grew alarmingly loud and frequent when she 
was pleased or dissatisfied with what was going 
on. Against the end of the bench leaned a 
green umbrella which she guarded with a watch- 
ful eye and never forgot in her busiest mo- 
ments. If any body near so much as stirred, 
out went one dust-colored hand and grasped the 
umbrella as though she thought hostile designs 
were entertained toward it by the whole world. 
If any person got in her way she made a weap- 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



on of it and poked the offender in the back with 
its point, and when not occupied with her notes 
she clasped her hands about it and leaned her 
chin on the crooked handle, easily surveying 
the throng from that resting-place. Indeed the 
umbrella was so evidently always uppermost in 
her mind, so much a part of herself, that at 
length an observer came to feel a certain inter- 
est in it too, as if it had been a fat baby in a 
faded green dress or a familiar spirit shut up in 
whalebone stays. It was a rakish, dissipated- 
looking old chap as far as its garment was con- 
cerned ; it was puffy and ill-shaped as if from 
overfeeding, with the air of an umbrella accus- 
tomed to late hours and unwholesome atmos- 
pheres. But the crooked handle, which looked 
like a beak, had a sternly-virtuous, sanctimoni- 
ous air, and seemed to regard with suspicion 
the entire universe, with a certain self-compla- 
cent expression added which completed the 
charm. Nobody could watch the dumpy wom- 
an and her associate long without forming any 
quantity of odd speculations in regard to it ; in 
other society the monster might have been only 
an umbrella, but in her companionship it be- 
came a marvel and a mystery, and one felt that 
she would not have been half the woman she 
was without its presence. 

Tom had pointed her out to Rosa, and now 
the short woman shoved nearer him along the 
bench, after the fashion of boys at school. 
" Got a penknife ?" demanded she, in a wheezy 
whisper. "I've worn the point off my pencil." 

Tom politely offered to sharpen it for her. 

" Just give me the knife," said she ; " I shan't 
steal it. I always like to do things for my- 
self." 

" A very praiseworthy spirit," said Tom. 

She sniffed in high disdain, and muttered 
something about men in general, not compli- 
mentary to the race. " You see I'm taking 
notes," said she, leaning coolly over Tom and 
addressing Elinor and Mrs. Thornton in the 
same wheezy whisper, which could be heard 
further than one of Rachel's. " I suppose you 
think it's odd for a woman — I write for the 
daily papers and I have to make a report of 
this meeting. How those women did act !" and 
she sniffed violently. " It made me ashamed. 
I'm not strong-minded myself — I'm a Presby- 
terian." 

There was no necessity for any body to speak ; 
indeed, she gave no opportunity if any one had 
felt inclined. "That's a beautiful bonnet of 
yours," said she to Mrs. Thornton. "I've a 
great love of pretty things — I am fashion editor 
for one of the papers." 

" She looks it," whispered Tom. 

She wore a plaid cloak over her black dress, 
a red s^carf about her neck, and she had on a 
green bonnet with yellow in it. " That's Mrs. 
Hackett, isn't it ?" said she, pointing to the au- 
gust lady. 

"Yes"," said Tom. 

" I'm going to speak to her. I want to tell 
her I'll see she has a proper notice. Here, you 



know her, don't you ? Just give her a nudgo 
and say I want to tell her something." 

Tom complied at once, and the Idol turned 
about, still complacent from the effects of the 
triumph. 

" How do you do ?" said the stumpy woman 
— she looked like one of her own fat pencils, 
squinting horribly and sniffing with renewed 
energy — " How do you do ? I'm Mrs. Piffit — I 
write for the papers — I came here to take notes. 
I just wanted to say I'd see you were properly 
noticed." 

The Idol glared, divided between wrath, hor- 
ror, and a wish to be properly noticed in the 
papers. The stumpy woman was quite regard- 
less whatever she did ; she wet the end of her 
pencil in her mouth and fell to work at her slips 
of paper, sniffing and blowing desperately. In 
the mean time the chairman had repeated his in- 
vitation to the sons of toil without effect ; not a 
man walked up the aisle. 

"What's the matter ?" asked Mrs. Piffit, sud- 
denly becoming conscious of the stillness, and 
speaking quite aloud to the assembly in general. 
"Won't they come? Of course they won't! 
Ugh! Men — nasty, dirty brutes! Hmf! 
hmf !" She sniffed as if she smelled something 
very unpleasant, and dashed at her notes again 
to make up her lost time. 

"You are very industrious, madam," said 
Tom. 

" Am I ?" she snapped. "Why don't you go 
to Nicaragua?" She turned to Rosa and add- 
ed — "Is he your husband? I don't like 
men ! As I was coming down in the car a nasty 
brute set his foot right through my dress skirt — 
look at that!" She pulled up the article un- 
hesitatingly, displaying several petticoats of dif- 
ferent lengths and marvellous colors. "That's 
what men are !" said she ; let her skirt fall, 
sniffed twice, and set to work again. 

Now the chairman's voice rose anew, bland 
and persuasive : " Let no one hesitate to come 
forward," said he ; " it binds them to nothing." 

" Let them come for information," said one 
of the Vineyard women. 

"That's Mrs. Stoles," said the stumpy lady, 
not pausing in her task, and still speaking 
aloud. "She's always talking, and never says 
any thing — that's the worst thing about women. 
She's a Unitarian too ; and what do they be- 
lieve? Hmf! hmf!" And the Vineyard 
woman heard her and shook with impotent 
rage, but was silent. 

" Will any one come ?" asked the chairman. 

"He! he!" tittered Mrs. Piffit, and her laugh 
was as remarkable as her sniff— sharp and cut- 
ting. " Men, you see, men — nasty, dirty 
things! My dress is ruined — hmf! hmf! 1 ' 

But this last appeal proved more successful ; 
in response a loud voice which might have be- 
longed to either sex exclaimed from the door, 
" I'm just goin' up mysel'. Stand out of the 
way, Patscy McGuire. Come along, me darlint, 
follow your moder ; shure, we're in the land of 
liberty and the flag of the free." 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



Up the aisle marched an immense red-haired 
Hibernian, dragging a child in each hand, two 
more clinging to her skirts, and a larger girl 
following with the youngest bud of the hopeful 
family in her arms. The boys had on old men's 
hats, "and one had trowsers and no shirt, and the 
whole group were a picture of misery and des- 
titution. One of the little girls kept losing her 
shoe, which was much too large for her, and 
impeded the family progress by hunting for it 
between their legs at unexpected moments. 
"Be quiet, Biddy," said the matron. " Shure, 
we're goin' up to see the land o' goold along 
wid their worships and their leddyships. And 
just look at the grand leddy " — and she pointed 
out the Idol — " wid her feathers like a paycock — 
it's a duchess she'd be this minute av she had 
her jew — and oh, Phalim, my darlint, av ye ax 
her sweetly for a dime I know she'll give ye a 
dollar. I see it in her smile, Phalim." 

She was near the table before the bewildered 
policemen had decided whether she was a fit 
subject for emigration or arrest, and there she 
stood before the astonished directors, courtesying 
low and talking volubly. " And how do yer 
honors do ?" said she. " I've come wid me lit- 
tle family to see the land o' goold. Hand me 
the baby, Kathleen. He's a fine boy, yer hon- 
ors, on'y eight weeks old, and I'm a lone widdy 
woman, av ye'll plaze to consider. Phalim, ye 
spalpeen, why don't ye ax the leddy for a dime 
and git a dollar as I to wid ye." 

"My good woman," said the chairman, "we 
don't want to send out females unless they have 
husbands to till the ground or follow mechan- 
ical pursuits." 

" Purshuits, is it ? I'm ready for any. Ye 
said ye wanted popilators — " 

" Cultivators," interrupted Mrs. Stoles. 

" Cultivators or popilators, it's all wan, me led- 
dy, and I'm ayther quite convenient, me leddy." 

The crowd about the doors began to laugh, 
and the woman exclaimed angrily, " Don't stand 
gaupsy, ye bla'guards ! Patsey McGuire, spake 
up like a man." 

And Patsey, a shambling, knock-kneed Irish- 
man, stepped into the aisle, and rubbing his 
shock of hair between mirth and confusion, 
called out, " Shure, yer honor, Biddy O'Nale is 
as dacent a woman as ye'd find, barrin' she likes 
a drop now and then — " 

"Ilould your tongue, Patsey," interrupted 
she ; "ye needn't to mintion that. Shure, every 
body has their little weaknesses, as their wor- 
ships and their leddyships knows." 

"Go and sit down !" thundered the chairman, 
enraged at the ridiculous turn affairs had taken. 

"Ijist stepped up wid me little family, yer 
honor, to see the land o' goold, and I'm a lone 
widdy woman and this is my youngest on'\ — " 

"Go and sit down, I say!" he repeated. 
" If you don't, I'll give you in charge of the of- 
ficers." 

"It's a purty free country that won't take a 
lone widdy woman when she wants to go," 
howled the woman, suddenly changing her 



smiles into a most virago-like aspect. " Och, 
down wid the aigle — it's a dirrty birrd any way ! 
Here, Kathleen, yez take the baby!" She 
threw the squalling innocent at his sister and 
looked ready to attack the eagle or take the 
chairman as his substitute. 

" She's drunk, "Mrs. Piffit's voice remarked, 
aloud as usual. "Nasty, dirty thing — hmf! 
hmf!" 

" Drunk, is it?" cried Biddy. "Who called 
me that ? Och, was it you, ye little woman 
whom I won't mintion perticlar, in a plaid cloak 
and yaller flowers, that's allays prowlin' about 
the newspaper offices, wid never a penny fur — " 

"Policeman, take that woman out!" cried 
the chairman. 

"Why, I wonder if she could mean me?" 
saidPiffit meditatively, and sniffed very much. 

So Biddy O'Niel was carried shrieking and 
fighting down the aisle, and her brood followed, 
a mournful chorus with melancholy howls. 

It was difficult after that interruption to con- 
clude the meeting with proper dignity and ef- 
fect. " It's a failure," said the stumpy woman, 
rolling up her notes, stuffing them in her ret- 
icule, and menacing Tom with her worn pencil 
— "a failure. I expected it. Tell Mrs. Hack- 
ett I'll see she's properly noticed." 

Elinor and Rosa began to be very anxious to 
beat a retreat, but it was some time before the 
Idol could be released from the eager throng of 
directors. Mrs. Piifit kept her station close to 
the party, and suddenly astonished Rosa by 
opening her reticule and taking from it a bit of 
chocolate which she held toward her between 
her dirty thumb and finger. "Have one?" 
said she. "I get 'em fresh because the people 
want notices." Mrs. Thornton declined the 
proffered refreshment with a coldness which af- 
fected Piffit no more than it did the wooden 
pillar against which she leaned. 

" It was beautiful," the Idol was saying ; '• so 
impressive. Hope on, gentlemen — we shall 
succeed. I see the golden light shine from the 
Elysian fields." 

" She talks a good deal of poetry," said Pif- 
fit, sniffing. " I have to write it for the news- 
papers, so I never do. Where's my umbrella ? 
Oh, it's under my arm." 

They got the Idol away at last and departed ; 
but as they stood on the steps of the building, 
waiting for the carriage to drive up, out rushed 
stumpy Mrs. Piffit dragging the chairman of the 
meeting with her. "Now do it quick," said 
she, shaking him and sniffing till her bonnet 
fell off and hung to her neck by the strings. 

" Mrs. Hackett," said the confused man, "let 
me present Mrs. Piffit — one of our illustrious 
literary ladies — " 

"Written lots of biographies for the news- 
papers," interjaculated the stumpy woman. 

"Mrs. Piffit is a correspondent of several of 
our journals — " 

"Yes, now you know me," said Piffit. 
"How do you do, Mrs. Hackett? I spoke to 
you before, but of course I didn't call your 



5S 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



name — not being introduced it wouldn't have 
been proper." 

"Mrs. Piffit wished to say — " 

"Yes, yes, I'll tell her," said the stumpy 
woman, nipping him in the bud again. "I'll 
see that you are properly noticed. Very re- 
markable your pamphlet was — next one I'll help 
you if you want me to. I write every thing — 
plays, religious memoirs, translations, any thing. 
I'll notice your friends if they'll just give their 
names." She made a dive at her reticule to 
get out her pencil and notes, but the carriage 
drove up and Mrs. Hackett, for once left quite 
speechless, was glad to allow Tom to hand her 
down the steps. "Three — oh, there's four of 
you," called Mrs. Piffit ; "if there hadn't been 
I'd have just asked you to leave me at the of- 
fice, Mrs. Hackett ; but I suppose there's no 
room outside for that gentleman. Always in 
the way — men! I'll remember the notice." 

The carriage drove off, and the last they saw 
of Mrs. Piffit she was arranging her bonnet 
witli one hand and holding fast to the director 
with the other, while the worthy man stood a 
picture of abject and hopeless misery, mechan- 
ically clasping the green umbrella which she had 
placed in his arms that she might have greater 
freedom in shaking him. 



CHAPTER XII. 



IN THE SHADOW. 



Clive Farxsworth took his wife South. 
She was weak and suffering now that she had 
time to rest. He took her away from every 
thing connected with the gloom of the past years, 
and strove to bring the color back to her cheeks 
and the light to her eyes. 

I should employ a word feeble and inade- 
quate if I said that Ruth was happy. If one 
believed the Romish doctrine of purgatory, and 
could imagine a soul, purified by its pains, 
suddenly removed from the darkness into the 
light of the higher shore, I think it would be 
the fittest comparison. During the first days 
there was almost the fear of dying of her own 
happiness ; but that passed. She leaned upon 
him and rested in the full sunlight, and her 
heart throbbed with new freedom and her beau- 
ty developed to its prime. She had not a 
thought, not a suspicion, as a woman of another 
type might have had. Clive loved her — he had 
claimed her at last — he was all her own. She 
worshiped him ; his will was her law, his slight- 
est wish her delight. She lay on his breast and 
prattled like a happy child reposing after a day's 
pleasure, with hosts of lovely fancies and dain- 
ty ways to keep her from appearing puerile and 
tiresome. 

Clive Farnsworth went through the varied 
forms of agony which must have beset a man 
of passionate impulse and vivid imagination. 
Sometimes, instead of the self-loathing, he 
thought that God had dealt more harshly with 



him than he did with other men. The new 
faith taking root in his soul would lose its 
strength, and he fought in the darkness against 
fierce doubts or yielded passively to impious 
whisperings which seemed like the audible 
promptings of the Devil himself. Through the 
wearisome round of changeful feeling and back 
again — oh, the dreary circle ! And all the while 
the days went on and the bright Southern sun 
mocked him with its splendor, and Ruth clung 
fast to his hand and leaned her head upon his 
shoulder. But delicate and sensitive though 
she was, no chill smote her heart. She was so 
entirely happy there was not room for a doubt 
to come near. He had claimed her the moment 
he was permitted ; his love had been like hers. 
Besides, he was so tender of her. Here it was 
that the real strength and goodness of the man's 
soul showed itself and made him a hero, at 
least in my eyes. He not only schooled his 
face, but the very pulsations of his heart, lest 
she should be disturbed. When faith deserted 
him, and he was in the darkness with his de- 
mons, he clung unwaveringly to that one re- 
solve and acted upon it. 

The days went by rich with Southern beauty. 
They wandered about in a quaint old Florida 
city ; they drifted over the bay when the sunset 
slept gorgeous upon the waters ; they explored 
wild haunts and gloomy lagoons where the dank 
luxuriance of foliage made an oppressive splen- 
dor — always together — and to Ruth each day ap- 
peared more perfect than its predecessors. She 
loved beauty, she was quick to comprehend and 
sympathize with his artistic tastes, so that the 
hours spent in those rambles were the most en- 
durable Clive found. Among other lessons he 
must learn to live in the present moment, and 
his whole life long he had been a wild dreamer, 
wandering in ideal regions, so that the task 
was much more difficult than it would have 
been for another man. 

"I could stay here forever," Ruth said one 
day when some business letter which had fol- 
lowed him reminded Clive that sooner or 
later they must go back to the world. "I had 
forgotten that we must go away some time — 
hadn't you, Clive ?" 

" I had indeed, my little one. I just live in 
each hour as it goes by, and never think of the 
one that is to follow." 

"Because we are so happy, so content. 
Clive, do you believe other people have such 
happiness ?" 

He smiled down at her, but had no need to 
speak. 

"No other woman ever had, at least," contin- 
ued Ruth— " for she had no Clive." 

"But she had her Clive, little one." 

" It's not the same at all. There's only one 
real Clive — and he's mine. The rest are 
make-believes. Oh the poor women !" 

"My foolish Ruth." 

" But you like it— you are glad to know 
it!" 

"I like you to tell me you are happy — over 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



59 



and over again. You can never say it often 
enough, my little one." 

"And I think I say it and sing it all day 
long. O Clive, do you think I improve?" 
Her words had made her remember her lessons. 
Clive had chanced upon a good professor of 
music, and was having her natural talent for 
the accomplishment made serviceable. 

"Indeed I do; you will sing the things I 
]ik e — sweet old ballads — and your voice is like 
one of your native wood-thrushes." 

" And you'll write songs for me to sing ?" 

" I'll coin my heart in bits to give you a mo- 
ment's happiness !" he exclaimed passionately. 
It sounded like the cry of love, born out of his 
pity and his remorse that he had only pity and 
tenderness to give. 

" I must study so many things too," she went 
on ; " I'll try not to be stupid. I wish I wasn't 
a lazy little thing. You will teach me, Clive ?" 

" Whatever I can, little one." 

"I'd like to know every thing you do, dar- 
ling. I shall want to be able to understand 
those great old Greek books you used to be so fond 
of; but I know it's no use ; I haven't any appli- 
cation. But I'll try to learn little things. I'm 
not very awkward and savage, am I, dear?" 

" Look in the glass, you foolish child." 

"Yes, I know; I am handsome now, but 
that's because your beautiful eyes shine on me 
— the dear, good eyes!" And she had to 
spring up from the footstool where she nestled 
at his feet and kiss the beloved eyes, over which 
the white lids shut with a dull, heavy pain. 
Then she was back in her favorite attitude — 
her head resting on his knee, so that she could 
look iu his face. " I want to learn- — I'll try 
very hard. Where shall we live, Clive ? I 
haven't had time to think. It seemed, till you 
spoke about that letter, as if we should dream 
on here forever." 

If they only might — if he need never take up 
life again. But he knew that could not be. 
He must work too ; real, earnest employment 
would be a greater help and safeguard than any 
thing else. 

"Where would you like to live, Ruth?" he 
asked. " Would you wish to go away over the 
ocean into Italy or Spain ?" 

" It would be very lovely, but I am so afraid 
of the sea. Only I'll go anywhere you please, 
Clive." 

In certain ways a plan like that might be 
more agreeable than existence elsewhere, but 
Clive felt that it would be in a measure shirk- 
ing his duty — he must be a dreamer no longer. 

"I think, Ruth, we will go and live at my 
old country place," he said, turning resolutely 
from the impulse which came over him. 

" I should like that best of all," she replied. 

1 ' And you must encourage me to work, Ruth, 
and not think, as some women do, that it comes 
between us." 

" I never will ; I'll try not to be foolish. 
You will talk to me. If I can't follow all your 
beautiful dreams, I should like to think I know 



them and feel their power, though I may not 
understand." 

" It shall be arranged for your happiness, 
little one." 

"You are so good. Don't let me grow self- 
ish. O Clive, what will I do when I am mis- 
tress of your fine house ? I'm such a shy thing. 
Why, I shall not know how to be waited on. 
You know I have done things for myself all mv 
life." 

"You will be very quiet and not think about 
it." 

" Well, one thing— promise me one thing." 

"Yes, in advance." 

"Don't'make me have a maid as they do in 
the novels. I should be so afraid of her. I'll 
wear what you tell me, I'll try to be dignified, 
but I know the lady's maid would kill me out- 
right." 

" Then we will dispense with her and avert 
the danger," he replied with a smile. 

"Oh dear, I hadn't thought. And people 
will visit us and invite us ; and oh, I shall have 
to sit at the dinner-table. Now I am beginning 
to be afraid." 

Would people visit them ? There was a 
question. Clive Farnsworth knew, if one whis- 
per crept hissing among his friends, exactly 
what must follow. He turned from the thought 
with an inward shudder. He would do the best 
he could ; that possibility must be left alone. 

" How will I get through it ?" Ruth was say- 
ing. " Why, I don't know any thing. I never 
went to an opera, and in books people talk so 
fine." 

" My little one, you need not be afraid ; peo- 
ple are not so wonderful after all. Be perfectly- 
natural. You are graceful and pretty ; you 
talk better than half the women. There's noth- 
ing to be afraid of." 

"Just think though, Clive. I shouldn't 
know the names of the things on the table. Oh 
dear, I'm afraid I shall be horrid. You see, 
may be I'm not awkward, and I have read 
stories enough not to be quite a dunce ; but 
there are such lots of little matters — I declare, 
it frightens me to think." 

It was very'weak and contemptible to share 
her fear, and yet he did ; and though the troubles 
of which she spoke might be very trivial, they 
could have stings. 

She was graceful as a bird, and with her 
woman's quickness she learned readily, but of 
course in her humble life she could not help 
being ignorant of many things, absolutely noth- 
ing in themselves, and yet matters of importance 
since we are accustomed to remark that a man 
is ungentlemanly if he is ignorant of them, just 
as we would if he were rude or coarse. It 
seems contemptible ; but when Ruth at first oc- 
casionally forgot and put her knife to her pretty 
mouth instead of her fork, it did annoy Clive as 
much as if she had done something absolutely 
wrong ; and it would any of us. Small, miser- 
able as such fancies of which that is an example 
may be, they will disturb those accustomed to 



CO 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



what we call the habits of the world if noticed 
in any person connected with ns, and there is 
no good in denying the fact. But Clive had 
patience and she was very quick. She was for- 
tunate in having for teacher a gentleman at 
heart instead of polished manners without that 
accompaniment. 

" And you think I need not be afraid ? I 
shan't make you ashamed, dear?" Ruth asked. 

"I can't have you afraid, my child; don't 
even think about such petty matters. Be your- 
self, your real, lovely, lovable little self, and 
you will do exactly as you ought." 

" If you tell me so I shall believe it," she re- 
plied. " I won't think at all, only — " 

"Only what, Ruth?" 

She turned her face shyly away, and he could 
see the blush roses deepen in her cheeks. 

" Only that you love me, Clive. I shall not 
be afraid then." 

"That is the wisest conclusion of any," he 
replied ; " the very wisest, my little one." 

She sheltered herself closer to him, her 
nervous hands playing with a ring on one of his 
fingers, and closed her eyes to feel her still hap- 
piness to the utmost. Clive Farnsworth mean- 
while sat looking through the open window out 
on the beautiful bay which billowed softly in 
the sunshine, dotted with sails that shone golden 
in the distance, as if they had been the pinions 
of fairy barks wafting favored voyagers away 
from the dullness of earth ; sat there and looked 
out over the bright waters until some movement 
Ruth made brought him back from mournful 
thoughts, and he remembered that he had al- 
ready been giving way to the old habit of dream- 
ing, against which scarcely an hour before he 
had cautioned himself. 

"It is a lovely day," Ruth said. 

"Too lovely to waste in the house. Get 
ready, and we'll go out in the boat ; there's just 
a pleasant breeze." 

That was one of their favorite amusements. 
Clive had procured a sail-boat on their arrival, 
and as he managed it well, they enjoyed the 
trips without danger of some romantic incident 
such as being run down by a schooner or 
drowned in a sudden gale. 

"I can not believe it is December," Ruth 
said, as she sat on her pile of cushions in the 
boat, which was scudding merriby before the 
light wind. 

"December?" echoed Clive. "It is not 
possible." 

" Yes ; I have been counting." 

He did not know the time had gone so rap- 
idly. Had he gained any more courage ? he 
asked inwardly. But Ruth was unconscious of 
his self-questionings, and went on with her own 
thoughts. "You are as much surprised as I 
was. We have been so happy and so quiet, 
that is the reason. Will the days always be so 
bright, Clive ?" 

" My little one, when you know that every 
body must have some cloudy seasons!" 

"I don't believe they will come near us," 



she answered confidently. " Any way, I should 
not be afraid — I have you." 

" And they shall not come near if I can 
guard you," he replied. But he was very tired 
that morning, very tired — in a mood when her 
pretty words and her sweet evidences of affec- 
tion made him impatient, and self-reproach fol- 
lowing, caused him to be more gentle and 
guarded than ever. He allowed the boat to 
float toward a shady cove in a sweep of the bay, 
furled the sail, 2nd they drifted into the retreat 
where the great trees clad with vines and long 
floating moss made a sort of bower. In the 
distance the city shone in the light, but about 
them the stillness was unbroken save by the 
lapping of the water against the white beach, 
the rustling of the vines, or the peculiar, sharp 
shiver of the great bunches of mistletoe which 
hung with their pearly berries on each decaying 
trunk. 

" This place looks more lovely every time we 
come," said Ruth ; "I think the fairies must 
have made it just for us." 

"And it will disappear when I carry their 
queen away," replied he. 

" But we will come back some time, Clive?" 

" Oh yes, and find the bower prettier than 
ever." He drew the boat upon the sand, lifted 
her out, arranged her cushions at the foot of a 
great oak and placed her on them, throwing a 
crimson shawl down as a carpet to her feet. 

"You pet me so," she said, with her eyes a 
little moist. "I believe you think I must not 
touch the ground even." 

"Not if I can keep you in the clouds, my 
child." 

She made a pretty picture seated on her soft 
throne, with the bright draperies at her feet, the 
tree branches waving overhead, and her coun- 
tenance radiant with happiness. It was hard 
for him to look and feel its beauty with his cul- 
tivated tastes, and feel too his heart aching 
under; his thoughts in spite of himself going 
away to another face which might have watched 
him as that sweet girl did, might have been the 
recipient of as many tender cares with a delight 
in the giving, only that by his own act in the 
past he had ruined the future. But he would 
not think. It was not wicked only — it was 
weak. Here his wife was ; here his thoughts 
should centre ; and he came resolutely back. 

They had brought books and a basket of 
luncheon, as they often did on such excursions, 
which even at that season were enjoyable in the 
climate of our new world's Italy. Clive would 
not think, he could not talk just then, so he 
took up one of the tiny blue and gold volumes 
from the basket. ' ' Shall I read to you, Ruth ?" 

" Of course. Is it Tennyson ?" 

"If you like." 

" Yes ; read ' The Lord of Burleigh,' " said 
she. It was one of her favorites ; in her glad 
humility she liked to trace a resemblance be- 
tween herself and the lowly maiden so well be- 
loved by the lord of high degree. Clive sat by 
her and read the pretty romance of which she 



. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



Gl 



never wearied. "It is like you and me," she 
said — "our history — only it must not end the 
same." 

" Heaven forbid, little one." 

"No, no; you must not kill me with your 
gifts and my new splendor. After all, Clive, 
he was not like you." 

"Lord Burleigh?" 

" Yes. You would not have let her die ; you 
would have shown her your wealth was only an 
evidence of your love ; if she could live under 
the happiness of that, the weight of grandeur 
needn't have killed her." 

He looked earnestly at her ; child though she 
was in many things, her intuitions were so true, 
her fancies so poetic. Oh, he must be more 
than ever watchful lest some perception of the 
truth should thrust her beyond her childishness 
and leave her stranded on the bleak rocks, a 
desolate woman. 

The talk wandered a little, but he led it back 
to books ; it was a rest to him. He had brought 
Shelley, whom she scarcely knew yet, and he 
told her the story of his life, with its errors and 
its searchings after light, and about the woman 
who loved him so and had such genius too ; and 
then stopped suddenly, because he remembered 
the other woman — the poor abandoned first wife 
— whose memory casts the darkest shadow upon 
this poet's records. When Clive saw the tears 
in her eyes he remembered how the dew had 
softened his when he first stood beside that 
grave, years back, as he was passing out of his 
wayward boyhood. How far away that time 
looked! what gulfs lay between ! Oh, if he had 
died then and been buried under the grand arch 
of the Roman sky, how much sin and misery he 
would have been spared. 

Ruth's voice dispelled his reflections. " I 
like you to tell me such things," she said ; "your 
way is so much prettier than that of the biogra- 
phers and all those people. Nobody talks like 
Clive. I never shall forget how you told me 
that story of Hawthorne — all those years of wait- 
ing — and the beautiful light which came at last." 
Ay, there was patience — there was a life of 
waiting ! Oh, the grand soul ! One is glad to 
think, though the fame came at length, that he 
went away from its fullness to a broader exist- 
ence than his nature could have found here. 
" But I like to hear your own poetry best," said 
Ruth, " and you won't read it to me." 

" My little one— that rubbish." 

"It is not rubbish," said Ruth indignantly; 
"it is beautiful. I want you to write more." 

" I lost my verse-making ability a great while 
ago," he answered. 

"But you will write. I know your last book 
by heart. O Clive, I looked to see if— if— " 

"What, dear?" 

"There was any trace of me in it. But it 
sounded sad, and it was bitter. Poor Clive, you 
were unhappy when you wrote it. Now you 
must write another. I shall be so proud ; you 
will read me bits here and there as you write." 

Clive Farnsworth remembered the last time 



he had read an unfinished work to a woman ; 
it was his tragedy which he read to Elinor Grey, 
feeling thas he read it to a mind equal in powers 
with his own, able to appreciate, and whose sug- 
gestions were precious — the poor, unfinished 
tragedy which had been put carefully out of 
sight and would never be completed now. Yet 
he must write or plunge into politics — occupa- 
tion of some sort he must have, and that soon. 
This season of absolute quiet had been neces- 
sary, but it must not be indulged too long, or it 
would unfit him in its turn for actual duties. 

They spent several hours in their retreat, 
then took to the boat again and drifted home- 
ward through the late afternoon. While Ruth 
went obediently and diligently to her music, the 
actual labor of which she hated, Clive picked up 
the newspaper that had been brought during 
their absence, and began listlessly to read. 
Among other items he came upon one which 
gave him a start. It was a notice that the Cab- 
inet appointment had been offered the Honor- 
able Mr. Grey, and it was certain that he had 
accepted it and was soon to take up his residence 
in Washington, accompanied by his daughter, 
whose triumphs in the fashionable world were 
as well known as her father's in asothcr field ; 
and so on through long paragraphs of disgusting 
fulsomeness. You know what a thrill the sight 
of a name will sometimes give one. Clive's 
hand shook till the newspaper fairly rattled. 
Separated by the width of a world from that 
woman and never to come any nearer in this 
life — the old sorrowful truth that we write 
poetry about and read in novels and laugh over 
and sneer at, as we do at so many things sacred 
to our hearts, but retaining its truth still, always 
interesting, always new, and shall be while hu- 
man hearts beat. Clive Farnsworth threw 
down the paper and leaned on the window-sill, 
gazing into the twilight. He was thinking of 
Launcelot as he leaned over the casement, " sick 
of love and life and all things." Not that there 
was any similitude in his fate to that of the false 
knight, but the measures of the poem were yet 
ringing in his ears and ringing themselves up 
with his reflections, as such tilings do in the 
minds of people who read romances and dream 
dreams, until sometimes the records are like a 
new pain added to the actual sorrow. 



CHAPTER XIII. 



COMING HOME. 



It was almost spring before they reached New 
York, and Clive had no inclination to make a 
long stay there. During the last weeks in 
Florida he had begun to write ; the feverish ne- 
cessity had full possession of him once more, and 
lie was glad to feel the old power and quickness 
of thought return, because before that he had 
been haunted by the idea that he should never 
be able to write a line, never have a plot or an 
idea for the simplest story or poem again; and 



G2 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



nobody but one accustomed to literary exertion 
can imagine what a desolate sensation that is or 
what a weight of peevish discontent it brings. 
The Thorntons had gone to Washington, and 
Clive was not sorry ; ho wanted time still before 
he saw any one sufficiently intimate to expect 
revelations. They passed a few quiet days, but 
when they were about ready to leave, Mrs. Ilack- 
ett saw Clive one morning as he passed through 
Union Square, down which she was dashing in 
her carriage, and having unfashionably long 
sight, notwithstanding the eye-glass which hung 
to her chatelaine, she stopped her equipage and 
began beckoning to him in a frantic way. 

At first she could only exclaim and roll out 
immense words of astonishment. "I had not 
heard of your arrival," she said. 

"We are only here for a day or two," he an- 
swered, " on our way to my place. 

" Oh yes — we — happy poet. Accept my trib- 
ute of orange flowers, late as it is," she cried 
ecstatically, making a movement as if to fling a 
flowery spray upon his forehead, but it was only 
a glove she had forgotten was in her hand, which 
landed on Clive's hat. "Wedded bliss," she 
went on, taking the glove from him with beau- 
tiful unconsciousness; "how sweet thou art. 
You surprised us all so, naughty poet; you 
Apolloitcs love mystery." 

"Rut I did not mean to make one, I assure 
you." 

" I must see her — take me to her. What is 
she like ? A muse, a Clytie? And I thought 
it would be Miss Grey ! May I call to see her ? 
She worships you, of course." 

" She is a very dear, sweet child," said Clive, 
" who knows nothing about the world — " 

"A wood nymph — a Neraid!" cried she, 
plunging the wood nymph into the water with- 
out mercy. "Beautiful simplicity. Ah, if 
wo need not be so artificial ! I shall doat on 
her." 

"Yeu are very kind," said Clive ; " but you 
must let me congratulate you. I have heard 
of your success." 

" Thanks, thanks ; a trifle. You know I seek 
not Corriunian laurels — only to serve my hum- 
ble meed. Rut the world is ungrateful. No 
matter — speak no more. " She was so very tragic 
that Clive wanted to got away, and pleaded an 
engagement. She told him that as she came 
back from Stewart's she should call on his wife. 
"The world's silken fetters bind us," said she, 
" and even you and I must leave our Gregorian 
dreams when — " 

" Shopping is concerned," said he. 

" Cruel poet, to speak so frail a word ! Rut 
— vail val! I have been wandering with the 
rlassic poets since we parted. Oh, sweet age of 
Augusta, if we were but there! I only dream 
of Pope's .Kneid now, so nil.' val .'" She drove 
on, and after some thought Clive discovered that 
she meant to be Latin and say vale. In some 
of her researches among lexicons the Idol had 
picked up the word, and immediately fancied 
herself a proficient in the stately language. 



Clive postponed his business and hurried to 
the hotel to prepare Ruth for the visit, and 
laughed more than was good-natured about the 
Idol, in his wish to allay his little wife's nervous 
agitation and put her at her ease. Presently 
the Idol appeared ; the moment she caught 
sight of Ruth she swooped down upon her and 
embraced her. "My joy is mute," she cried; 
"I am a swanless voice" — getting very much 
astray in her excitement — "I greet you — I 
greet you, beautiful bride of our Columbia's 
nightingale — val! val.'" Clive had her set- 
tled in a chair at last, and Ruth forgot her 
nervousness in her wonder and a vague fear 
that this was some mad woman instead of the 
expected guest. 

"She is seraphic!" gushed the Idol, in an 
audible aside to Clive; "she is Raphaelitic! 
Oh, for a word to canonize her loveliness ! 
She is the nine muses personated — a real emu- 
lation of genius." 

They had to sit still and let her talk, and for 
a quarter of an hour she mingled praises of 
Ruth, admiration of Clive, Virgil and Venus, 
her own triumphs and fragments of news, in a 
way which was as incomprehensible to one of 
her listeners as if she had talked Sanscrit. 
"Rut duty calls," she said at length; "I must 
obey — merciless as the trumpet which summon- 
ed Hamlet. Will you dine with me to-mor- 
row? Grant me that boon out of the joyous- 
ncss of connubiality." 

"Unfortunately we are obliged to leave town 
to-morrow," Clive said; " our arrangements are 
made and we must go, sorry as I am to decline 
your invitation." 

"The loss is mine. Alas, it is a painted 
cup from which we drink ! And to-day I dine 
out — at Count de Sarictte's. I court not for- 
eign dignitaries — I am a true Columbiad, as 
you know — but duty, duty !" 

"Always your watch-word, I remember," said 
Clive. 

"It is a chime of silver bells with which I 
clasp life's burthens ! Dear lady, we shall meet 
soon. That cruel poet must not keep you con- 
cealed to waste a violet." 

Ruth looked as dazed as if she had been un- 
der a shower-bath, but managed to say that she 
hoped to meet Mrs. Ilackctt again. 

" Yes, yes, in sylvan shades, away from the 
glare of men. Oh, I know the poet's Forest of 
Ardent." 

Ruth looked so utterly helpless that Clive 
thought what a pity it was Rosa Thornton could 
not be there. 

'"But why leave the giddy twirl of town's 
vain delights, my poet?" demanded the Idol. 

"I want to work," he answered, "and I 
never can here." 

She clasped her hands in ecstasy. " I would 
not detain you ; take my good wishes for a gucr- 
dion;" and she Hung an imaginary something 
; at him. " I rejoice. I speed your flight, al- 
though it loaves us in darkness! How you 
will cull gems from flowery fields, and golden 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



V6 



ore from the dark mines of your new happi- 
ness ! Go, Apollo, you have your Cynthia with 
you." 

She rose to take her leave, and after over- 
whelming Ruth with another embrace, prepared 
to sail out under a closing period of great im- 
pressiveness— "Toil, my poet; gasp, sigh, beat 
about in the furnace of genius and bring out the 
bays ! You have your muse beside you — happy 
pair ! I shall dream of you and pine for you in the 
midst of Fashion's hollow temple — oh, val, val!" 
She swept from the room and would not allow 
Clive to accompany her down stairs, feeling that 
she could not equal that burst of eloquence, and 
unwilling to dim its shine by ordinary conversa- 
tion. 

"She isn't mad, is she, Clive?" Ruth asked 
in a whisper which completed the scene, and 
made Clive laugh more heartily than he had 
thought would ever be possible again. 

" She is one of the people you were to be 
afraid of," said he. 

" O Clive, every body can't be like her !" 

"No, dear; I think she stands alone. But 
you need not fear the others any more." 

"If they all talk as fast as she does I shall 
never have to say any thing, that is one com- 
fort," continued Ruth. "But, Clive, there must 
be some people like those in books." 

"I am a little afraid you will have difficulty 
in finding your ideals clothed in flesh and 
blood." 

"But there are, Clive. Miss Grey — she 
might be a queen, and she is so gentle. 
Clive, my heart warms when I think of her." 
Clive did not turn away or fidget with his books 
or give a grand start like a hero in a novel ; he 
sat quiet as we do in real life under such stabs 
and answered in appropriate phrases. " I should 
like to see her again. I wonder if she knows 
we are married?" pursued Ruth. 

" Undoubtedly." 

" I can't remember if she said she was ac- 
quainted with you. Clive, she was like a beau- 
tiful white angel coming to me that day." 

"My little one, you are on forbidden ground. 
Don't think of that time." 

"Only to be thankful; I must be thankful, 
Clive." 

He was silent then. 

"I wish she knew how happy I am," said 
Ruth thoughtfully ; " she would be glad. Clive, 
might I — do you think it would be wrong if I 
wrote to tell her — " 

"Wrote to Miss Grey?" 

"Yes; would it be wrong? I should like 
her to know how grateful I was for her visit — 
to tell her how happy you make me — might I, 
Clive ?" 

She went up to him and put her arm about 
his neck ; it seemed to him that he should suf- 
focate. He had never experienced a feeling so 
horrible in all his suffering from her loving 
ways. Holding him fast, she, standing there 
in the place which should have been that peer- 
less woman's ! It was horrible agony, and after 



the first blindness Clive recognized that it was 
a more horrible sin. He could not move — 
could not take her arm away — he must not 
yield even in thought to that wickedness. In 
that instant he grasped at the only help which 
offers in a need like that — the help which we 
sneer at in our modern philosophy — the Al- 
mighty Father's. Let me tell you, if you ever 
stand in a similar crisis, modern philosophy is 
as weak a stay as the old forms of infidelity ; if 
you have any hope of passing the danger, it is 
in putting away the cold, abstract idea of a 
Great First Cause and calling on Ilim who loves 
us and died for us ; and if you say that sounds 
like a Methodistical tract, why I can only say, 
God aid you when such need of him arrives. 
Clive Farnsworth did call ; his soul fairly 
shrieked in its agony, and was heard. He 
learned then that Nature is not God ; that Hu- 
manitarianism is the wretchedest lie ever palm- 
ed off on human souls eager to grasp at delu- 
sions ; that there was no strength in his boasted 
intellect and will to support him ; that it was 
something extraneous and yet within him ; his 
and yet not of him; the blessed help of the 
Crucified. 

" Shall I write to her, Clive?" 
It seemed to him that he had been a world 
away and was brought back by the sound of 
Ruth's voice. "If you like, dear; yes, by all 
means." 

He had some business which called him out, 
and he was glad to be in the fresh air ; he felt 
sick and weak from that tempest. He had 
never before realized that there could be such 
black possibilities to his nature. He had been 
brought to the pass where he could understand 
how men are led on to murder, to the fiercest 
and lowest crimes ; and it is a terrible hour to 
any soul when some turn in life sets it face to 
face with such knowledge. The next day they 
left town. It was not a long journey ; the 
greater part of it beside the beautiful Hudson, 
which charmed Ruth even in its wintry desola- 
tion. At length they took a cross-road and 
were soon at the village station which Clive 
had left months before smitten by such troub- 
le. He had dreaded this return — dreaded the 
drive along the familiar road — the places he 
had last seen witli Elinor Grey — the arrival 
home — the burden and the pain. He thought 
about it during the journey — he was prepared to 
be very wretched — and nothing happened as he 
expected, which is usually the case in this world. 
There had been some mistake and the carriage 
was not at the station, nor was there one to be 
seen, the village in the winter being so dull that 
hack-drivers retreated with their equipages to 
parts unknown. The forenoon had been warm 
and bright, and with the inconsistency peculiar 
to our climate the mercury had without warn- 
ing dropped as many degrees below zero as the 
length of the thermometer would permit it to 
go. When they entered the waiting-room there 
was scarcely a glimmer of fire in the diabolical 
close stove, and Ruth looked half frozen in spite 



G4 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



of lier wraps. There was nobody to send in 
pursuit of a stray carriage, for Clive had no 
servant with him ; the usual loungers were not 
visible, and the long, shambling, unsteady-kneed 
station -keeper had few suggestions to offer, 
and those few of the vaguest sort : " There's 
Jameses livery-stable open in the village — if he 
haint tuk his cattle over to Newburg. I heerd 
he was a talkin' that way." 

" At least try and make your fire burn so 
the lady won't freeze," said Clive wrathfully, 
"while I go and see." 

" Yaas, coal is poor stuff anyhow. I often 
says — " 

" Sit down, Ruth, and keep your furs well 
about you," said Clive, not noticing the man, 
who opened the stove-door and finished his sen- 
tence to the interior, hitting the black lumps 
aimless thrusts with the poker, which wedged 
them closer together and rendered a blaze more 
hopeless than ever. 

"Are you an idiot?" cried Clive, exploding 
at last, and snatching the poker out of his 
hands, uncertain whether to attack him or the 
fire. 

"I'm not cold, Clive," said Ruth; "don't 
mind me." 

The man had retreated at Clive's energy, but 
now his dim eyes made out who the impatient 
gentleman was. However, before giving sign of 
recognition he must wave the national flag a lit- 
tle and make the eagle scream by asserting his 
rights as an American citizen, free-born, and 
one of the rulers of the land. " We don't want 
no British lordin' doin's reound us," said he, 
with a twang which only a son of Massachusetts 
could have accomplished, " and this is the land 
of the free, 'n wc hez fires ur we hezn't jest as — " 

"Look here," interrupted Clive, "you stop 
your impertinence or you shall not keep your 
place twelve hours." 

Massachusetts dropped the star-spangled ban- 
ner and allowed the eagle to soar away, and 
stood the meekest of men. Then he began to 
do surprise, recollecting that Farnsworth was 
quite able to make his threat good, and remem- 
bering how lavishly he flung current coin about 
during his sojourns in the neighborhood. " Ef 
it ain't Square Farnsworth !" cried he, opening 
his mouth very wide and apparently divided be- j 
tween astonishment and pleasure. "Deary me ! , 
I want tu know ! I never knowed you — what 
with your bein' so wrapped up, and yer musty- 
touch longer'n ever. Deary me ! But the 
minit ye got mad I knowed the grit. Why, 
how du ye dew. Square?" 

Clive was ready to laugh at his own absurdi- 
ty, so he answered civilly that he was well. 

"I want tu know! Ben tu furrin' parts, 
and that's yer wife ? Deary me ! Wasn't sus- 
pectin' of ye afore summer. I didn't mean no 
harm o' course ; I like to be perlite. I'll fix 
the fire. That ere scape-goat of a ncphy of 
mine ort to be here, but he's never areound 'cept 
when he ain't wanted. Can't I run and git a 
carriage myself? Set down, Square ; draw up, 



mum ; be tu hum. Glad to see you back, mum, 
though mebby's it's your fust visit — " 

"Go and find a carriage, my good fellow," 
interrupted Clive. "Never mind the fire ; we 
are in a hurry." 

Massachusetts buttoned up his coat and de- 
parted, and once at a safe distance he unbottled 
his wrath. ' ' Why, yeou overbearin', outrageous, 
artisocratical cuss!" he exclaimed. "I guess 
I'm good as yeou be any day, yeou furrin-hair- 
ed, ornary critter! But never mind ! I'll hcv 
a leetle of it eout on ye. I'll take yeour money 
anyhow." 

He had scarcely departed before the lean boy 
who had often encountered Clive after bringing 
the message in the preceding summer, made his 
appearance, stretching his mouth in a grin of 
satisfaction at the sight of Farnsworth, then 
suddenly puckering it into shape for a whistle 
of surprise, which he with difficulty repressed, on 
seeing Ruth. He flew at the fire and attacked 
it vigorously, muttering uncon jilimentary re- 
marks about old Josh and his laziness, glancing 
at Clive over his shoulder, very anxious to be 
recognized and addressed. Clive remembered 
him, and thought he looked more lean and for- 
saken than ever, and spoke to him so kindly 
that the boy was in a state of ecstasy which he 
expressed by thumping the bars of the stove- 
gra£e with vigor. He was much pleased with 
Ruth's appearance, and when she smiled upon 
him and said something kind about his pains 
with the fire, he mentally vowed allegiance to 
her on the spot — from which he never faltered — 
and immediately informed her that "he wasn't 
a bad hand at fixin' flower-beds if she liked to 
muss among 'em, and he knowed where lots of 
wild flowers growed." He was so extraordina- 
rily upon his good behavior that his uncle would 
hardly have recognized him, or if he had would 
have considered his conduct only an additional 
proof of the utter depravity of his nature, hav- 
ing the habit of charitably taking for granted 
that any show of improvement in the lad was a 
cloak assumed to cover some design of unusual 
darkness and guilt. 

By the time the fire began to display signs of 
vitality a carriage drove up and Massachusetts 
opened the door of the waiting-room. " Here 
we be, Square, all right ! Lovely day — a leetle 
cold, mebby. This way. mum, this way — wife, 
I s'pose, Square ? Yes, he'arn yeou was mar- 
r'ed — yes." 

His graceless nephew got close to him and 
whispered audibly, "I say, the fool-ketcher's 
round this mornin' ; you better look out or he'll 
be after you." 

"The wust boy that ever growed up as I 
may say under the droppin's of the sanctuary," 
said Massachusetts, in his prayer-meeting whine. 
" Don't notice him, mum ; he's a sore affliction 
tew me and tew his aunt. He makes a pair 
of Jobscs of us indeed." 

"A precious bad job you be," muttered Tad. 

Clive thrust some money into the man's hand 
and led Ruth on toward the carriage, regardless 



of his exclamations — "'Taint no matter, 
ain't one as duz fur money — " 

"Oh, my eye !" cut in Tad. 

' ' Glad teW see yeou . back, Square," he con- 
tinued, darting a vengeful look at his nephew. 
" Like tew see the raal supporters of the country 
a rallyin' reound." 

" O, Lord !" said Tad. 

"Yeou wicked, onnat'ral, pervicious young 
Varmint!" exclaimed the uncle. "Yeou'repast 
bearin' with." 

" Go it," sajd Tad ; " cuss in your turn — it's 
swearin' when I do it, but its religion with you 
— call me a devil, do." 

" Drive on," shouted Clive, anxious to get be- 
yond the sound of their voices ; and the carriage 
rattled away, leaving the pair to pursue their 
interchange of compliments at their leisure. 

Clive was so fretted by the delay and the 
worry and the man's insolence and the fear that 
ltuth was perishing with cold, although she as- 
sured him she was not, that he was carried over 
the familiar road without remembering to look 
out and be thrilled by old sights. The carnage 
turned in at the gates and they dashed up the 
avenue where the leafless maples sighed and 
moaned in the wind, and Ruth, silent and breath- 
less, gazed at her new home which seemed so 
stately and grand. Long before the Revolution 
the dwelling had been built by one of Clive's 
ancestors, and it had been remodelled and added 
to according to the caprice of after-possessors, al- 
though with sufficient taste and judgment to 
leave it a very imposing mansion ; and most won- 
derful of ail in this land of change, was the fact 
that a lineal descendant of the original proprie- 
tor claimed it still. 

"Home at last. Welcome home," said Clive 
as he lifted her from the carriage. The noise 
of the wheels had brought the housekeeper and 
half a dozen servants to the door, and in the 
bustle of their apologies and his desire to de- 
posit Ruth close to a good fire, Farnsworth's 
actual arrival passed without any strong emo- 
tion whatever. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR 

I 



CHAPTER XIV. 



ELINORS WINTER. 



Elinor Grey found a temporary relief from 
the loneliness and weariness which had taken 
the zest out of her life in the interest of ar- 
ranging their new home and settling every de- 
tail so that it might be in keeping with her father's 
fastidious tastes. They had leased a commodious 

house which was fortunately vacated at that j ducive to boredom, she rather ignored his mag 
time by some foreign diplomat recalled to his | nanimous intentions in her behalf. It was 
land of guttural voices, and as it was partially some time before he could admit such an idea ; 
furnished the task of getting comfortably estab- he thought it must be Yankee shyness, or he- 
lished was not unpleasant. Only Elinor did tried to think that, wondering all the while that 



over the yellow gorgeousness which had been 
Madame's boudoir. But the great furniture 
boxes which had accompanied them over the 
sea were brought on and unpacked, and the 
dwelling was soon sufficiently complete and lux- 
urious to satisfy even Mr. Grey, whose require- 
ments in that line were not slight. That done, 
Elinor sat down and let the world revolve about 
her as it was very happy to do, and tried not to 
feel the tired, desolate sensation creeping slowly 
back, and the dull, dissatisfied ache troubling 
her heart. She took her fancies sorely to task 
for their folly; she repeatedly told herself that 
there was no reason in such complaints, that 
she was ungrateful and stupid ; and did her best 
to please her father by making their home the 
centre of all that was bright and agreeable ; but 
it was hard work notwithstanding. 

"It must be because I am growing old," said 
Elinor ; " it must be that, " and she convinced her- 
self for the moment that she had found the real 
cause, and looked upon her age as something 
immense, with girlhood wholly faded out of sight. 
Certainly there was nothing fresh or exhilarating 
in the round of Cabinet dinners, where the elder- 
ly fellows paid her lengthy compliments and 
their wives looked stately as became their sta- 
tion ; the receptions at the houses of the foreign 
dignitaries, where mustached murderers of 
English made loud lamentations because, duty 
had cast them on America's savage shore; and 
outside the rush and whir of the native set 
gathered from the four quarters of the land, al- 
ways noisy, always rushing after something new, 
but at least possessing the virtue of good na- 
ture. Yes, it was tiresome, but it must be borne, 
and Elinor was sensible enough to bear it grace- 
fully. 

Leighton Rossitur placed himself among the 
chief in her circle, possessing the advantage of 
previous acquaintance, and the greater one of 
being an unusually agreeable man, and knowing 
how to make the best use of the facilities offered 
by his connection with her father. 

Elinor speedily disgusted an Englishman with 
a handle to his name and a pair of very long 
whiskers, an impediment in the way of pro- 
nouncing the letter r, and a general resemblance 
to Lord Dundreary in dress and manner, who' 
had been attracted by her appearance and was 
condescending enough to feel something within 
his dilapidated bosom which he called his "hawt " 
quite upset by her, " yaas, by Jove L" 

"My daughter Elinor" had seen lords and 
baronets enough to lose the republican craving 
after every thing that owns a title ; and finding 
unmitigated and unadulterated Dundreary con- 



wonder that any woman could have borne life 
while obliged to walk over such carpets as dis- 



any woman not a daughter of Albion could be 
so smilingly frozen ; then he pulled his whiskers 



played their huge patterns in the drawing-rooms, and stood in petrified astonishment as the truth 
and shuddered as any blonde would have done I forced itself upon him. 
E 



GG 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



" She must be mad, you know," he remarked 
in confidential intercourse with a brother island- 
er connected with the legation; "quite mad. 
It's something incomprehensible, by Jove ! They 
wouldn't believe it at home — aw — now weally. 
What would Lady Mary say ?" And his compatri- 
ot, a jolly young fellow, delightful in many ways 
as a well-born, well-bred young Englishman 
thoroughly healthy in mind and body can be, 
told the whole story to Elinor, being a great 
ally of hers, and they laughed more than Lady 
Mary would have approved, and Dundreary did 
not recover from his stupefaction during the en- 
tire season. 

"But it's all a bore and you don't care about 
it," said Leighton Rossitur one evening as he led 
her away, from a group of men of which she had 
been the centre, to the disgust of numberless 
damsels who sat partnerless, wondering if they 
had been invited to General's Mansfield's ball 
for the express purpose of ornamenting the walls 
and looking at that Miss Grey flirt in an out- 
rageous manner. "It's all a bore and you don't 
care about it," said Leighton Rossitur in his 
abrupt way, which was odd and graceful and he 
knew it, as they stood waiting for space on the 
crowded floor to make two turns of the dashing 
waltz which the military band played with such 
spirit. 

"What is a bore ?" said Elinor. 

" Every thing — every body. Do you include 
me?" 

" I have not said a word. You shall include 
yourself if you like." 

"But I don't like," said Rossitur. " Just say 
you don't, please." 

"Very well — I will just say it."' 

"But you will think — Why, those eccen- 
tric mortals have changed to that glorious gal- 
op — it is no time to think." 

They flew down the room to the exhilarating 
measures which would have made a dancing 
dervish of Saint Augustine if he could have 
heard them, and when they were both breathless, 
Rossitur begged her to sit in a. shady corner 



of her ostrich plumes. "What was that?" 
she asked in a mysterious whisper. 

" What does she mean ?" queried he, not 
afraid of her hearing, since the last trump would 
scarcely have been audible unless Gabriel had 
blown an extra blast directly in her ear. " Has 
she been listening to me ? She couldn't hear, 
though." 

"What did you say it was?" repeated the 
old lady, her plumes shaking on her eager head. 
" What did General Mansfield say ?" Rossitur 
looked and saw the General standing a quarter 
of a mile off, more or less, talking to a lady, 
and, by his bent head, evidently talking in a low 
tone at that. 

" Did he say we'd have a war with Mexico ?" 
questioned the old lady. 

" Or Bagdad," shouted he in her ear. 

She nodded, quite satisfied, but of course not 
having understood a word. 

" I thought so," said she, looking as wise as 
a magpie, and retired into the chaotic domain 
of her thoughts. 

Rossitur went back to his conversation. 
"Do I bore you?" he asked at last. "Am I 
the most egotistical man you ever met ?' 

" You ought to know you gratify one of the 
chief weaknesses of female nature by talking 
freely about yourself." 

" Do I ? You see I am absurdly impulsive ; 
but one can so seldom talk honestly. I have 
unconsadously fallen into the habit witli you, 
and it is very nice. Some day you Mill be 
tired of it, and I shall be alone again." That 
would have been sentimental and foolish, only 
he said it as if half laughing at himself. 

"But you will have your ambition still," said 
Elinor. 

"Without any sun to shine on it," he an- 
swered in his gravest voice. "Don't grow 
tired, Miss Grey." 

" I am not yet, at all events ; we will not an- 
ticipate unpleasant possibilities." 

"It is better not," he replied. He knew ho 
had gone far enough for that moment, and he 



which he espied, noting, with his quick eye for had the wisdom to stop. "May I ride with 



seizing the advantage, that there was nobody 



vou to-morrow ?" he asked. " I know you go 



near except a deaf old woman who always would out on horseback every fine day." 

go to balls, people said, whether she was invited 

or not, and who always sat in shady nooks 

staring vacantly at the crowd, and occasionally 

asking questions of those who came within reach 

as to what a group of persons at an impractica- 



' If I ride, certainly ; but how do you know 
it will be fine ?" 

"Because you have promised me a pleas- 
ure." 

"Now you are going back to your pretty 



ble distance were saying, declaring she had speeches." 
missed the point of their remarks. Rossitur i " Was that a pretty speech ? Dear me, it is 
persuaded Miss Grey to sit down there, and ; habit— comes of being naturally poetical." 
while they rested he talked. He had reached) "They have finished that galop," said Eli- 
a standing-place from which lie could talk to her j nor. " Please to take me into civilized society 
about himself, which was a great length gained, again." 

He told her of his wishes, his aspirations, and " How ungrateful ! Nevermind; I see Dun- 
showed nobly ; and she liked to listen, and they dreary lying in wait for you; I shall be 
talked longer than was discreet, considering avenged." 



that other people had eyes and tongues too ; nor 
was that unpleasant to Mr. Rcssitur 



" Oh, then take me the other way." 

"But see; the next dance is a quadrille," 



The old deaf woman leaned over suddenly said he, glancing at his card. " Just shock pro- 
and almost put Rossitur's left eye out with one priety by standing up with me." 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



07 



"Treachery; when I have no chaperon but 
a male one, and am on my good behavior." 

"But it's so nice to reward one's virtue by 
doing wrong." 

" I can't have the pleasure unfortunately, 
for I am engaged to — let me see to whom — Gen- 
eral Mansfield," she added, looking down her 
little tablet. 

"And he really is too pleasant an elderly 
body to disappoint." 

" He is not an elderly body. Take me to 
him." 

As they rose, the deaf old lady, who had 
been sitting upright as a post since her last at- 
tack, caught Rossitur by the arm. "Isn't the 
President coming?" she asked. 

" If he had sent me an intimation of his au- 
gust designs, I'd tell her," said he. " What 
shall I say ?" 

"Poor soul ! it is of no use to say any thing." 

" Did you tell her he had gone to Utah ?" 
exclaimed the deaf female, who was watching 
them suspiciously. 

Rossitur shook his head. 

"What did you say so for, then?" she de- 
manded with acerbity. 

"I think she is inclined to be belligerent to- 
night," said Rossitur. 

" Don't laugh. I wish she would stay at 
home; it is painful." Elinor nodded and 
smiled at her. 

"Did you say supper?" cried the old lady, 
jumping up with alacrity. 

Elinor shook her head in her turn. 

" Did you say they weren't going to have 
any ? Never heard of such a thing ! Why, 
the General ought to be ashamed." 

It was a hopeless task to attempt to enlighten 
her mind, so they left her, but as they turned 
away they could hear her mutter — "No sup- 
per ! The President gone to Utah ? I won't 
be a Mormon, for one ! Supper — Utah — Presi- 
dent — " Her voice was lost in the distance, 
but there she sat shaking her head till the 
feathers on it nodded like the plumes upon a 
hearse, as if she were the funeral of her own 
youth, and waiting till a break in the crowd 
should permit her to pursue her journey. 

Elinor went through her quadrille with the 
gallant old General, who was stately enough to 
have danced a minuet with Madame Maintenon, 
and so simple and natural, in spite of'his mar- 
tial honors, that she liked him exceedingly. 
At its conclusion a Western Congressman as- 
sailed her, and when she declined to dance he 
girned at her — the old Scotch word alone will 
express his look — and remembering that he had 
a vote and that she might chance to want it for 
something sometime, with the customary du- 
plicity of her sex she talked so agreeably to him 
for a few moments that he was appeased and 
afterward pronounced her — "Considerable 
shakes. She looks very stand-offish, but she's 
good grit and she knows what's what." Artful 
Elinor had praised his maiden speech, of which 
she had never heard a word, and was uncon- 



scious he had made until he told her. I don't 
exactly know how the recording angel manages 
about the little lies even the best women tell, 
but I know it is ten to one he will be proved in 
the wrong somehow, and they will slip grace- 
fully past Saint Peter in spite of him. 

Dundreary came and " aw'd " at Elinor, and 
his English friend came and ridiculed him in 
order to do his duty in the amicable relation- 
ship. After they had departed a French tiger 
connected with the embassy tripped up on his 
toes and put his sticky mustache nearer her face 
than he ought, as French tigers will, and fan- 
cied himself fascinating when he was only silly 
and insolent. I think she suffered next from a 
hard-breathing Austrian, who spoke many lan- 
guages and made them all incomprehensibly 
Teuitch. Then a waif from the Youth of New 
York pranced about her; a knot of dismal old 
Senators followed, and Elinor did her duty 
bravely. Meanwhile numberless women, who 
found society a waste peopled with un apprecia- 
tive monsters, glared at her and abused her, and 
liked her when she talked to them notwith- 
standing; and Elinor went through the round 
and felt herself a slave. 

At last Leighton Rossitur could come back, 
and they had a few more pleasant moments and 
another little talk, and Elinor in secret admit- 
ted that what enjoyment the evening possessed 
she owed to him. Night after night it was the 
same, and she was learning to depend more 
and more upon him to make such festive scenes 
endurable, and wise Rossitur knew it and bided 
his time and kept sufficiently composed to 
weave his plans and carry them out. He rode 
out with her the next morning and made him- 
self a delightful companion. Looking at him 
with his radiant face, Elinor remembered their 
first meeting, and wondered that she could 
have deemed his an unpleasant countenance, 
and thrust that earliest intuition further into 
obscurity, as we all do such warnings, in order 
that we may blunder on to annoyance and 
trouble. When she returned home she was in 
unusually good spirits from the effects of the 
fresh air and that agreeable talk, and her father 
being out, she had a long season to read and be 
quiet before it was time to dress for dinner. 
At least she told herself that she was going to 
read — that she never had leisure now except for 
novels, and it would not answer. She could 
not easily settle herself to any thing, however, 
and began various little tasks and finished none 
of them, and wasted a long half-hour over a 
stand of hyacinths in full bloom, intoxicating 
her senses with the delicious perfume until 
she felt like one of Tennyson's lotus-eaters. 
Straightway on becoming conscious that she felt 
thus, she rushed to the other extreme, with the 
usual inconsistency of dreamers. Back came 
the loneliness, and she sat down by the fire to 
pity herself or call herself bad names, according 
to the changes of her mood. Again Leighton 
Rossitur's face rose before her, and she was glad 
to think about him ; he was genial, open, and 



68 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR 



clever; yes, she was very glad she knew him. 
She would not call herself desolate any longer 
since she had her father to pet, and this man 
told her how precious her sympathy was to him, 
and how much he needed her counsels to keep 
him straight on the crooked paths of political 
life. 

In those days Elinor Grey turned resolutely 
from thoughts of the past summer, and flattered 
herself it was because in her strength its records 
had become of no importance, and was willfully 
deaf and blind to any thiug which might have 
undeceived her. 

Her maid looked in with an intimation that 
Miss Grey was still in this sublunary sphere 
and must dress for dinner, at which there would 
be eight guests, according to Mr. Grey's habit 
of a Tuesday. 

" Yes," said Elinor; " I had forgotten about 
it;" and she felt Tuesdays and dinners and 
eight people bores that ought to be swept out 
of existence. "Never mind — I'll wear any 
thing, Coralie." But Coralie looked so horri- 
fied that the woman rose in Elinor. "No, I'll 
not," said she; "I'll wear that new dress that 
is between moonlight and silver; and cut those 
lovely white hyacinths for my hair; one must 
make sacrifices. Not an ornament. And I'll 
look well, Coralie ; make me handsome, please." 

Coralie told her in voluble French that she 
was spared the trouble ; and, after her mistress 
was dressed, vowed that the attire had been an 
inspiration, nothing less. The gown was a 
wonderful shade. I don't know how or why, 
but there was a moonlight look about it which 
was entrancing. Miss Grey looked at herself 
in the mirror and put away her visions, like a 
sensible woman, until she should see if her 
toilette was perfect. " It's all stupid, Coralie," 
said she, " and one is a slave ; but one needn't 
be a fright, you know." 

" Je crois Men que non. To look well — voila, 
le grand devoir dune fern me, v cried Coralie. 

By way of fulfilling her devoir to the utmost, 
Elinor changed her mind about the jewels, took 
up an odd ornament — a narrow black onyx 
, necklace, exquisitely cut, with a knot of pearls 
to clasp it — hung that about her throat, and, 
while Coralie uttered ejaculations expressive of 
her admiration and delight, turned away satis- 
fied. She was gorgeous— that is what she was, 
and I will write it — she looked like a picture, 
as a woman can who has a genius for dress, and 
the woman who has not ought to curse her stars 
and seek a speedy death. 

Elinor went down to the library and found 
her father, and the pair secretly admired each 
other as relations seldom can do, we not being 
yet near enough the millenium for lions and 
lambs and other unpleasant beasts to dwell 
amicably in the same fold. Mr. Grey was un- 
usually complacent and sunny. He had re- 
ceived news from Wall Street that day ; the 
Bull was carrying his burdens bravely and put- 
ting out the eyes of the envious Bears with the 
dust he raised. Besides this cause for content- 



ment, there had been a Cabinet meeting, and a 
plan Mr. Grey had at heart for his country's 
good had been smiled upon ; if it succeeded, 
he would be rewarded by new popularity. 
Naturally, with every thing so well disposed, he 
could throw aside the cares of State and the 
private ventures, and be prepared to enjov him- 
self. 

"I almost forgot to tell you, my daughter 
Elinor," he said, after she had asked about the 
proceedings of the conclave, and learned that 
his opinions had been received as they ought ; 
"Mr. De Forest is quite ill, and can't dine with 
us." 

"We ought to have had somebody," she re- 
plied ; "you know you hate a gap at table, papa." 

"Yes, I always expect some Banquo to step 
in and take it. To guard against such intru- 
sion I did an impertinent thing by Mr. Ros- 
situr." 

"You, papa?" 

" I, my daughter Elinor. I met him as I 
came away from the White House. I told him 
of De Forest's inconsiderate attack, and begged 
him to take pity on us." 

"Did he accept?" 

"He was good-natured enough to say that 
he looked on De Forest's quinsy as a special in- 
terposition of the gods." 

"I am glad," said Elinor; "he is very 
agreeable." 

"And thorough -bred," added Mr. Grey. 
" Nine young men out of ten would have stood 
on their dignity and been sulky." 

"But Mr. Rossitur is not at all a common 
man." 

"Indeed, no; I have great hopes of him. I 
do not know any man who could have satisfied 
me so thoroughly in the post he holds." In 
the distance, Mr. Grey saw where, if his plans 
were successful, exigencies might arise in which 
Leighton Rossitur could be very useful; but he 
did not say that, the palace of Truth having 
been left in too ruinous a condition by long- 
forgotten generations to be a habitable domicile 
in this age. He paid more compliments to the 
absent, not repeating what he had said — he 
never bored you by saying a thing over and 
over because it was good once — and Elinor was 
encouraged in the opinions she had formed. 

The guests arrived, mostly Mr. Grey's set of 
men ; one woman whom Elinor chose with rare 
discretion as a support, neither too young nor 
too old, and who lighted well ; and Leighton 
Rossitur. " I have been wondering for what 
unknown good deed the Fates are rewarding 
me," he said, as he made his salutations. "So 
much happiness in one day is bewildering." 

" Does your conscience reproach you with not 
deserving it?" 

"You ought to know that undeserved things 
are always sweetest." He had no opportunity 
to talk to her then. Dinner was announced, 
and General Mansfield came to lead her away. 
Rossitur wished the venerable hero liad been 
asleep for twenty years under a monument 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



G'J 



reared by a grateful country, of such weight 
that there would be no possibility of his getting 
out and straggling along to dinners to be in the 
way of younger men. This Elinor Grey be- 
witched him to-night. As he stood by her, the 
delicious fragrance of the hyacinths fairly diz- 
zied his brain. First he could only sit at table 
and watch her, peerless and cold, with such 
flashes of beauty kindling her face when some 
chance word animated her. He looked at her, 
and he drank several glasses of rare wine which 
Mr. Grey had brought back from the South of 
France, and felt his spirits rise to the occasion. 
Seizing the opportunity he talked, and talked 
so well that the gray-beards listened, but he was 
careful not to overdo it. 

Looking at Elinor through the warm light, 
with the hyacinths clustering in her hair, and 
her complexion more pure than ever from the 
silvery sheen of her dress, it seemed to him that 
the scent of the blossoms and not the wine ex- 
hilarated him, and he yielded to the spell as his 
sensuous nature loved to yield to such emotions, 
kept above the region of coarseness by his deli- 
cate perceptions. 

Miss Grey was glad to see his success among 
those men whose opinions could be priceless to 
him. Presently, with a woman's tact, she gave 
him another opportunity, and by artful prolong- 
ing? of the conversation made it appear that he 
was obliged to answer, so that the gray-beards 
could not censure him as a forward youngster, 
but admired his brilliancy, and after they had 
gone, remembered Leighton Rossitur and proph- 
esied great things of him. 

Satisfied with her small triumph, Elinor made 
a sign to her lady companion, and they retired 
to sip coffee in feminine solitude. When the 
dreary little interlude was over and it was time 
for the men to follow, Miss Grey went up to her 
own room a moment — what for, do you think? 
To take the hyacinths out of her hair and re- 
place them with two other odorous clusters which 
she cut remorselessly from their stems, not to be 
deterred by their piteous quivers, which some- 
times, when she was fanciful, would have 
touched her like complaints of her cruelty. She 
had a passion for flowers, and she would scarcely 
give away a blossom to any body, but to-night 
she had willed to sacrifice that sentiment, and 
if she wore natural blooms they should be per- 
fectly fresh. All of which was a very pret- 
ty specimen of female nature and speaks vol- 
umes. 

Leighton Rossitur coming into the drawing- 
room, found her more fascinating than ever, 
and the heavenly odor of the hyacinths stung 
his senses with such delicious keenness that it 
was well the gray-beards were there, and well 
that he had before long to go off to some stupid 
person's stupid reception, else he might have 
been rash and said or done, Heaven knows 
what. " I am glad I have to go," he observed, 
with an abruptness which was entirely different 
from other people's efforts in that line, inas- 
much as it had a purpose and was made the 



support for pretty speeches he could not have 
uttered so effectively in any other way. 

"Your candor is charming," Elinor replied 
with a laugh. 

"The scent of those hyacinths bewilders 
me," he replied. " I couldn't trust myself near 
you another moment. I feel like one of Tenny- 
son's lotus-eaters." 

The very sensation she had experienced that 
morning. How odd it was this man seemed 
so frequently to have a clue to her feelings, or 
thoughts in common with hers. She was liking 
him to-night and had been pleased at his success, 
yet as this idea came over her she was dissatis- 
fied. "You shall have a cup of strong coffee 
to take away the effects," said she, "and get 
your brain steady." 

He took a cup from the tray a servant pre- 
sented. "The worst remedy in the world," 
replied he ; " it goes with perfumes and Eastern 
dreams and white flowers and silvery dresses 
and all sorts of bewildering things." 

" You will be able to dance the whole night 
then." 

"It is cruel of you to disappoint Mrs. Ames ; 
I know she expects you and will consider her 
evening a failure." 

" I was at her last reception ; she must have 
a little conscience, I should think." 

" Not a trace of one, I fancy. You are quite 
sure you won't come?" 

" Quite. I am not going out when I can 
have General Mansfield all to myself." 

" He that ought to have been a memory ages 
ago," said Rossitur. " Oh, I am so sorry." 

" That he is not a memory ?" 

" No, that I asked you to ride to-day." 

" You have my thanks. Why, if you please ?" 

" Because if I had not I could have asked to 
join you to-morrow." 

" But I am not going to ride. I am going to 
the Capitol library to hunt for a book papa 
wishes to consult." 

" And I am obliged to go there to copy some- 
thing — it isn't a make-believe. Now I can 
live till then. Good-bye. I wonder if the 
hyacinths will make me dream?" 

After every body was gone and Elinor Grey 
had bidden her father good-night, she looked 
about a little to see whither this acquaintance 
with Leighton Rossitur was leading. She 
speedily decided that she was tired and could 
not think ; besides, though he sought her con- 
stantly, and talked freely, he had so conducted 
himself that she could console her mind with be- 
lieving she was his friend and that he was glad 
to stand on such ground ; and she did not try to 
think anv more. 



CHAPTER XV. 

MRS. PIFFIT APPEARS. 

About this time the Thorntons came on to 
make their promised visit, and Elinor had less 



70 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



opportunity for thought in the quiet house be- 
tween coming home from balls and going to bed, 
which was very well for her, many things con- 
sidered. Still, although she was glad to have 
her friends there, the dressing-room chats and 
the mysterious midnight conclaves with Rosa 
were not always so acceptable to Elinor as they 
had been during the moonlight summer nights ; 
but Elinor did not reason about it. When, as 
often happened, it was much nearer dawn than 
midnight on their return from what Tom called 
saltatory expeditions, and ho in his marital 
cruelty insisted on driving his female dove into 
her nest without loss of time lest she should he 
fit for nothing except crossness on the morrow, 
and Rosa was forced away pouting, Elinor could 
not be sorry, but she told herself it was only be- 
cause she liked to see Tom thoughtful and ten- 
der of his blossom after these long years of 
marriage. 

One morning when Mr. Grey had gone to his 
post and Tom was teasing his wife and Elinor 
with endless last words before getting out of 
sight as a discreet man does remove himself 
from his womankind at such seasons, faithful 
old Hungarian Henry, who made the house a 
paradise by his punctuality and ruled the serv- 
ants with a rod of iron, opened the door and 
approached his mistress with a puzzled and 
ruffled look which gave him a ludicrous resem- 
blance to a turkey-cock. "I beg your par- 
don, Mademoiselle," he said, "but there's the 
strangest woman in the hall. She wants to see 
my master, and if he is out she insists on seeing 
you ; and she has seated herself and will not go 
away on any terms." 

"What is her name?" Elinor asked. 

"I beg pardon, but I could not catch it. 
There she is ; says she has a letter, and vows she 
will stay." 

" Shall I go and look at her?" Tom asked. 

"No," returned Elinor, "I'll go. Some pe- 
titioner — " 

"Let her come up," interrupted Rosa; "I 
know she'll be fun. Strong-minded women 
that sit down in peoples' halls and won't go away 
are always fun." 

"Very well," said Elinor; "show her up, 
Henry." 

" But, Mademoiselle, she is very odd," expos- 
tulated Henry. 

"So much the better," cried Mrs. Thornton. 
" You can stand outside and keep watch, Henry, 
if your mistress is in danger." 

Henry bowed low and departed, but he looked 
disapproval — he must consult his conscience so 
far. Presently a loud wheezing and sharp ex- 
clamations could be heard from the hall. ' ' This 
way, eh ? I knew she'd see me ! Comes of for- 
eign servants — pah ! Why can't people be 
Americans?" 

" Piffit, I'd stake my life !" whispered Tom. 

Henry threw open the door, and Tom's prophe- 
cy was verified. In trotted Mrs. Piffit, wearing 
the plaid cloak, a new and wonderful bonnet on 
her head, and the green umbrella under her 



*> 



arm. "How do you do, Miss Grey?" she be- 
gan at once, squinting and sniffing with all her 
might. "Which is Miss Grey? I'm so short- 
sighted. Nasty foreigner wouldn't let me up — 
hate foreigners — wonder you have them about." 

"Did you wish to see me, Madam?" Elinor 
asked politely, rising and going toward Piffit, 
who had caught her hoop against a chair, and in 
her efforts to dislodge it, was displaying a great 
deal of ankle, a drab worsted stocking, three 
petticoats of different lengths, and a long yellow 
string which held her together somewhere. 

"Yes, if you're Miss Grey. Caught my hoop 
— hateful things — " 

"Let me help you," said Elinor. 

"No, its all right now," replied Mrs. Piffit, 
giving the chair a vicious push against a mosaic 
table and settling her draperies with a pull. 
"Yes, you're Miss Grey. Remember you — saw 
you at the meeting — great failure. I'd have 
noticed you though." 

"May I ask your business with me ?" Elinor 
| asked, very courteously, but desirous of recall- 
ing her visitor to some sense of what was proper 
under the circumstances. 

" My business isn't exactly with you," return- 
ed Mrs. Piffit, squinting horribly; "it's with 
your father. I've got a letter of introduction — 
from Mr. Holly, the editor." 

"My father is at the Department," said 
Elinor. 

"So the men told me, "replied Mrs. Piffit. 
" Always like to find out things for myself — serv- 
ants lie so — foreigners worst of all — wonder 
you have 'em." 

"I have no doubt you will find my father 
there," continued Elinor. 

"It's no matter," said the unheeding Piffit; 
"I'll tell you about it. Sit down — don't let 
me keep you standing." She seated herself as 
she spoke in a large easy-chair, leaned her um- 
brella against the arm, pulled the flat reticule 
from under her cloak and laid it in her lap. 
By this time, with much squinting and sniff- 
ing she became conscious of the presence of the 
Thorntons. "Your friends, Miss Grey — saw 
them with you at the meeting. Introduce me, 
please." 

"How do you do, Mrs. Piffit?" said Tom, 
before Elinor had decided how to act, rising and 
making a grand bow; "I am happy to meet 
you again." 

" You're very polite," said Piffit, and suffered 
a smile to soften the disdainful sniff she could 
not help giving when any thing masculine ad- 
dressed her. "How is your wife ?" 

" Thank you," said Rosa ; " I am quite well." 

" I suppose you think it's odd, Miss Grey, for 
me to come like this," said Mrs. Piffit; "but 
von see I've a letter for your father — from Mr. 
Holly—" ' 

"The editor," added Tom. 

" Every body knows that," she snapped. " I 
thought I'd like to tell you all about it, Miss 
Grey. He's in hiding — but I'll find him — I'll 
expose him as sure as he's a nasty, dirty man." 



MY DAUGHTEK ELINOR. 



71 



"Mr. Holly?" Tom asked. 

"No; he's well enough — for a man — pays 
regularly. Can't you understand?" cried Fiffit 
wrathfully. " Of course you can't — men never 
can ! Why her husband — he ought to be ashamed 
of himself — let me catch him." 

"I think you have not told us of whom you 
are speaking," said Elinor, wisely deciding that 
it would be absurd to treat the woman as she 
deserved. 

" Haven't I? I've been so hurried — only got 
here last night," said Mrs. Piffit. " What nasty 
places these Washington hotels are. I'm at the 
National — say it's the best, and as she pays my 
expenses — she couldn't do less, you know." 

" I should think not indeed," responded Tom. 

" Oh, yes," retorted Piffit ; "that's just like 
men — as long as a woman pays they don't care 
what one nor how much. I don't do such things 
for money, Miss Grey — any body'll tell you 
that — but I'm always ready to help my sex and 
be after those men." It was true that Piffit was 
only too happy to have an opportunity of plung- 
ing into a quarrel of any description if she could 
hear of one anywhere within reach. "I want 
to do my duty," said she ; " I'm a Presbyterian." 

" But who is this man ?" Rosa asked. 

"Why her husband, to be sure. Of course, 
if she wasn't what she ought to be I shouldn't 
interest myself in her." 

"What has he done ?" Tom inquired. 

" Oh, done ! Every thing atrocious he could, 
what men are always doing — the brute ! Now 
he's got the money she'd laid away, and here he 
is in Washington — we heard that day before 
yesterday. But I'll find him — I'd do it if he 
was fathoms deep in hiding." She crossed her 
hands over her cloak — the shortness of her arms 
prevented her folding them — squinted defiantly, 
and sent out a little cloud of steam in her en- 
ergetic sniffs. 

"I think he is not hidden here," said Rosa. 
"I should have discovered him if Miss Grey 
had any recreant husband secreted." 

"Oh, that's a joke," returned Mrs. Piffit." 
"He, he! I like a joke as well as any body. 
Of course, I didn't suppose he was here, but I 
wanted to see you, Miss Grey, because I've the 
letter for your father — you might just hand it to 
him." She clutched her reticule, opened it with 
a snap, and began turning over the heterogene- 
ous contents — papers, bits of sticky candy, sev- 
eral worn pencils, a pair of spectacles, a black 
stocking, a shoe-lace, and at last a ruffled night- 
cap, which she thrust hastily under her cloak with 
a glance and a sniff at Tom. During the whole 
operation she kept muttering, " For your father 
— introduction letter — from Mr. Holly, the edit- 
or. I'll find him as sure as he's a nasty man — 
in hiding indeed !— Oh, here's the letter!" she 
exclaimed, fishing it up from the bottom of the 
chaotic heap. " Here it is— it's all right." 

She laid the letter on the table beside her and 
began cramming the other articles back in her 
reticule. " I'm very orderly," said she ; "al- 
ways my way — one thing at a time." She snap- 



ped the bag together and hung it over ber arm 
and snatched the letter — she always snatched and 
always jerked. " Now, Miss Grey, if you'll give 
this to your father — an introduction — from Mr. 
Holly, the editor — I'm Mrs. Piffit, the writer — 
every body knows me — you'll tell him about it." 

"Perhaps if you have a letter for my father 
you had better send it to his Bureau," said Eli- 
nor; " he transacts all business there." 

"Of course I have one — here it is!" cried 
Mrs. Piffit. "No, you take it— that's better. 
I hate those Bureaus — so many understrappers 
about — unless you'd go with me? May be if 
you are not busy you'd put on your bonnet and 
step round." 

Elinor politely pointed out the impossibility 
of her " stepping round " that morning. 

"Then I'll leave it here," said she ; " he can 
read it, and I'll come in again. I shall stay a 
week or two, I think. I must find him. I 
thought I'd like to go into Congress and get up 
an article for the paper, you know ; and there's 
several things I want to learn about. What 
made the Senate drop that bill for homesteads, 
and why doesn't the President go ahead with 
his policy?" 

"They haven't told me," said Tom, on whom 
her eye chanced to fall, "so I don't know." 

" Of course you don't — they don't — he don't 
any more — men!" She brought out the last 
word with a sniff of such energy that she fairly 
lifted herself out of the chair. 

"That is the trouble, I suppose," said Tom. 
"But after all, Mrs. Piffit, you must admit the 
world without any men to make blunders would 
be a dull place." 

"I never admit any thing," snapped Piffit; 
"a Philadelphia lawyer taught me that. I 
don't want any thing of the men — only that 
brute who's in hiding. And I'll have him — ■ 
just wait." 

"I think it scarcely possible that my father 
can assist you," observed Elinor. 

"Oh no — that isn't it — the letter wasn't for 
that. Mercy, Miss Grey ! of course the Honor- 
able Secretary doesn't know any thing about 
such creatures. The letter was an introduction, 
you know — from Mr. Holly, the editor — I'm 
Mrs. Piffit, the writer." 

" So well known and justly admired," said 
Tom. 

"I don't know about that," replied she, suf- 
fering from a chronic difficulty of agreeing with 
any male. " I try to do my duty — I'm a Pres- 
byterian — I was a Presbyterian before I was a 
writer — been a writer a good many years 
though. Done every thing — translations, sto- 
ries, fashion articles, memoirs — for the papers." 

" I am well acquainted with your literary ef- 
forts," said Tom. 

" Hmf !" sniffed she, a little softened, but 
unable entirely to lay by her animosity to his 
species. " Sorry I didn't know your name that 
day, Mrs. Thornton; I'd have noticed you. 
Meeting was a failure. How Mrs. Hackett 
does dress ! I like pretty things. I make my 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



own bonnets. I'm a fashion editor, and get all ' 
the new patterns." 

Mrs. Thornton bowed. 

"I'll notice you now, if you like," cried Pif- 
fit, suddenly. 

Quick as a flash she had out her spectacles 
and adjusted them on her eyes, making herself 
look like a gray cat-owl. She squinted about 
the breakfast-room, apparently taking notes. 
"Blue and silver," said she; "pictures — bust 
in the corner. — Tell well in an article. — Found 
the beautiful and famous Miss G. seated in her 
boudoir. The Honorable Secretary was out ; 
but with her noted grace she received us in an 
elegant demi-toilette. — That sort of thing, you 
know — French words always tell." 

"Excuse me, Madam," said Elinor, "but I 
must request you to leave out any mention of 
me or this visit in your letters." 

" Of course — if you like. Such popularity 
is tiresome— I find it so myself. Only think, 
somebody wrote about me and called me a ' roly- 
poly of cantankerousness !' It was a man — I 
think I know him. I never bear malice — I'm 
a Presbyterian — but just wait till he steals an- 
other plav from the French, and won't I be after 
him !" 

"Quite right, too," said Tom. 

"Of course. You men always like to hear 
each other abused," retorted she. "Do you 
want to be put in a letter?" 

"Heaven forbid!" cried Tom. "No, no; 
stick to the man in hiding, Mrs. Piffit." 

"I will. Won't he wish himself somewhere 
else when I find him ! No matter where it is — 
if it's in the House of Representatives I'll point 
him out." 

She snatched up her umbrella and levelled it 
at an imaginary culprit. "Nearly lost it in 
the cars night before last," said she, her 
thoughts diverted into a new channel by the 
sight of her constant companion, which she pat- 
ted affectionately. " I got up for a drink of 
water, and while I was gone a great nasty man 
got my seat. I went back — ' Anyhow, give me 
my umbrella,' said I. 'It's mine,' said he. 
But I told him what he was and who he was 
a-nd what his father was before him. How the 
people stared! — 'I'm Mrs. Piffit,' said I, 'and 
I'll put you in the papers.' " 

"I suppose he was cowed then," said Tom. 

" Yes ; showed his umbrella — old, torn thing 
— pretended he hadn't noticed mine — wanted 
to keep 'em both. I will own, Miss Grey, 
I'm foolish maybe about my umbrella. Steal 
my trunk, but leave my umbrella. I don't 
mean you, you know — Secretary's daughter, of 
course not — but those men that are always 
prowling about and ready to take whatever they 
can lay their hands on." 

"But you haven't told us the name of the 
miscreant who deserted his wife," said Tom. 

" Presume he's got a dozen," said she. "But 
I'll find him. Hiding, indeed! His wife does 
needle-work and has music scholars — hard- 
working woman — and he's got her money and 



skylarking about here. I'll find him ! She cried 
so, poor thing, I told her I'd come on ; and I 
took my umbrella and we started." 

" Is the wife here too ?" asked Tom. 

"No, no; can't you understand ? Of course 
you can't — men ! She, poor thing, she's only 
fit to cry at home. But I'm after him ! Tell 
him Mrs. Piffit is coming." She shook her 
finger at Tom and swept him a shower of sniff's 
as if she thought he had the runaway some- 
where concealed. 

" I'll tell him if I see him," said Tom ; " I'll 
advise him to give himself up, because you are 
determined." 

"I should think I was. Let me get at him 
— only let me!" 

" It would be shameful that your kindness 
should be wasted by not finding him." 

"Oh, I wanted to come to Washington — 
never been here before. I've letters for lots 
of people — several Senators." 

"From Mr. Holly, the editor?" asked Tom. 

" Only two or three are from him — Mr. Grey's 
is — for Mrs. Piffit, the writer — I'm Mrs. Piffit. 
But I've any quantity — every body gives me 
what I ask for. I wanted to write some arti- 
cles, and I want to know what the President 
means." 

" It is due your position as a writer that you 
should," said Tom. 

"Nonsense!" sniffed Piffit. "You only 
want to laugh at me — men always laugh. But 
I want to know, and I'll ask him ; and I'll tell 
him what the newspapers expect." 

" So you ought — who knows better than you 
— I'm not laughing," returned Tom, in spite of 
Elinor's frown. 

"I want to call at the White House," said 
Mrs. Piffit. "I dare say one of the Senators 
will go up with me. Oh, maybe you'd go, Miss 
Grey. It's kind of nervous business, you know." 

"My time is so fully occupied that I shall 
be unable to do so," replied Elinor. 

" I suppose you've lots to do. Fashionable 
life is tiresome — I've some fashionable friends. 
I like to know what's going on among such 
people on account of my articles." 

"I think, Mrs. Thornton," said Elinor, 
" that we shall have to plead our engagement ; 
it is getting late." 

" Oh, don't let me detain you," cried Piffit. 
" I've had a charming call ! So glad to have seen 
you, Miss Grey, and your friend. You're sure 
you'd rather not have a notice ?" 

"Quite sure, Madam." 

"Just like me — modesty in the great is so 
lovely. Be sure and give the letter to the Hon- 
orable Secretary, Miss Grey. I've several let- 
ters to leave. Oh, I must remember the one 
for one of the Senators from New England. 
I'm so hurried — haven't a moment to spare." 
She picked up the reticule, took her umbrella 
under her arm, and prepared to go. 

" I hope we shall meet soon again," said she. 

"And I hope you will discover the hidden 
wretch," said Tom. 






MY DAUGHTER ELINOR 

!" wheezed Piffit ; "I've just 



73 



Oh, my 

thought — I've a little article I'd like to show 
you, Miss Grey ; just hold that." She planted 
the umbrella across Thornton's knees, then 
snatched it off with a sniff as if it had been con- 
taminated by the momentary contact with a pair 
of masculine legs, looked about in search of a 
resting-place for her treasured friend, and final- 
ly laid it on the table. "An article I want 
to show you — " 

She paused suddenly. Her eye had caught 
sight of the night-cap which had fallen into the 



of the Senate Chamber to hear a speech from 
one of the most noted of the Conscript Fathers, 
and there was Piffit. Fortunately she did not 
perceive him, and the speech was over before she 
created any sensation beyond that which her 
remarkable appearance always excited wherever 
she went, and of which she was profoundly 
unconscious. Tom saw her and watched her 
with silent delight. She was seated on an ad- 
jacent bench, spectacles on her funny little 
nose, diligently making notes, while the flat 
reticule hung on her arm, but for once the 



chair." She dashed at it, crowded it into her [ green umbrella was invisible. If people got in 



pocket, and squinted ferciously at Tom as if 
she dared him to own that he had seen it. 
" An article," suggested he 



her way she nudged them unmercifully ; one 
man inadvertently standing so that be obstruct- 
ed her line of vision, Piffit bounded on her 



"Yes, for Miss Grey. She'll be interested. J seat and thrust the point of her lead pencil in 
Where did I put it ? Didn't I leave it on the 



table at the hotel ? No, it must be in my pock- 
et." She drew aside her cloak and plunged 
her hand into the mysterious recesses of the 
cavern, and brought up the ruffled border of the 
cap. "I guess I haven't it," said she, some- 
what confused. " No matter 
when I call. Good-bye, Miss Grey — good-bye, 
ma'am — so glad to have seen you ; day to you, 
Sir. Oh, my umbrella ! Haven't dropped 
any thing, have I? So short-sighted — good- 



his ear without remorse. " Get out of the 
way," she said, quite aloud; "I'm Mrs. Piffit, 
and I'm taking notes. Can't you be quiet ? 
What do you come here to make a disturbance 
for? Ain't you ashamed of yourself? I'll put 
you in the papers if you don't sit down and be 
another time ; quiet." • 

The unfortunate man, being fresh from rural 

seclusion, looked woefully abashed, and faltered 

out that he had not meant to disturb any body. 

" You did," said Piffit ; "you always do. I 



bye." And Piffit, sniffing prodigiously, wafted , know you — men!" The miserable retreated amid 



herself out of the presence. 

"I think," said Tom, "that we have seen 
Mrs. Piffit in her full glory." 

"And I beg we may be spared another in- 
fliction," replied Elinor. 

"Nonsense," said he. " You have no rever- 
ence for writers." 

" I don't fancy Mrs. Piffit," said she. "I 
asked about her after we saw her at the meeting. 
It is not only that she is vulgar and pushing, 
but she is ill-natured and malicious." 

"And tells downright fibs if she is a Presby- 
terian," added Rosa. " They say her friendship 
is not to be depended upon, with all her boast- 
ed attachment to her sex." 

" Prejudice," urged Tom. " I approve of 
Piffit — I am glad to have seen her — one hears of 
her everywhere. There has not been a literary 
quarrel in ten years that she was not at the 
bottom of. She is always hunting up recre- 
ant husbands and exposing undutiful wives and 
trying to help persecuted children. Piffit for- 
ever ! say I." 

" At a distance, then," observed Elinor. 

" If she were good-natured one could pardon 
even her restless meddling with every body's 
business, but she is downright wicked and med- 
dles because she loves mischief," pursued Rosa. 

" Injustice of the sex," cried Tom. " I ap- 
prove of Piffit ! I haven't laughed so heartily 
in a month." 

"I hope at least we have seen the last of 
her," said Elinor. 

But they had not. Mrs. Piffit was not to be 
so easily set aside and her claims disregarded, 
and whatever was to be seen she meant to see. 
Only the next day Tom went up to the gallery 



a general titter, rubbing his ear dolefull} r , but 
Mrs. Piffit continued her task perfectly un- 
moved. Occasionally she lifted her voice with- 
out pausing in her work and said in a general 
way, " I'm taking notes — for the papers. That 
Massachusetts Senator promised to get me a 
seat on the floor — it's a shame ! What can you 
expect ? If women were Senators it would be 
another thing ; but men — hmf! hmf!" 

The speech was concluded, people were leav- 
ing the benches, when suddenly' there was an 
outcry and a disturbance, and Piffit's voice rose 
shrill and clear — "My umbrella! Where's 
my umbrella? Somebody's stolen it ! Call the 
police ! Stop that fat man !'' 

"Hush ! hush !" said her neighbors. " The 
ushers will come and put you out." 

"Let 'em. I'll put 'em in the papers!" 
cried the undaunted Mrs. Piffit. " Where's 
my umbrella ? I will have my umbrella ! 
Which of you took it ? Here, you ; come back, 
the whole lot of you, or I'll put you in the pa- 
pers. I'm Mrs. Piffit, the writer, and I will have 
my umbrella." 

Tom passed with the crowd into the lobby, 
but before he could proceed further out rtished 
Piffit, her bonnet falling back and her strips 
of paper rustling in her hand. "Stop 'em!" 
cried she. "Police! President! Senators! I 
tell you I will have my umbrella. Somebody's 
got my umbrella!" 

The unsympathizing crowd stared and laugh- 
ed ; at length somebody called out, "You 
didn't have no numbrellar; I saw you when 
y r ou came in." 

"No more I didn't. Now I remember. Oh, 
where did I leave it ? Has any body seen a 



71 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



green umbrella with an ivory handle and a 
brass ring round it?" 

"Saw it going round the Capitol," suggested 
somebody, " and I thought it was a balloon." 

" Men !" sniffed Piffit, too frantic to be at all 
mindful of any thing but her loss. " I had it — 
oh, I had it when I was talking to that Senator 
from New England." 

" Do you suppose the Senator stole it ?" ask- 
ed one of the knot that had gathered about her. 

" He was a man before he was a Senator," 
retorted she ; " men'll do any thing — hmf !" 

A sudden light broke upon her. She thrust 
the crowd right and left, sped back into the gal- 
lery, dove down among the benches, leaving 
her hoop on the top, and presently emerged 
flushed and triumphant — in her hand the green 
umbrella, which she flourished above the heads 
of the assembled Senate. "Left it there myself," 
said she, appearing in the lobby again. "Re- 
member now, I hid it under the bench so there 
couldn't any body steal it." 

" So the New England Senator didn't have 
it ?" demanded some one." 

" He didn't have the chance — men'll do any 
thing. Ho! ho!" and she clapped her hands 
in a new frenzy. " Stop that man — that one 
going down stairs!" 

"Now she wants another man," said one of 
her admirers. " He hasn't your umbrella." 

" Stop him ! " shrieked Piffit. " He's in hid- 
ing — he's stolen his wife's money — I'm after 
him— I'm Mrs. Piffit — stop him somebody." 

The words stolen money caused some eager 
person to catch the departing innocent by the 
coat-tail. " Come back. Here's a woman 
says you've been stealing." 

" He's in hiding. Hold him !" cried Piffit. 
"Let me get to him! Why, get out of the 
way, why don't you?" She pushed along and 
finally hooked the struggling stranger with the 
handle of her umbrella. 

"Let me alone!" said he. "Nearer saw you 
in my life — you're mad !" 

"You're in hiding!" cried Piffit. "You've 
stolen your wife's money — you've got to go 
home — oh, you brute ! " 

The man turned about. It was the unlucky 
creature whose ear she had stabbed with her 
pencil. " I've borne enough from you," cried 
he. " Who are you, anyhow ?" 

" Tisn't the man," said Piffit. "Let him go. 
I've no doubt he's run off from somewhere, but 
'tisn't the one." There was a general shout, 
and Mrs. Piffit beat a hasty retreat, holding her 
umbrella before her like a truncheon. 

For the next two weeks she was seen and 
heard of everywhere. She assailed Congressmen 
without mercy, she worried the Senators, she 
made the round of the newspaper offices, she 
went up to the White House to find out the 
President's policy and demand assistance to 
hunt the recreant husband who was in hiding. 
She was forever thinking she had found him 
and making disturbances without regard to place 
or time, hooking unfortunate men with the I 



handle of her umbrella and then abusing them 
because they had deceived her, trotting about 
from morning till night with her roll of dingy 
papers in her hand, presenting letters, claiming 
acquaintance with people, and distinguishing 
herself in every possible way. " I'm Mrs. Pif- 
fit " became a by-word at the departments and 
bureaus, and Mrs. Piffit in person was more 
dreaded than an army would have been. Mean- 
time she wrote her letters to any paper that 
would publish them ; she forced her acquaintance 
on any woman she could, and ruthlessly scrib- 
bled lies about her as a return. But, however 
occupied, she never forgot the grand purpose of 
her coming any more than she did her green 
umbrella. She hunted for that wretch every- 
where. There was not a spot in Washington 
from the East Room at the White House down 
to a restaurant in which she did not sniff, seek- 
ing for him, and wherever she went the green 
umbrella went too, and she informed whoever 
would listen that she was Mrs. Piffit, the writer, 
and had come after a man who was in hiding, 
and meant to find him if he was above ground. 
She heard of him at last in Georgetown, and 
thither she went, astonishing the quiet old place 
out of its propriety by shrieking like a mad 
woman in one of the principal streets where she 
chanced to espy her victim. She was down 
upon him in an instant, poor drunken creature, 
sick and weak from his long revelling. She 
turned his pockets inside out, boxed his ears, 
maltreated him generally, narrated his misdeeds 
to the wondering crowd, told them they were 
no better than he, and wound up with — "I'm 
Mrs. Piffit, the writer ; and I said I'd find him, 
in spite of all the Senators and Congressmen, 
and I have!" 

Her victim was too maudlin drunk to do any 
thing but cry, so she boxed his ears again, 
pushed him into a carriage and drove off 
wheezing — "I've got him! Where's my um- 
brella?" 

She actually took him back to New York ; 
and he confessed after, that ten years in 
a penitentiary would not have been so horrible 
as those brief days, but not in the least did his 
sufferings move Piffit. She carried him back to 
the weeping wife, put an account of her own 
philanthropic deeds in the newspapers, and 
sniffed more outrageously than ever. What 
the little pale music-teacher, who received her 
penitent spouse so much after the fashion in 
which the Prodigal Son was greeted, may have 
thought, I can not tell, but it is believed that 
she would have lost less money if she had waited 
for her wandering husband to spend what he 
had purloined and return, for Piffit had done 
her philanthropy in a generous way where Piffit 
was concerned, and the flat reticule never dis- 
gorged when once it closed over its prey. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



75 



CHAPTER XVI. 

AFTER THE CONCERT. 

About this time Mr. Grey went on to New 
York for a few days. The newspapers said 
there was some important political secret con- 
nected with the trip which would doubtless soon 
be laid before their readers ; as they always do 
say whenever a prominent man lifts his eye- 
brows, hinting that the mystery is quite plain 
to them in their capacity of public guardians, 
but that they are silent because the moment for 
any thing beyond oracular murmurs has not ar- 
rived. They said these things as usual, and 
Mr. Grey led Elinor to suppose that his journey 
was connected with some old, half-forgotten in- 
vestments somewhere, which promised to prove 
valuable if looked after, but indeed his attempts 
at business explanations were never clear. 
Whatever the motive was, he did go to town, 
and had a dinner given him by the civic digni- 
taries, and made one of his admirable speeches 
which pleased every body and meant nothing at 
all. I have no doubt he was serving his coun- 
try in some way — Elinor knew that was always 
his first wish — and perhaps Mrs. Hackett's Bull 
of "Wall Street could help him serve it; at all 
events, he had more private talks with him than 
any body, and the Bull's voice might be heard 
bellowing amicably in the Secretary's apart- 
ments. There was a rush a few days later 
down in Broad Street after certain new and 
mysterious stocks of the Bull's backing, and 
both in Close and Open Board dishevelled men 
elbowed each other and shouted themselves so 
hoarse that when night came they had no voices 
left to exult over their triumphs. 

Mr. Grey was not long absent ; he came back 
flushed with victory of some sort, but held him- 
self more grandly placid than ever. It was re- 
ported in Cabinet circles that he had been doing 
something wonderful, though nobody knew what, 
and he was more courted and popular than ever. 
Elinor accepted the patriotic efforts as a matter- 
of-fact, naturally, but she learned too that her 
father had found time to look after the stupid 
property, whatever it might be. She received 
the impression that it had been sold greatly to 
his advantage, and thought no more about it. 

Talking that night with Tom and Rosa she did 
not hesitate to avow her horror of speculation, 
and her father agreed with her. " You and I, my 
daughter Elinor, will never be dazzled by Wall- 
StreefcEldorados," said he. 

I dare say he thought he never would be 
again. What was going on now was scarce- 
ly speculation. Gigantic certainties looming 
in the close future were not speculative vent- 
ures. Mr. Grey could coincide with his daugh- 
ter's opinion in the blandest manner. 

"I'm not so grand and virtuous," admitted 
Tom. "I should not hesitate to buy and sell 
to any extent, only I am notoriously a fool about 
business, and so unlucky." 

" Yes, indeed," added Rosa. " He is a goose, 



Mr. Grey, and I wouldn't trust him within a 
mile of Wall Street." 

" Very fortunate for him that he has so wise 
a little wife," replied Mr. Grey. " For my own 
part, my life is too busy for me to think about 
such things." 

" And you have too much regard for the dig- 
nity of your position, papa, only you never will 
pay yourself compliments," said Elinor. 

"I have no need while my daughter Elinor 
does it so charmingly," he answered, looking at 
her face bright with filial pride and affection. 
He loved her so. Much as he craved the world's 
admiration, that daughter's was even more nec- 
essary to him. He could not have borne to 
know her faith disturbed. 

They went to a ball given by some embassa- 
dress with an unpronounceable name. Lent 
would come in early that season, and Washing- 
ton is socially the dullest city on the continent 
during Lenten gravities, so that people were 
crowding all the amusement possible into those 
last weeks. Leightoti Rossitur was at the ball 
and made himself pleasant to Elinor, but nobody 
knew that he was any more agreeable than the 
rest of the troop which revolved about her. 
Miss Grey was a terrible flirt, people said, but 
a very general one ; women added that she had 
no heart, and only wanted every man in the 
world at her feet to keep him away from the 
rest of her sex. 

Rossitur looked at her that night after over- 
hearing similar remarks from envious Eves, and 
knew that they lied. He looked at the broad, 
low forehead full of intellect, the luminous 
eyes, the delicate nostrils, and the proud, sensi- 
tive mouth, and thought what idiots the talkers 
were not to be able to read that language, then 
was glad that only he could do so. Elinor Grey 
could love, and she should love him ! Had he 
come near the moment when he might venture 
to speak ? She did not love him now — he was 
not silly enough to deceive himself — but she ad- 
mired him, she had hopes for his future, and she 
was lonely ; he knew that and how to make use 
of the knowledge. Perhaps some time those 
proud pulses had quickened under another man's 
glance — it made his blood boil to think of the pos- 
sibility — but if it were so, if the memory of some 
girlish romance filled the heart of the woman with 
a vague sadness for her beautiful dream, Rossitur 
saw that it would be a help to him if he em- 
ployed it rightly ; it would have left a stronger 
need of companionship and sympathy. Could 
he but choose the moment when the lonely feel- 
ing was most powerful and tell her of his love, 
his devotion which was willing to wait to earn 
her affection — if she would trust herself to him 
and share his ambitions and be his guide — that 
very loneliness might incline her to listen and 
to yield. One day, if she married him, it would 
be in the man's nature to hate her if he thought 
that every heart-beat was not for him, and he 
might make a daily torture out of the suspected 
dream ; but he did not think himself capable of 



76 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



such meanness. He could only think how he "I do think this waltz belongs to somebody 
loved her. else," said Elinor. 

He was recalled to his senses, and forced to " I hope so. May he wait as long as I 
remember that a ball-room was not the place to i have." 

indulge in sentiment, by some reckless pair re- i " And I ought at least to speak to that poor 
volving against his toes, and not satisfied with; man," continued she ; " he has held my bouquet 
that punishment, looking penknives at him for I half the evening." 

being in the path. With speed he got away > " Reward enough for him," said Rossitur. 
from Scylla and tumbled into Charybdis. Mov- j " Besides, why does he come to such places if not 
ing toward the spot where he saw Elinor Grey ; to hold the nosegays? I thought he was hired 
standing for the moment disengaged, he fell into for that special purpose." 



the clutches of the old deaf lady who always 
went to balls and never had any name that any 
body remembered. " What is that Senator 
Jordan says ?" she asked. 

As usual with the person to whom she thought 
she had been listening, the Roman stood at an 
impracticable distance, trying to look like Cicero 
in a dress-coat. 

" Did he say the Congressmen ought to be im- 
peached ?" Rossitur nodded with all his might, 
and tried to extricate his sleeve from her bony 
lingers. " Or was it the Queen of England ?" 
whispered the old lady, like an inquisitive star- 
ling. Rossitur nodded again — there was nothing 
else to do — smiled agreeably, and consigned her 
to the lowest place in Hades. "Don't deceive 
me," said the old lady. " I'm a little hard of 
hearing to-night." 

Rossitur gave another tug at his sleeve ; she 
only held it more firmly, ' ' You old jackdaw ! " 
lie thought, and one can not blame him for his 
rudeness, because he saw Elinor Grey led off to 
dance just then by a dangerous Bostonian who 
had a rent-roll as immense as his dignity, and 
that was beyond comparison. 

"In the Constitution, is it?" demanded the 
old woman. "Oh, I didn't know that! It's 
all right then." She released his arm and sat 



Every way the patient man got the worst 
of it. When will people learn that certain of 
the virtues became exploded theories of beauty 
centuries ago ? 

"To-morrow is your conceit," observed Ros- 
situr. 

" Yes ; so tiresome. What made people get up 
this rage for morning entertainments public and 
private, I wonder?" 

"That I might have the pleasure of seeing 
you the oftener," replied he. 

"A view of the matter which had not oc- 
curred to me." 

" I dare say not. Women and republics are 
ungrateful." 

"But I am very anxious about my concert," 
said Elinor. 

" You just declared it tiresome." 

" That was only one of the silly speeches one 
makes." 

" Shall you sing?" 

"You know I will not. They are all pro- 
fessionals except Mrs. De Lucy and Mr. Jer- 
vis." 

" Ther alwavs sing everywhere — they will do 
it." 

"But Mrs. De Lucy has been very kind in 
helping me. You know I give the concert to 



down quite satisfied, repeating, "It's all right let that poor little Miss Borden have a fair 
then — in the Constitution ! Why don't they ; hearing. She came out in New York and was 



have supper ? I want my supper ! Aren't they 
going to have any supper?" 

Rossitur cruelly wished that a set of South 
Sea Islanders were at that moment supping off 
her ancient, bones, and hurried away to where he 
saw a patient man holding Miss Grey's bouquet. 
The patient man meant to reward himself by 
dancing with Elinor as soon as she was at liber- 
ty, but being bashful and generally stupid, as 
most patient people are, he had not proffered 
his claims in advance, but stood there a model 
of modest humility. Wicked Rossitur, with 
malignant designs, halted at his side and talked 
to him as smilingly as possible, till he saw Miss 
Grey approach on her partner's arm, then he 
stepped directly before the patient man and had 
taken possession of Elinor while the bouquet- 
holder was getting his breath in readiness to say 
something. The consequence was that patience 



badly treated. She ought to have had a suc- 
cess." 

"Oh, yes; the agents or somebody did all 
manner of dreadful things." 

" They sacrificed her to Madame Villeneuve 
— she had some hold on them. Now I mean 
Miss Borden to have a success to-morrow, so 
that she can give a course of concerts here." 
" Don't let her sing too much, then." 
" Only twice — a ballad and an aria. I have 
great hopes of her." 

" Of course you will make her a success." 
"That is pretty of you." • 

"Yes ; it did sound like Mrs. Hackett." 
" I am sure I have worked hard enough," 
said Elinor. " I have made love to every body, 
from the President down, for a week past." 

" Be easy in your mind. I heard some peo- 
ple talking to-night ; they said it would be a 



met with the return it usually does in this weary | triumph, and your dear friend Mrs. Ames add- 
world — the bashful man was thanked for his ■ ed — ' Oh, yes ; just because Miss Grey takes the 
kindness and deserted — not even the bouquet girl up you'll all go mad over her! I wouldn't 
left as a future hope. Rossitur for a crowning i make a concert-room of my house for any 
wrong carried it away. I body.' " 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



77 



" Dear Mrs. Ames," said Elinor ; " as if any 
body would go if she did !" 

"Oh, oh ! Can you say spiteful things ?" 

" Indeed I can ! How mean it is. I always 
hate myself after." 

" And are good-natured even to poor me by 
way of making amends. I am glad you nipped 
dear Mrs. Ames ; you'll be pleasant all the rest 
of the evening." 

"I shall go and talk to Mrs. Reese." 

"That will be doing penance. But her 
name is not Reese any longer." 

" Pray what is it ?" ' 

"Ever since she came back from Paris last 
autumn she has put on her cards — Reese' — with 
such a heavy accent." 

"What a wholesale calumniator you are." 

"Yes, I hate petty dealings where gossip is 
concerned." 

But he did not want to talk that idle, foolish 
talk. His heart was panting and burning ; he 
wanted to hold her fast to him — to drain her 
very breath with kisses— to make her love him 
or kill her outright with his passion. But he 
restrained those private insanities and did only 
what was decorous : people can not be Romeos or 
Otliellos in modern dress, at least outwardly. 

Elinor Grey went home that night more rest- 
less and tired then ordinary, and was heartily 
glad when Tom shrieked at Rosa, who had 
paused at her door for last words which would 
inevitably prolong themselves into a chat over 
the fire if she was left to herself — " You come 
this minute, you absurd last rose of summer, 
else to-morrow you'll look one of several sum- 
mers ago, very badly preserved." 

" I only want to tell Elinor — " 

"Not a wprd, not a syllable! Elinor is a 
discreet damsel and wishes to seek maiden 
slumbers." He caught her up in his arms re- 
gardless of her flounces. 

" You'll tear my lace, Tom," she pleaded. 

"No matter ; duty before lace." 

" Oh, you monster, you hurt me ! Oh, I'd 
like to bite you," cried Rosa. " Good-night, 
Elinor. Isn't he a griffin ?" 

She was carried shrieking along the corridor, 
and the next morning Tom vowed that she had 
bitten him, and threatened to appear at the 
concert with his arm bandaged and to tell the 
whole story when questioned. 

Elinor went to her room and shut herself in 
with her discontent, glad at least to be relieved 
from any other companion. There was a letter 
on the dressing-table which Mademoiselle Cor- 
alie probably had forgotten to give her on its 
arrival. Elinor broke the seal, wondering why 
people would write letters, and inclined to vitu- 
perate the inventor of the art. She broke the 
seal and glanced down the carefully-written pages 
to the signature. It was from Ruth. " From 
Ruth Sothernj" thought Elinor in surprise, and 
had another quick thought which made her diz- 
zy : not Ruth Sothern now — Ruth Farnsworth. 
Then she sat down and began to read the letter. 
She was so tired that she felt dizzy still — very, 



very tired she kept saying to herself, as if mak- 
ing excuses to some one else. 

It was a sweet, touching letter, like the pretty 
creature who wrote it. She told Elinor how 
she loved her — thought of her — talked of her to 
Clive. She told how happy she was ; she 
painted her daily life — her bliss ineffable — and 
Elinor Grey read on and on till suddenly she 
dashed the letter down and buried her face in 
her dress, afraid of her own emotions. She 
was so proud, and for the first time in her life 
shame as connected with herself had drawn 
near — shame and humiliation. In that hour 
Elinor Grey had to stand face to face with her 
soul and acknowledge the secret which she 
had put away, denied, covered up, refusing to 
believe that it was hidden somewhere under her 
subterfuges. She loved Clive Farnsworth — 
loved him after all, in spite of all ! She was 
jealous of this girl — his wife. Every detail of 
his tenderness, so artlessly described by its re- 
cipient, burned into her heart like fire and 
roused sensations which she had not dreamed 
could ever find a resting-place in her soul. 
Proud Elinor nearly went mad, and fought there 
with her shame and her horror and her agony 
until the cold light peeped in through the cur- 
tains. 

A black, stormy vigil, but she found the one 
way out. When in the bleak chill dawn Elinor 
Grey knelt, weeping silently, the fever and ex- 
citement gone, she knew that she had lived 
through the worst — that she could never be ex- 
actly the same woman again — and she felt 
strange to herself in this new position. It 
would be a long time before her pride recovered 
from the shock ; she thought the old arrogance 
and haughty self-reliance never could come 
back, and she did want so to conduct herself 
that this trouble should be at least purifying and 
ennobling. She could look at the matter more 
rationally. At first she could not bear her 
thoughts — she had been afraid to see her own 
face in the glass — but she was able to think at 
last. She knew that Clive Farnsworth could be 
nothing to her henceforth ; that with God's help 
she should have no more to fear from her heart's 
weakness ; but she was tired and worn ; to take 
up life again was an effort of such magnitude. 
If she could find some new thought strong 
; enough to engross her powers — some aim. She 
cast desolately about, but nothing offered, and 
yet life must go on. 

By this time it was clear day-light, and Eli- 
nor crept into bed and tried not to think any 
longer, because she Knew that she must sleep. 
i She could not be like a heroine in a play, go- 
1 ing about with pallid cheeks and disordered 
tresses ; she must sleep and get strength and be 
ready to meet to-morrow which had already 
come. And when several hours after Coralie 
tapped at the door, according to orders if the 
non-ringing of the bell proved that her mistress 
had overslept herself, it seemed to Elinor that 
she had not really lost consciousness once, had 
dozed and dreamed, but always miserably 



78 



my daughter elinor. 



aware of her own identity, and she wished that 
her commands about the knocking had been 
less imperative. She forced herself to get up, 
and she felt very cross and nearly snapped at 
faithful Coralie, which was unheard of with her. 
She was not perfect, and she had been born 
with a hasty temper, but when it did get the 
better of her it was where equals were concern- 
ed ; she would not nip people who were forbid- 
den to answer, as petty people of both sexes do. 
She was penitent under the inclination and told 
Coralie that she believed she was growing an ill- 
tempered old dragon, and Coralie expostulated 
till she was purple in the face. But Elinor would 
not listen to her asseverations, and found a sense 
of relief in calling herself unpleasant names — 
it is next best to miscalling other people — and 
then she rose sternly with a purpose in her soul. 
She did not dash pearly drops of water upon 
her fevered brow with a jewelled hand as the 
young women do in novels ; she always took off 
her rings when she went to bed, like a sensible 
person. It was more than that. She marched 
into the adjacent bath-room, and without giv- 
ing her resolution time to falter, stood under 
the shower and pulled the wire with a desperate 
jerk, and let such an infant Niagara down upon 
her devoted head that Coralie shivered with 
sympathy in the outer chamber. Presently 
Elinor emerged fresh and nearly frozen, and 
went through the duties of getting ready for 
sublunary gaze with her emotions chilled into 
quiet, as I think the fiercest and most hissing 
that ever desolated the bosom of a tragedy 
queen would have been by that barbarous treat- 
ment. 

There was not much to occupy her although 
she was to have a concert that day : but Hungari- 
an Henry was a host in himself, and Mould have 
managed any quantity of festivities without 
bustle. But to gratify the feminine weakness 
of liking to feel of use, Elinor and Rose made 
a pretense of arranging flowers, and Tom teased 
them, and Elinor was conscious of a wish that 
the world might split in twain and her expected 
guests land in some distant bourne where con- 
certs are not, but controlled herself. And 
Rose laughed and Tom teased, and Hungarian 
Henry came and went on tiptoe and awed the 
domestic staff by the mere lifting of his finger ; 
and Elinor could not be a five-act melodrama, but 
had to go and dress after rushing up and down 
a veranda at the back of the house till Rosa 
pulled her in-doors with the pleasant informa- 
tion that her nose would be redder than one of ! 
her scarlet geraniums by the time she was 
ready to receive the people. Care and trouble, 
cark and fret, can be thrust aside for intervals 
of leisure, but a red nose can not when once the 
color gets seated, so Miss Grey put by her 
doleful reflections and stopped making what Rosa 
called "a private menagerie" of herself, and 
went up stairs to get inside of a heavenly blue 
dress that would have made Dido postpone sui- 
cide till she had excited the envy of the fe- 
male portion of Carthage by wearing it j if she 



had owned the gown and it had been becoming 
to her complexion. 

By and by the performers appeared, profes- 
sionals and amateurs, and Elinor solaced herself 
by a little talk with an operatic woman, who 
said so many witty things that Miss Grey was in- 
clined to think it would be much jollier to be 
literary or artistic or theatrical, or something 
compromising and disreputable, than a Secreta- 
ry's daughter and have to entertain people who 
were proper in the world's eyes. Then poor 
little Miss Borden must be consoled and soothed 
out of the nervousness which threatened to make 
her voice shaky, and the amateur singers had to 
be flattered and thanked and told they were — not 
Mario and Grisi, that would have been too 
mild — but seraphs and other heavenly birds. 
The people had begun to come, and Miss Grey 
departed to take her station and to say and hear 
pretty things till she wished herself deaf and 
dumb, and then to be stunned by the piano- 
forte banging and the operatic carollings, until 
at length little Borden was led forward, and 
stood there innocent and pretty, and sang a 
mournful old ballad in the freshest and sweetest 
of voices that made Elinor Grey's heart swell 
and her mood change into one of nervous excit- 
ability which caused her to long for a hysterical 
cry. 

Watching her as he always did watch her, 
Leighton Rossitur knew that she was in an 
unusual state of mind, and he wished that it 
was in his power to take advantage of it. At 
convenient opportunities during the music, or 
the intervals of eating and drinking delicious 
abominations with which people corrode their 
vitals on such occasions, Mr. Grey sunned 
Rossitur in his smile and paved the way for 
making him useful, as he had contemplated, 
and every body said how rapidly Leighton Ros- 
situr was rising and how far he was sure to go. 
And Rossitur being to the full as astute as the 
elder man, understood more than it was in- 
tended he should, and in his turn looked 
forward to possibilities where the honorable 
gentleman might be forced to serve him. As 
was natural, they were mutually satisfied, and 
paid each other a great many compliments, 
and told a great many lies, as people must who 
go about the world burdened with plans and 
looking forward to possibilities. But all the 
morning Rossitur kept aloof from Miss Grey. He 
could not understand what he read in her face ; 
he wanted some clue so that when he did talk 
to her he might touch the right chord. Let 
those men blunder about her if they chose ; they 
were making hideous bores of themselves, Rossi- 
tur was certain of that, for though Miss Grey 
smiled and talked, her eyes were leagues away 
and her soul was with them. Let them blunder, 
he was glad to have them. Why. even that sen- 
sible Boston man could not see that if he had 
ever had a ghost of a chance it was lost by this 
morning's work ; and that political leader — he 
was worse — written down a diabolical enormity 
from henceforth, in the hugest possible capital 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



79 



letters. Rossitur was very glad, and he allow- 
ed them to bow and chatter and make blind 
geese of themselves, but he stood aloof and 
forced Elinor Grey at last to wish that he 
would come and help her. He was watching ; 
he saw when she remembered and wanted 
him ; he went up and stood behind her chair, 
and whispered, "You look as if you could not 
endure another moment. They are going at 
last." 

Was he always to read and comprehend her 
thoughts ? Was there really some mysterious 
sympathy between them which gave him this 
power ? But Elinor had no leisure to indulge 
in fancies and grow transcendental, for people 
were rushing about her and taking leave, and 
it was all confusion and talkee, talkee. Ros- 
situr helped her. He said queer things, he 
made the leave-takers laugh, he covered her 
bewilderment and confusion, and she was dimly 
conscious of a sensation of rest in having him 
there, as if her mind had suddenly found a 
prop to lean against. 

It was late ; every body declared the time 
had flown ; and away they scampered dinner- 
ward. Mr. Grey and the Thorntons were to 
dine out — Elinor had been previously excused 
— and as the heathens who had invited them 
lived a Sabbath day's journey off, according to 
the habit of people in the city of magnificent 
distances, it would soon be time to go, for life, 
as Tom Thornton said, was a pilgrimage. Rosa 
had to rush and change her dress, lest waifs of 
the concert people should be at the dinner and 
think she had only % one gown. Mr. Grey re- 
tired to some retreat favorable to a doze, and 
Tom went oft" to solace himself with a cigar, 
declaring to Rosa that he would rather be an 
ostrich in the desert than lead a life like that, 
and Rosa told him he was worse than any os- 
trich in or out of a desert. 

' ; I feel as if I had been one and had fed on 
rusty nails," said Tom, departing. 

Elinor looked about and saw that the last 
of the crowd had actually disappeared ; only 
Leighton Rossitur was standing by her chair. 

"I won't speak," he said ; "I ought to have 
gone ; but you look so tired." 

" I believe I am tired," replied Elinor. 

"But you can rest while the people go to 
that dinner." 

"Yes. Are you going?" 

" Neither there nor anywhere ; I am going 
home. But I wish you would let me be rude 
and ask to stay a few moments while you sit 
here quiet." 

"You may stay if you can endure mv stu- 
pidity." 

" What do you mean to d*-?" he asked. 

"Get up to my room, I think." 

" But you are mistaken. You will think 
you are going ; instead of that you will sit 
here looking at that flower-stand until some of 
the servants venture to disturb you." 

" I dare say you are right." 

"Let me prescribe, will you ?" 



" Certainly ; I am too stupid to resist." 

" There is a fire in the boudoir — please go 
and sit by it and rest for a long hour before 
you attempt the exertion of mounting the 
stairs." 

" The advice is so in keeping with my in- 
dolence that I agree to it with pleasure." 

He gave her his arm and they went through 
the long suite of rooms into the pretty apart- 
ment Mr. Grey had himself made a fairy nook 
in order to be worthy of his Elinor. Rossi- 
tur drew a low chair to the fire and she sat 
down. He placed himself near — doing every 
slight thing for her comfort in a noiseless, 
gentle way which was indescribably soothing to 
her irritated nerves, and would have been a 
lesson to most of us male awkwardnesses. He 
talked to her a little, but he did not make her 
talk. He prophesied a success for Miss Bor- 
den, and Elinor had the young thing's interests 
much at heart, and had shown the greatest 
possible wisdom in her choice of the people 
gathered for the occasion. To-day, little Bor- 
den is Signora Clementi, you know, wife of the 
old violinist, and has been lauded in London 
and encored in Paris, but she may thank 
that morning concert of Miss Grey's for the 
opening, and, what is odd, she knows it and 
says so. 

After a while voices rose in the hall ; the 
party were starting for the dinner. " Where 
is Elinor ?" they heard Mrs. Thornton ask. 

"I think she has gone to her room,'' Mr. 
Grey replied; "she is lying down, I dare 
say." 

"Oh, we won't disturb her," said good- 
natured Rosa. 

Hungarian Henry stood by and held his 
tongue; he knew very well where his mistress 
could be found, having been about the rooms 
like a mustache(f*ghost, putting out lights. 
But he was the .^iscreetest of mortals, and 
since his young lady did not choose to appear 
he would, if questioned as to her whereabouts, 
have unblushingly asserted that he saw her 
start for her chamber, or the moon, half an 
hour before — blessed Henry ! 

There was stillness again ; they had gone. 
Elinor leaned back in her chair with a deli- 
cious feeling of repose, and a stranger feeling 
that she owed it to Leighton Rossitur. 

' ' You begin to look better," he said. " You 
see what an admirable adviser I am." 

" It is very pleasant to be advised, too," 
returned she; "at least when the advice goes 
with one's wishes." She tried to be playful 
and smile — it was an effort. 

" If you feel that you must talk and enter- 
tain me, I shall go away," said Rossitur. " I 
don't wish to kill you outright." 

" Indeed I am very glad to have you stay. 
It isn't, exactly proper, is it ? ■ You know I have 
not quite {S^ffceyond young-ladyhood with its 
necessities for chaH^ons and giumlians." 

" Luckily we are in America. It is all very 
well for foreigners to abuse the privileges young 



80 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



ladies have here — don't the foreign young 
women wish they could enjoy them!" returned 
Rossitur. 

But Elinor did not answer; her thoughts 
had wandered. After a moment she said, "I 
heg your pardon ; I am very rude." 

"Oh, don't say that. May I tell you what 
I was wishing ?" 

" Yes ; if it was kind and good-natured." 

"That I knew where you had gone, and so 
might not jar on your fancies by a wrong 
word." 

" Nowhere, had I ? I believe I was not think- 
ing — just going about in a circle." 

" I know the feeling," he answered. lie was 
silent for a little, then he added, " You are very 
lonely, Miss Grey." At another time he would 
not have ventured upon that speech ; but he 
could do it safely now. 

" I ought not to be," she said slowly. 

"You torment yourself by thinking that. 
Tired and lonely — they may not be romantic 
ills, hut they are very hard to bear. If you 
only had some one thing on which to concen- 
trate your mind, what a help it would be." 

Here he was repeating her very thoughts 
again. She was too weak, too near crying, to 
remember that his conversation was going over 
to new and untried ground, to a landing-place 
which once reached can never leave any man 
and woman upon the ordinary terms where they 
stood before. 

" It would be a help," she said ; " but where 
to find it? I am very wicked to say life is emp- 
ty when I have my father who loves me so, but 
I think I am losing the old energy and will." 

"And life will grow more empty," returned 
Rossitur, in a low voice which seemed like the 
mournful echo in her own soul; "more and 
more dreary unless you find some object, some- 
thing whereon to lean and rest." 

"And where to find it?" 

"You are very proud and self-reliant, but 
that would make such rest all the sweeter ; an 
ordinary, weak woman could never comprehend 
its happiness as you would." 

" You tell hie this but you don't show me any 
way," said Elinor. She forgot that she was 
talking to Leighton Rossitur ; it seemed that 
she was answering that inward voice which 
tormented her so. 

" May I tell you of a way?" he asked, forcing 
his tones to be low and soft ; keeping back the 
eagerness which began to quicken them. 

" If you could," she said; " if you could." 

"If some man loved you — a man whom you 
could trust entirely — who had a future in which 
you could share — who from the first moment 
he saw you had made you his guiding-star — had 
loved you — had thought only of being worthy 
to tell you so ; if you could listen and be patient 
and let him strive to earn your affection, you 
would find rest, Miss Grey." 

He had spoken very rapidly now; his voice 
was low as ever but full of a sudden passion. 
She had no space to interrupt him if she had 



wished, and she did not wish ; just then such 
words, such promises, brought an added feeling 
of quiet. Rossitur had chosen the moment 
well. 

" I love you, Elinor Grey ! I had not thought 
to speak — it is stronger than I ! Let me tell 
you — don't be angry. I am not patient, but I 
could wait so patiently to earn your affection. 
Failing that, I would be your friend — the one 
person to whom you could talk freely, could trust 
and lean upon." 

Elinor Grey listened ; she had no mind to 
interrupt him. "I think you ought not to say 
that," she answered ; " I don't believe I am 
half worthy such love." 

" But I have given it — I can not take it 
back ! You will not despise the gift ?" 

" Despise it ? I am grateful — I thank you." 

If she could be interested in him; if he 
could make her love him ! Ah, here was away 
out of danger and pain, which would annihilate 
the past as completely as if she had gone into 
another world — a hope indeed. She was not 
thinking of Clive Farnsworth ; she could keep 
him from her thoughts now that she knew such 
memories were a sin ; but here was more than 
forgetfulness proffered — a new interest in life, 
a hope for the future always growing stronger 
and more sweet. 

"If you could feel even a sense of rest in 
such love, tell me, would it not be pleasant ?" he 
asked. 

"Very pleasant; so much more than I de- 
serve — I who have so little to give." 

lie had known before ^hat Elinor Grey did 
not love him, but those words were a blow as 
they would have been to any man. He would 
not heed — he had passed the limits — he would 
dare every thing now only to establish the 
weakest link between himself and her, trusting 
to time and his own power. 

"No matter how little you gave; a look 
would be more precious than the full love of 
another woman. Oh, Miss Grey, they call me 
cold and ambitious. I am ambitious ! no man 
would have a right to love you who was not. 
But I need you to keep me right, to keep life 
noble and pure ; my heart needs you more 
than all, for it has found its idol." 

Elinor tried to rouse herself and not go 
drifting down the stream of such sweet words. 

"I am wrong," she said; "I am treating 
your love unworthily by listening with such 
selfishness merely because it is pleasant." 

"If you listen I am content. If you can 
give me the least hope, you raise me up from 
the darkness into heaven." 

He was very handsome and noble now ; his 
whole face was aglow ; he looked a man whom an v 
woman might trust, proud of his affection. 

"Do you indeed love me so?" she asked, 
almost wonderingly. 

" Have you never suspected it ? Could you 
not see ?" 

She shook her head. "You may know how 
selfish I am— I have not thought. You made 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



81 



yourself pleasant — a friend to whom I could 
talk. I have learned to expect your kindness ; 
I missed you if I did not see you ; but I have 
been very selfish and blind." 

" You give me the sweetest reward ! Think 
what your words mean." 

Elinor sat upright and forced herself out of 
the dreamy bewilderment. " I must not allow 
von to deceive yourself," she answered ; " they 
meant literally what I said, and I have been 
very, very selfish." 

"You must not say that; you make me so 
happy. I have longed to know if you remem- 
bered me, separated me in your thoughts from 
the crowd about you." 

" I have done that, perhaps more than I was 
conscious." 

"Then I am quite satisfied." 

He was so humble, but so manly ; so strong 
in his humility that she felt a keen pang of 
self-reproach. 

" I am not worth this," she said sadly. 

" You are worth the love of an angel ! 
Don't pain me by underrating yourself. Where 
is there a woman like you, with your noble 
mind and your generous heart ?" 

"It is very sweet to be so praised, Mr. Ros- 
situr," she said. 

"Will you tell me that I may hope?" he 
pleaded. " Only say one word — only don't 
forbid me." 

" I must be honest, Mr. Rossitur. I am tired 
and confused, but I must not let you go away 
thinking things for which you would afterward 
have a right to reproach me very bitterly." 

"I could never do that! All my lifelong 
I should hold myself honored by the thought 
that you had tried to love me." 

" Perhaps I must not even promise that." 

" But let me love you — let me strive to,win, 
to earn your affection — I will ask nothing more." 

"That would be unjust to you, Mr. Rossi- 
tur." 

" Let me decide that ; I am quite content. 
May I love you — may I hope ?" 

"But if you found that your love and your 
noblenesss had been wasted — if I could not re- 
turn them — " 

' ' I gave you my answer. I should be proud 
to think I had loved you," he answered. 

"Oh, this must not be!" she cried. "If you 
talked to me of esteem and admiration, I should 
not feel ashamed to listen." 

"If you can only say that you begin with 
those!" 

"You know I can. But it must be a dis- 
appointment to you. I only wonder that you 
are not angry with me and yourself for lavish- 
ing your love on a woman who can reply so 
coldly." 

"Ah, Elinor Grey, can not you imagine a 
love strong enough to be humble? I don't 
think I am a good man, but I love you so I can't 
be selfish. If my affection can give you a little 
rest — if it would ever soothe a lonely hour to 
think, ' He loves me,' I shall be repaid." 



"And it would," Elinor replied; "I shall 
acknowledge that. It would please me, too, 
that in your hopes of success you thought of 
me. But all this is terribly selfish, and I am 
ashamed." 

"Oh, Elinor, Elinor!" he cried, "let this 
be ! Share my hopes with me — talk with me 
— think of them ! My whole soul is at your 
feet and will not come away ! I can not re- 
member my disappointment — I can only feel 
your words. Let me love you ! " 

Elinor leaned back in her chair and shaded 
her eyes with her hand. " I want to be hon- 
est," she said ; " I want, if possible, to tell you 
exactly how I feel. In this moment I am so 
softened by your love that I could yield — I 
could engage myself to you — but it would be 
misery for both." 

" I do not ask you to bind yourself — " 

" Nor must you be bound." 

"Too late. I would not change it if I 
could." 

And once she had hard thoughts of this man 
— had doubted him ! What a wretch she was, 
and what miserable cheats her boasted intui- 
tions were. 

"I don't see where we are," she said slowly ; 
"for both our sakes we must see the ground 
clear now. I tell you fairly it would be better 
if you could go away and learn to think of me 
as a friend — " 

"That is impossible! Don't torture me." 

"But if you stay, what shall I answer?" 

"Tell me I may wait — that I may try to 
teach you to love me. No matter how long a 
term you put, I shall be content. This binds 
you to nothing — I must love you — at least it 
will be kinder than sending me away into the 
dark." 

"It may not be in the end. I can not feel 
this right, Mr. Rossitur." 

"But you can not help my loving you ; that 
admitted, is it not a kindness to show you think 
my love worthy of consideration ?" 

"But this might go on for years." 

' ' Then set a time when I may come for my 
answer. From here till then I will tease you 
with no love-making. We will be friends, but 
friends in the truest sense, who talk with their 
hearts open. Will you consent, Miss Grey?" 

" I can not think it fair — " 

1 ' These are the vainest scruples ! Or, Eli- 
nor, if you could content yourself with being 
loved you might marry me to-morrow." 

" I would not do you that wrong. No, Mr. 
Rossitur, if I ever do become your wife I must 
love you. It might be safe for another woman 
to marry with a less motive, but not for me." 

"You have taken one step when you con- 
template the possibility." 

"Do not deceive yourself; believe exactly 
what I say. You must understand me thor- 
oughly or I should be wretched." 

"I do understand. Will you let me wait? 
May I come again with this question ?" 

"But when?" 



MY DAUGHXEB ELINOR. 



•• Yon shall decide. Mouth*, year? — Eh 
I era ••■ i 

"Bat then shall be a limit. I am d 
ssitur; it mu<: bewro) g 

•■ At least - n shall not answer me now — in 
July."' 

•• July : ; " repeated she. *• It" I could be cer- 
tain it was r:_ 

••Is it pleasant to you! Are yon gi 
think that if you can love me my heart is yours, 

••I: is such a rest — you can not know." 

■ • Then it is right. I don't care for the f - 
I an afraid that any man will cook 

. :n r.s." 

••I should never marry you if there was 
shadow."' she answered. "I am not a young girl. 
know, Mr. Bossil - air to tell you 

that once my hear: went very near anorhe: 
he never knew ir. nor did I know i: till - 
thoughts could be only a memory." 

••I thank you r.ce : it . 

not trouble me.*' 

It - :ory: he 

liked to triumph. uld rind a pleasure in 

driving the old dream ould be a sort 

ofreveng e man. 

"If I. now and that time j 

turn your he..:: from me," s .::;.'. •• 1 

ask y .1 promise 

•■ 1 promise. " 

"And yet I feel that I am treating you un- 
fair". 

• • Think of me as the trnest and most devoted 

ur friends rn to call me by that name, 

will you :" 

"My friend!'' she re;. '. unds 

- 
•• And sometimes when we are alone may I 
call you Eli:. .me comes so natural- 

ly t. 5." 

•• I only ask yon :j do nothing that you 
sha!'. gret In the worst I o 

bear people calling me a rlirt. bu: I coald not 
think yon had been fa 1 be- 

fore the wori 

•■I and - .re for t: 

•• 1 think i: wonld not be doinj: risrht bv von 

■ 

to re s conversation even to my father at 

pre- " - tell him — " 

•• I should be glad he knew." 

• I : would seem to you like a hope. I 
will he honest," 

•• I can't praise you — I haven't any w 

another man would think it 
remind .: he was poor — 

to a-- Dor wealth had not influ- 

enced him — " 

S « interrupted him with a disdainful gesture. 

"You won! - he wen: 

as if he had not observed her movement. " I 
am not afra: money ; probably I shall 

never think abou: 

•■X r I. uu'.css to ho glad, if — " 

•• If v u could learn to love me ! Finish 

rds, Elinor." 



••Don't in.-.'.. - • tl bag that 

regret." 

•• Not a woa . syllable." he said. ■• I 

more about it. You shall 

- now and ery thing ex 

:u you can go when the 
world looks empty and dark." 

•■ Yon an - _ I to me !" 

"So good to ir. - i mean. Elinor."' 

He had been gentle and cautious — not even 
touching her hand as D with less keen 

perceptions would have done. Indeed, if Leigh- 
ton Eossitur could always have been what he 
believed himself in that hour. Eli: . not 

have feared to trust her future to him. 

"I have been unconscionable." he ex- 
claimed: "a brute get how tired you 
:." 

•• Xo. I am : - 

•■ And is the loneliness g 

•• Quite gone 

He gave her one of those beaming smiles 
which made his - 

••I: i> I who : conscience. I hi 

• dreamy and con- 
quite forgetting you ought to be away 
ing your dinner like a sensible man." 

••Please let me staj. I don't want any 
dinner ! I won't be romantic — I ate all sor 
thing- " get the tas Mrs. Dc Lucy's si g- 

;• mouth. Oh, you ai ing! 

I am glad - Now mayn't I pres, 

_ 

■ • Certainly. I am not half so strong-mi: 
as I seem. I like to be directed." 

•• Let me ring for that old Paragon and 
shall have a cup of tea, and then let me sit and 
read or talk — if you are not utterly weary — the 
people will n .ome for hov • 

•• You are so good to me," she repeated. S 
- 

B ssil . si ga 
than any - He ranc, and when H 

who neverallowed any > _ sunder-ser 

to an- bell, appear; Miss 

told him to brinii some tea. 

"Yon shall have soi range pekoe, 

Mr. Rossitur. s Is .^rd for keep- 

ing me company in my solim. 

- Henry tripped away and fulfilled her or- 

Henry adored his mi- ss 
ght any thing about her beyond what she 
said, though a long pilgrimage in this 

:rn fearfully wise : and having 
as i - k to great 

all sexes and r . - • red human nature 

a wretched failure in general, but M:s< 

in his imagination. He came 
back with the tea and a priceless little eo,n: 

:" I j D - - uent 

to the nectax. 

R : ssitur would not let Elinor move. He 
poured out a cup for her and sweetened it just 
enough : most men are crooked abor: 
when the i pretty little b 

Elinor drank her tea and felt revived, and 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



83 



situv sat there for a long time, talking about 
agreeable things, but never once betrayed into 
the weakness of going back to the old subject. 
He made her laugh, and he laughed too as 
blithely as a boy, and glided to graver topics 
and led her to talk about his hopes and feel an 
interest in them, knowing that here was his 
strongest ground, the surest way of teaching her 
woman's nature to feel an interest in himself. 

At last he went away, making her promise 
that she would go at once to bed and have a 
long night's rest. " You are sure you are bet- 
ter?" he asked. 

" Much better, thanks to you." 

" And you won't be lonely ? You will re- 
member your friend who is thinking of you, 
longing to help you." 

" I will remember my friend." 

He took her hand — the fair, beautiful hand 
with so much character in its carefully-modelled 
proportions — looked longingly at it, then laid it 
softly back on the arm of her chair as if it had 
been some sacred treasure. Elinor Grey was a 
woman to appreciate that delicacy. It was one 
bit of acting that night — he knew it would 
please her — but it was acting in which his feel- 
ings so mixed themselves that it was natural 
enough he should have thought it real. 



CHAPTER XVII. 

A NEW INMATE. 

The Thorntons brought their visit to an end 
before Elinor or her father were resigned to 
losing their sunny faces, but Tom was, or fan- 
cied himself, called back to town. It was not 
oftener than once in six months that Tom was 
seized with a mania for thinking he had busi- 
ness which required immediate attention ; when 
it did happen, Rosa declared that he fluttered 
like a pigeon tied to a stake, and imagined 
himself performing remarkable feats because he 
beat his wings insanely and made a grand out- 
cry. Some news he received at this time ex- 
cited the semi-annual fever ; go he must, and 
Rosa would go with him, inventing numerous 
subterfuges, which Elinor pulled to pieces one 
by one. " At least acknowledge that you can 
not stay away from that troublesome Tom," 
said she. 

"I believe that is the truth," returned Rosa, 
apparently in great surprise at the discovery. " I 
suppose the reason I did not recognize it, is be- 
cause truth is a stranger to me." 

" You are a foolish dove," said Elinor. 

" Yes ; but you envy me having some one to 
be foolish over, you tyrannical woman, afraid 
to share your sovereignty." 

" Perhaps I do, " replied Elinor; "I mean 
to be an exception to old maids in general — I 
will always own that I would have married if 
I could." 

" Don't say such horrid things," cried Rosa. 
" I won't have my friends called names!" 

"Except by yourself." 



" Of course I will call them all the wick- 
ednesses I please. The truth is," continued 
Rosa, " I ought to stay and watch you. Here 
are troops of men about — which is it to be?" 

"I could not venture to decide until you pro- 
nounce judgment, dear." 

"Oh, you satirical, deceitful puss. None of 
the foreigners — I won't have that." 

"I promise." 

" Not the politician — his nose turns up." 

" He shall never have a legal right to turn it 
up at me, love, I assure you." 

" Well, not the high and mighty Bostonian, 
either — he walks as if he had a cork leg." 

" I am warned, Cassandra. Are there any 
others ?" 

"Hosts, and you know it; don't be aggra- 
vating. Let me see. No, I do not believe I 
should like Mr. Rossitur, though he is so grace- 
ful and witty." 

" I will tell him when he asks me," said 
Elinor. " But you will finish the list and leave 
me still unprovided for." 

"There's nobody fit to have you," said 
Rosa. 

" 'Praise from,' etcetera." 

"And you're a provoking panther — so you 
are," moaned Rosa. " I can't let you marry any 
of them ; but I must do my duty, and see you 
safe in the hands of some human tiger-tamer." 

"Then you had better stay." 

"Don't urge me — I am torn by conflicting 
emotions," replied she. "No; I must go. Tom 
needs me, and somehow I'm not quite well — I 
am dolefully conscious of a back and painfully 
aware of a shoulder. I'll go to town and keep 
Lent." 

" And get quite strong again." 

" Oh, there is nothing the matter to speak 
of. And Elinor — it won't be Mr. Rossitur ?" 

"I think he is safe, Rosa." 

"I can't tell why— I like him— I don't like 
him. He seems all sincerity and frankness ; I 
don't know what it is. He laughs with his 
mouth, and his eyes look so watchful and cold 
all the while." 

Elinor remembered her old feeling in regard 
to him ; she did not wish to hear it repeated 
by Rosa. 

"Don't have intuitions," said she; "and 
never mind any of the set — troublesome creat- 
ures." 

"Just wait till you come to me in the sum- 
mer," returned Rosa; "we will leave this 
matter till then." 

" Postpone it for ten summers, if you like." 

"The provoking thing; she doesn't care," 
exclaimed Rosa, apostrophizing a bust of Cly- 
tie. " She wants to put me out of temper — I'll 
be angelic just to disappoint her." 

Elinor was glad to get away from the dis- 
cussion. The opinion Rosa had pronounced 
concerning Rossitur gave her a feminine desire 
to contradict ; but though, woman-like, she 
would have defended him warmly, it made her 
think of that first evening, and she could not 



84 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



forget it, until, meeting him, his genial manner 
served to put the fancy out of sight again. 

The days and weeks got by, and Lenten dull- 
ness took the place of the late festivities, but 
people said that it was much less quiet than 
usual, and certain it is that a moderate person 
would have been very well satisfied with the 
gayety which still reigned. 

One day there came a telegram from New 
York ; Miss Laidley had arrived there and was 
in a state of bewilderment at not being received 
by her guardian or some of his friends ; and 
her guardian was equally astonished that he 
had not previously been made acquainted with 
her intentions. That morning's post brought a 
package of Jamaica letters which explained the 
matter and showed that the affectionate aunt 
had duly written. The epistles had been de- 
layed and must have come by the steamer which 
conveyed the young lady herself. Hungarian 
Henry was dispatched to town to smooth all 
earthly ills from Miss Laidley's path, and as 
one of Mr. Grey's friends would be returning 
from New York in a day or so, the Paragon 
took a note to him, that he might proffer his 
assistance to the heiress, and she feel herself 
treated with due consideration. Elinor saw 
that her father was afraid she was annoyed, so 
she received the tidings good-naturedly, gave 
orders for rooms to be put in readiness, and 
only hinted that if the young lady was so del- 
icate she wondered at the aunt's allowing her to 
come North at that season. 

" She says Miss Laidley's 1 spirits were affect- 
ing her health, and there was a good opportu- 
nity for her to come on," replied Mr. Grey. 

" I am afraid she will find it dull ; she is in 
mourning, too." 

"Poor Laidley has been dead a year," said 
he ; "a little amusement will do the poor thing 
good." 

Elinor thought, what was a year; nor indeed 
had so much time as that elapsed ; but she 
said nothing, deciding to wait until she saw 
whether Miss Laidley might be inclined to rush 
into society, in which case she would reserve to 
herself the privilege of setting her down in her 
own mind as an unnatural monster. 

The next day but one Elinor heard a bustle 
in the hall, the pulling about of heavy trunks, 
and she knew that the guest had arrived — her 
precious freedom from restraint was a thing of ] 
the past. She indulged in a long sigh and 
went down stairs, meeting Hungarian Henry, 
who bowed low before her and informed her 
that he had seated the newly-arrived in the 
breakfast-room. Elinor went in and saw a 
slight figure clad in voluminous black draperies 
cowering over the fire, although the room was 
like a hot-house. 

"I am very glad to see you, Miss Laidley," 
said she cheerfully, determined to make the 
wanderer feel at home, and touched by the for- 
lorn attitude which her entrance had disturbed. 
" You are here safe at last. The letters missed, 
which must account for any seeming neglect." 



Elinor walked up to the visitor and extended 
her hand with her most winning smile, and 
Miss Laidley, with a little cry of astonishment, 
rose and held out both hers. "I am so glad 
to see you, Miss Grey," said she; "how nice 
you are to receive me so cordially." . 

"I suppose you are half frozen," returned 
Elinor; " sit still by the fire and take your bon- 
net off. Was the journey very tiresome ?" 

"I didn't mind it," replied Miss Laidley; 
"lam used to travelling." She threw aside her 
bonnet and heavy cloak, and Elinor looked with 
natural curiosity to see what this stranger 
was like who was to be placed in such close 
companionship with herself for a year to come. 
A tall, slight figure, a face with lilies and roses, 
a profusion of houri hair, all made up a pretty 
girl. Elinor looked, and was too much softened 
by the astray, melancholy expression, which she 
had not yet put aside, to form judgments, and in 
her turn Miss Laidley looked and kept her sen- 
timents to herself. 

"I am glad you are here safe," repeated 
Elinor. 

" And I am so glad to be here," replied Miss 
Laidley. 

"Please to give yourself a home feeling at 
once, Miss Laidley," continued her hostess; 
" we must forget that we are strangers." 

"Thank you. I have thought about you so 
much, Miss Grey, that you don't seem a stran- 
ger. I was so disappointed when I arrived at 
New York. I knew the letters must have 
failed. I didn't want to come on at all, but 
Aunt Gordon was uneasy about my health." 

"Your guardian's house seems your natural 
home — if you can be content," said Elinor. 
She became conscious that she was fibbing a 
little in her desire to be hospitable ; it did not 
seem natural that this stranger should be quar- 
tered there. "I trust your health will im- 
prove," she hastened to add. 

" Oh, there is nothing ails me ; only Aunty 
fidgets. I am a nervous, absurd thing, that is 
all. I have had so much trouble, von know — 
poor papa." She began to cry a little in a be- 
coming way, and Elinor comforted her, and 
that went far toward establishing an acquaint- 
ance, for it was Elinor's nature to be kindly 
disposed toward any one who needed consola- 
tion. When Miss Laidley had cried enough 
she dried her eyes, and in five minutes was 
smiling and talking gayly. " You look as I ex- 
pected, Miss Grey, " said she ; " only you are 
more beautiful." 

Now Elinor knew that on ordinary occasions 
she was not beautiful ; to-day she was paler than 
usual, and her eyes were heavy. She gave 
Miss Laidley due credit for her sincerity ; 
and not being softened any longer, owing to 
the disappearance of the melancholy expres- 
sion, she commenced passing judgment in her 
mind. 

"I hope you won't hate me for being your 
father's ward," said Miss Laidley, after an in- 
stants pause which Elinor had not filled up 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



85 



with a return compliment. "It must be odious 
to have a young girl forced in on you." 

" I hope we can make it mutually pleasant," 
replied she. Were they to come to pin-thrusts 
already ? Miss, Laidley had spoken of herself 
as a " young girl :" olid she mean that Elinor was 
so near spinsterhood that she ought to hate her ? 

" I am sure it will be delightful for me," ex- 
claimed Miss Laidley. " I shall love you — I al- 
ways know the moment I see a person — some- 
thing here never deceives me ;"and she laid her 
hand on her heart. 

" You are very good to be favorably impress- 
ed, Miss Laidley," said Elinor. 

"And you must love me a little — now 
won't you ? I may as well tell you in the be- 
ginning — I always own it — I'm a ridiculous 
thing — just like a pane of glass. I say every 
thing in the most heedless way. Aunty always 
scolds me, but I can't remember." She looked 
very pretty and artless ; Elinor was sorry to 
decide that she was a cat. "But you'll keep 
me straight, Miss Grey," continued she; "you 
look very sensible." 

"She means I am ugly," thought Elinor. 
" Come, this is quite refreshing." 

" Promise in advance to love me," said Miss 
Laidley. " I've told you all my faults — and I am 
good-tempered. Now tell me about yourself." 

" I am afraid I can not be so frank ; I shall 
leave you to find out my faults." 

' ' I don't believe you have any. How you will 
help me. Only do love me, though I'm not a bit in- 
tellectual. And call me Genevieve, won't you ?" 

" It is very pretty name," said Elinor, eva- 
sively. 

" I am glad you like it. Papa called me 
Eva and Evangel — dear papa !" She shed two 
more pearly drops, then talked again. "You 
see I have been absurdly petted and spoiled ; 
I'm a perfect child. Just remember that, and 
so excuse me always, won't you ?" 

"I will think of it if occasion should re- 
quire," replied Elinor. 

"You are so kind. I fancy I could be 
afraid of you, but I won't ; you look very 
stately though." 

" I hope you won't find me very formidable." 

" You are delightful. I can remember see- 
ing you once — I was a tiny thing — I recollect 
you as tall and grave and queenly." 

Elinor did a little subtraction very rapidly. 
Miss Laidley was two years and six months 
younger than herself; the airs of extreme 
youthfulness and the implied gap of immensity 
between their ages was a good beginning. 

"Do you recollect me?" asked Miss Laidley. 

" Oh yes, enough to make me feel that I am 
welcoming an acquaintance." 

" Say friend— I want to be such friends with 
you ! Was I pretty, dear Miss Grey ?" 

"Very pretty." 

"And terribly spoiled?" 

" Terribly." 

And Miss Laidley clapped her hands and 
cooed ; and she did it very charmingly. 



"The infantile style is becoming to her," 
thought Elinor. "Now I wonder if it is nat- 
ural, or if she is an artful little animal. She 
isn't little though ; it's only that she's so slight 
and willowy." 

Miss Laidley had burst out again. "And 
your papa, tell me about him. Oh, I know he 
is fascinating ; all the world says that. Will 
he like me ?" 

"Yes, lam sure he will," Elinor answered 
confidently, feeling certain that Miss Laidley 
could make herself agreeable to any man. 

"You must tell me what will please him — 
won't you ?" 

"Just be yourself; I am certain he will be 
charmed." 

"Ah, you have complimented me at last," 
cried she with another coo. "I do love com- 
pliments, and I always own it ; Aunty scolded 
me for that too. Oh dear, she's very severe ; 
but I love her. She's so strict with her 
daughters ; but they are not a bit pretty." 

"You must have been a dangerous rival, 
then," said Elinor. 

"I was in mourning, you know; but still 
they were jealous. Oh, I didn't mean that — I 
told you how heedless I was — I am very fond 
of them all." She went on to tell how happy 
they had all been together — the sort of senti- 
ment in which the aunt had indulged in her 
letter. 

" You must have grieved very much at leav- 
ing them," said Elinor. 

"I was heart-broken. Only toward the last 
it wasn't so pleasant. Cousin Josephine had a 
lover and they were engaged, and the stupid 
fellow must needs be struck with little me. I 
was so sorry. I couldn't help it, you know." 
" Did they think you could ?" 
"I'm afraid they did. Aunty looked so 
black and Josephine cried till her nose — oh, I 
can't give you an idea how her nose looked." 

" I trust it has resumed its natural appear- 
ance before this, and that she is reconciled to 
her lover," said Elinor. 

" Dear me, I'm afraid not. He went off to 

Cuba. You see I was lonesome and used to 

walk in the myrtle grove a great deal ; and he 

had no business to come there, but he would — " 

" Dare danger." 

"Yes — oh no, I didn't mean to be danger- 
ous. I never thought at all — only about poor 
papa. But one day the great goose went down 
on his knees to me, and Josephine found him." 
"That was unpleasant." 
' ' Oh dear, I wished myself in heaven. There 
was a great scene. I said I hadn't expected it 
— that I didn't care a pin for him ; but she sent 
him off. He met me once after, and tried to be 
nonsensical, but I wouldn't have it — you can un- 
derstand how I felt." Elinor thought she under- 
stood the matter with tolerable clearness. Miss 
Laidley must flirt and tease somebody ; if a wom- 
an's heart was broken and a man's faith violated, 
she could only cry and say, " I didn't think." 
"But how I am gossiping," she exclaimed. 



sa 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



" I told you how heedless I was. Indeed 
I wasn't to blame, and I love them all veiy 
much. I know I shall tell you every thing ; 
you are the sort of person one can't help being 
confidential with ; magnetism, isn't it ?" 

" I am not a professor," said Elinor. 

" Oh, you are laughing at me. I dare say 
I am silly.' But I can always tell — I feel it 
here — in my heart. And you must talk tome. 
Oh, have you any secrets, Miss Grey ?" 

"Not one, unfortunately." 

" Such a pity. I always have a hundred at 
least ; a little mystery is so nice. But you 
have hosts of admirers, I have heard, and they 
say you love nobody, and are like — like — Di- 
ana. Who was she?" She did and said 
nonsensical things in a very bewitching way. 
Elinor had not fully decided whether she were 
only weak, selfish, vain, and with a certain 
quickness of wit that answered instead of in- 
tellect, or whether there was more under. 
" Shall we go up stairs now ?" she asked. "By 
the time we get dressed my father will be 
home." 

" I shall be so nervous ; I hope I won't be 
afraid," returned Miss Laidley. " I must look 
a perfect fright too. Do tell me if my eyelids 
are red." 

" ' Twin white rose leaves,' " quoted Elinor. 

" How pretty ; I wish I could say such pretty 
things." 

"Unfortunately it was not original." 

" Oh, you read ? They say you are so in- 
tellectual ; and I don't know any thing. I shall 
try to be like you. No, it wouldn't do ; I 
should be ridiculous. I must be an absurd lit- 
tle canary-bh'd to the end of my days." 

Elinor gathered the wraps and they went up 
stairs. Miss Laidley was in ecstasies wkh her 
two pretty rooms. 

" You can have all the retirement you wish," 
said Elinor. 

"Thank you — so good. But I don't like to 
be alone much. You'll let me sit with yon, 
won't you ?" 

" You shall have as much of my society as. 
you choose to take," replied Elinor, but she 
groaned inwardly at the prospect of having her 
privacy intruded upon. "I hope you will be 
happy with us, Miss Laidley." 

" Happy as a bird — only for thinking of dear 
papa. But I won't be gloomy ; I promised 
Aunty I would not, and I must obey her now 
poor papa is gone." 

Elinor thought of the myrtle grove, of the 
young man down on his knees, of the unfortu- 
nate Ariadne with her swollen nose, and the 
mother's rage — it all joined prettily with this 
last bit of dutiful sentiment. 

" And your father," pursued Miss Laidley ; 
"of course I shall consult him and do what he 
wishes." 

" It will be unnecessary trouble ; only amuse 
yourself and my father will be quite content," 
said Elinor, and she had some difficulty in 
saying it smoothly. 



"But I shall need his advice and yours; 
| you must keep me straight, Miss Grey — I am so 
heedless." 

Enough of this for once was what Miss Grey 

thought, but she said — "I believe, then, I 

must begin by advising you to dress. I see 

they have brought your boxes. Will you have 

! my maid ?" 

"Oh, mine is with me — my old Juanita — 
the most faithful mulatto; she doats on me." 

Miss Grey without more ado rang for the 
faithful Juanita and she appeared, a shrivelled 
middle-aged woman with great gold hoops in 
her ears, and wild eyes that made her look like 
a gipsy, and a complexion so peculiar that it was 
not easy to decide whether she were yellowish- 
brown or brownish - yellow. She chattered 
Spanish and she talked volubly in English ; 
she kissed Miss Grey's hand, flew at her young 
j mistress and embraced her as if they had been 
1 separated for a year; and Elinor went to her 
, own room feeling that there never were mistress 
and maid more completely suited to each other, 
and wishing devoutly that their stars had led 
' them in any direction except to their present 
shelter. 

When Elinor was dressed she tapped at Miss 
Laidley's door, bat the young lady was not 
ready. 

"Presently, if she please, Senora mia," said 
Juanita. "My young lady not quite ready, 
bress you." 

"She will find me in the library," said Eli- 
nor. 

She had not been sitting there long before 
her father came in, scrupulously dressed for din- 
ner — a compliment he always paid his daugh- 
ter. 

" You have heard of Miss Laidley's arrival, 
I suppose, papa?" Elinor said. 

"Yes, my daughter. Won't she be down to 
dinner ?" 

" She was not quite ready to appear." 

"I know you made her feel at home, mv 
Elinor." 

"I tried to, papa. I think she will accom- 
odate herself easily to new scenes." 

" I hope you will like her. I am very selfish 
for my daughter Elinor, I am afraid ; I ought 
to be thinking of her likes, poor young stran- 
ger." 

Elinor went and kissed him and told him 
what a blessed darling he was, but just then the 
door opened and Miss Laidley appeared. She 
was dressed in black, but her neck and arms 
were uncovered, and her beautiful hair was re- 
lieved by white flowers ; Elinor would hardly 
have known her. She stood for a second by 
the door in the loveliest attitude of timidity. 

" Now I know why she wasn't ready, " thought 
wicked Elinor ; " she did not wish the effect of 
her entrance spoiled." If Elinor's thought 
was correct, one could not blame the creature; 
she did the thing perfectly. I can give you 
no idea of what it was like, unless you saw 
Laura Keene in the days when she charmed 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



87 



all New York. Mr. Grey admired the attitude 
to the full and went forward to meet her. "I 
need no introduction to my ward," he said. 
''My dear young lady, I am delighted to see 
you." 

Miss Laidley threw back her head a little, 
held out both white hands, and smiled at him 
like an Undine. "I am glad to see you too, 
Sir — I am a little frightened — I know you will 
be good to me, though." Then the white hands 
sank in his in such a confiding way, the blue 
eyes looked so trustingly up, and with his an- 
tique gallantry Mr. Grey kissed the dainty 
fingers and thought her bewitching. He told 
her how grieved he was the letters should have 
been delayed — what a pleasure her arrival was — 
asked her to feel at home, and was very agree- 
able. "We will at least study your happi- 
ness," said he. 

" You are so kind. It reminds me of papa." 
She struck another attitude — it was prettier 
than the first — and the great tears filled her 
blue eyes. 

"My poor child," said Mr. Grey, "we have 
grieved with you ; don't think of those sad 
things." 

"I won't — I didn't mean to — you won't no- 
tice my foolishness," said Miss Laidley, broken- 
ly. 

" I honor you for your tenderness to the be- 
loved memory," returned Mr. Grey, but he 
looked somewhat helplessly toward Elinor, not 
being much accustomed to young women who 
were of the melting order. But Miss Laidley 
gave Elinor no time to come to the rescue; she 
dashed away her tears, glided out of the droop- 
ing attitude, and smiled brightly on her guardi- 
an. He made proper inquiries after her aunt 
and family, and said how much he would like to 
see them again. He always remembered them 
as a hungry pelican and her brood, but he did 
not say that. " I suppose you found the sea 
voyage very tiresome." 

" Oh very ; I was horribly sick. I did think 
I should die, and I didn't want to, you know." 

"We couldn't have spared you, I know," 
said he. 

"But there were some pleasant people on 
board," she continued ; " Mrs. Jameson and I 
quite enjoyed it when we got well.'' 
"Many ladies?" 

"Oh no; only two or three." She said it 
with such devout thankfulness in her voice, 
quite unconscious though, that Elinor smiled. 

Dinner was announced, and Elinor, all the 
while thinking how silly it was, felt a pang 
when her father offered his arm to Miss Laid- 
ley. No more pleasant tcte-a-tete dinners to 
which he had led her with such charming 
courtesy ; this girl would always be there now. 
The coming year looked very long as Miss Grey 
regarded it on her progress into the dining-room. 
"And if she doesn't marry, she may stay with 
us after her majority," she thought. "Oh, 
Rosa Thornton shall find her a husband ; she 
must have a husband." 



But the dinner was gay ; Elinor did her 
part, and her father talked, and Miss Laidley 
said any quantity of heedless things, but was 
never silly. In his masculine blindness Mr. 
Grey hoped that his ward might prove an agree- 
able companion to Elinor after all. "I sup- 
pose Washington is dull now," she said. 

' ' Very, " replied Mr. Grey ; " but we must try 
not to let the time drag on your hands." 

" Oh, if I consulted my own wishes I should 
stay shut up in the house," she answered. 

"But that would not be wise, my dear young 
lady-" 

"No, I promised Aunty I would go out. 
She made me promise to get some things in 
New York ; and I wanted to obey her last re- 
quest, you know ; I must not be selfish." 

"You could never be that, I am sure," said 
Mr. Grey. 

" I am in half-mourning, any way," she con- 
tinued, turning to Elinor. "I got all lavenders 
and whites — lovely things. I shall be heart- 
broken, I know, at going out ; but I won't be 
selfish and make every body miserable by my 
gloom." 

" Your sentiments do you the greatest credit," 
said Mr. Grey, for he had a horror of mourning 
or being reminded that there were such unpleas- 
ant things in the world as sorrow and death. 

"Then I shall say my guardian insists on 
my not staying shut up," returned she. 
" I do indeed ; I can not permit it." 
"It weighs on my spirits so; I get miser- 
able." 

Mr. Grey inwardly vowed that go out she 
should ; he could not endure having a lachry- 
mose damsel in his tent. 

"But I wouldn't dance," she added to Eli- 
nor; "unless it might be in the most private 
way." 

" You can easily go to the little reunions 
people give in Lent," said Mr. Grey. "My 
dear young lady, you must allow me to insist 
that you do — and you must dance." 

" I shall obey you ; I mean to be good." She 
smiled at him artlessly, and Elinor could have 
hoxed her ears. It was plain to her that the 
girl only wanted to force her father to urge her 
to go out, that she might have an excuse if 
blamed ; and she was a little monster, just as 
Rosa Thornton had predicted. 

When people learned that the other heiress 
had arrived she had any number of calls, and 
did what Elinor expected. She told every 
body how loth she was to stir out, how any 
approach to gayety jarred upon her feelings. 
But she averred that she could not be selfish ; 
she had promised her guardian not to make a 
nun of herself; besides, it would be wicked of 
her to sadden her kind friends with her sorrows. 
Elinor found that Miss Laidley expected an 
opening festivity of some kind in the house in 
honor of her arrival. Not that she said so ; she 
only accidentally admitted that some of the 
callers had asked when there was to be such, 
and that she had not known what to say. Elinor 



88 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



complied, and gathered a set to look at the heir- 
ess, who was more than a little dissatisfied be- 
cause it was not a ball, and told people how saint- 
ly dear Miss Grey was ; how she admired her : 
only she did hope she would not be perverted to 
Romanism. Naturally it was not long before El- 
inor heard that a report was prevalent that her 
reading of Doctor Pusey and keeping of Church 
days was fast leading her into the bosom of the 
Scarlet Woman, but she did not trace the story 
to Miss Laidley, and deigned no contradiction. 

" Dear Elinor insists on having a little party 
for me," the young lady said to Mr. Grey. " I 
know you want to make me happy. I can not 
thank you enough. If you see me looking sad, 
remind me of it; don't let me seem ungrate- 
ful." 

Mr. Grey praised and flattered her to her 
heart's content, and went away thinking what 
an affectionate little thing she was and what a 
pretty picture she made with the tears in her 
blue eyes. The disconsolate one shut herself 
in her room and ordered old Juanita to spread 
out the numberless new robes which had come 
on from Madame Pinchon, that she might de- 
cide which would be most becoming and would 
utterly annihilate Miss Grey. She tried to 
make Juanita own that their hostess was hand- 
some in order that she might he vexed, but 
Juanita was too wise, and then Miss Laidley 
scratched her, metaphorically, for disappointing 
her. 

After the evening, when she was so quiet 
that Elinor was surprised, the invitations began 
to be frequent, and Miss Laidley sighed and 
wept a little, but declared that she could not 
hesitate about making the sacrifice for her 
guardian and her beloved Miss Grey. So Eli- 
nor said to her father — " I must ask Mrs. Cope- 
land to go out with us; I believe I can't play 
chaperon quite yet." And Mrs. Copeland was 
quite happy to oblige the young ladies, but Miss 
Laidley said artlessly — "Dear me, Miss Grey, 
how stupid I am. I never thought but that 
you could be chaperon to both of us." 

" I wonder if I have gray hair and wrinkles ?" 
thought Elinor. " Little gnat, either you are 
very shallow or you are too pert for any 
woman's politeness to endure long." 

It was not a great while before Elinor discov- 
ered Miss Laidley's drift at least in one direc- 
tion. She had been quiet at first because she 
was watching people. The myrtle grove affair 
was evidently the sort of amusement in which 
Miss Laidley delighted. The unscrupulous way 
in which she spoiled married womens' flirtations 
and took possession of other girls' lovers, was 
something good to see ; and all the while she 
was so innocent that every body except the de- 
serted ones was deceived. She bewailed her 
successes without reserve, was pained and 
had not meant any harm — a poor little thing 
who was grieving for her dear papa, and 
would not go out only that she had no 
right to make her guardian's house dark with 
her sorrow. She told Elinor things which 



made her listener's hair stand on end, although 
she was not a prude, nor given to suspecting 
other women of wickedness ; but Miss Laidley 
was so childish about it, one could hardly be- 
lieve she comprehended how wrong it was, and 
she cried if any body looked disapproval. 

Leighton Rossitur was a good deal at the 
house, and Miss Laidley was dying to discover 
if Elinor cared for him ; failing in that, she left 
him out of her guerilla attacks until such time 
as she might have exhausted the field which was 
plain before her. " She is one of those creat- 
ures to whom the French words she is fond of 
using so well apply," said Rossitur one evening 
to Miss Grey. " She is gracieuse, caline, enfant' 
ine ; I hope she hasn't claws." 

"I think she is only thoughtless and child- 
ish," said Elinor good-naturedly. " She is 
very pretty, and seems very amiable." 

" She is too selfish to be otherwise unless 
opposed,'" returned Rossitur; and with his usual 
discernment he read Miss Laidley very correctly. 
The terms on which Miss Grey and Leighton 
Rossitur stood were exceptional enough, but he 
was faithful to his promise ; there was no love- 
making. He proved a delightful companion 
during those weeks. No Bayard was ever more 
chivalrous and devoted ; but he never endan- 
gered his position by a moan or a sentimental 
look. Whenever he could see Elinor alone lie 
talked as he would only to the person whom in 
the whole world he most honored and respected. 
He needed her approval to every hope ; with it 
all he made it apparent that he regarded her 
as a devotee might some guardian saint wor- 
shiped in secret. He was always shielding her 
from annoyance or weariness, but so cautiously 
that people did not talk. He made himself 
necessary to her in numberless ways, and day 
after day Elinor felt how rapidly she was learn- 
ing to trust him, to lean on him. Willingly 
would she have gone further if it had been possi- 
ble; but when she tried in thought, there came 
such an ache in her heart, such a loathing and 
horror of the very idea of loving any man 
now, that she had to get away from the thought. 
She must think of him as her friend — the truest 
and most devoted woman ever had. In that 
light it was a pleasure to think of him ; it rested 
her in her solitary hours, and kept from her the 
loneliness and desolation. But the instant she 
tried to go beyond this there was a recoil so vi- 
olent that it actually affected her physically — 
the touch of his hand in the dance would 
make her shudder. 

Dangerous work for a woman so organized 
to try to love any man ; and Elinor becoming 
conscious of it, reposed wholly on the friendship, 
conscientiously endeavoring not to do the least 
thing which could make him feel that he had 
been trifled with if the term of probation should 
close and find her no nearer him than now. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



89 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE IDOL'S SUCCESS. 

About this time Mrs. Hackett, the golden 
Idol, being in need of change, made her appear- 
ance in Washington, with two maids and a man, 
and an express train full of baggage, as was 
befitting her state and dignity. The coloniza- 
tion movement had proved a failure, and the 
Idol wearying of it, the scheme was likely to die 
a lingering death and be buried ignominiously. 
Mrs. Hackett had found doing the public bene- 
factress tiresome business. Vulgar people had ac- 
tually besieged her doors ; odorous specimens of 
the Great Unwashed in the way of foreign poor 
had stood on the steps of her mansion and desired 
to be sent to the land of gold without delay ; al- 
together it was more than she bargained for. So 
she came away to the Capital and established 
herself for a few weeks. 

I am inclined to think that she had hoped to 
be invited to take up her quarters in the Sec- 
retary's house; and Mr. Grey, with a recol- 
lection of the need of keeping the Bull tranquil 
in his Wall Street pasture strong upon him, 
hinted to Elinor that he supposed such invita- 
tion would be agreeable. But that sacrifice 
Miss Grey felt would be a work of supereroga- 
tion. She compromised for any number of din- 
ners, and courtesies of every other description, 
and Mr. Grey was glad to yield, conscious that 
to make the house a temporary shrine for the 
Idol would be terribly overpowering. 

Mrs. Hackett was feasted to an extent that 
would have been dangerous to any body but a 
golden Idol with a digestion to match, and the 
wheels of her pedestal rolled from the White 
House itself to the dwellings of statesmen and 
Conscript Fathers, and the retreats of foreign 
dignitaries. It was a little odd to observe, that 
while the foreign dignitaries and their trains 
were never weary of crying out against the 
blind Yankee devotion to wealth, how cheer- 
fully they too prostrated themselves before her. 
It was rumored that one or two licked up gold 
dust enough, through the aid of the Bull him- 
self, to purchase some gorgeous sets of jewels 
which their titled spouses sported the succeed- 
ing summer at Newport and alluded to as 
" cherished heirlooms — family gems which once 
crowned the brows of queens," and that sort 
of thing. But the Idol amid all the worship 
was faithful to her old friendships. 

There was no man whose flatteries were so 
pleasant as those of Mr. Grey, and she admired 
Elinor more than ever. She at once took Miss 
Laidley to her heart because she was the Sec- 
retary's ward and Elinor's supposed friend, 
styled her, " a gushing young flower," and pet- 
ted her exceedingly ; in return for which and 
numberless presents, Miss Laidley adored her 
in public and called her dreadful names behind 
her back and then said — "I didn't mean it. I 
am so heedless." 

The Idol speedily recovered from the little 
shade which had been cast over her spirits by 



Nicaraguan horrors, and was radiant. " My 
dear Miss Grey," she said, "this visit has re- 
vivified me! Communion with these exalted 
spirits who rule our happy land has pyramided 
my soul into purer airs." 

"I am glad you are enjoying it," Elinor re- 
plied. 

"Enjoyment is too feeble," cried the Idol. 
" As I said to the illustrious head of the Repub- 
lic last night — I thrill with rapture and scin- 
tillate with delight." 

"Oh how beautiful!" cried Miss Laidley, 
who was sitting on a footstool at the Idol's 
feet. 

It was one of Elinor's reception-days, and 
the Idol had asked to come and spend the whole 
morning — making it her reception too — and 
Elinor could not refuse. It was early yet and 
people had not begun to appear, so the Idol 
was seated in gorgeous array and pouring out 
her overflowing heart to her young friends. 

" It is absolute poetry !" cried Miss Laidley. 
'Scintillate with delight!' Oh, mayn't I say 
it ? I do so like pretty phrases ! I'll give you 
credit for it, darling Mrs. Hackett." 

"Foolish child!" cried the Idol. "Oh, 
gushing youth, how sweet thou art !" 

" Now that's prettier than the other," said 
Miss Laidley. " I don't know which to treasure 
up among so many poetical gems." 

"Your partiality for me blinds your eyes," 
said the Idol. "But, dear child, if any lucu- 
brations of my poor brain can be worth your 
repeating, I shall be flattered and proud." 

She was so good and kind, in spite of her 
absurdities, that Elinor returned Miss Laidley's 
mischievous look with the first frown she had 
ever bestowed upon her. Miss Laidley only 
made a mouth like a naughty child and con- 
tinued — 

" I mean to write down all of them I can re- 
member. I know one thing, Mrs. Hackett — if 
you'd make a book of such sentences it would bs 
a priceless treasure." 

"I have so little leisure for literary effort," 
replied the Idol ; " nor can I think my Lava- 
ters would make an aphorism." 

"I am sure they would," said Miss Laidley 
confidently ; and not knowing Lavater even by 
name, she was dreadfully puzzled to understand 
what the Idol meant under that confusion of 
terms. 

"Perhaps. We shall see when returning 
summer invites me to sylvan shades ; where I 
hope to greet you and our peeress Miss Grey." 

Gentle Laidley did not wish Miss Grey to 
have even an ungrammatical compliment when 
she got none, so she put out her claws a little 
way from under the velvet. 

"Is Elinor going to be a peeress? What 
lord is there in her train ?" 

" I applied the term to her charms, my love," 
said the Idol. "I knew a child of genius last 
summer who spoke of her as Elinor the peeress." 

" Oh, who was it?" demanded Miss Laidley, 
hoping that she might get on the track of 



00 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR 



even the smallest of Miss Grey's secrets. " Who 
was the child, dear Mrs. Hackett?" 

"Ah, I must not whisper old tales," replied 
she. " 1 meant Childe as Moore employs the 

word." 

" But tell me who it was," urged the damsel. 

Elinor did not wisli the conversation to turn 
on those days or that one name. "1 think 
Miss Laidley is surprised that 1 should have had 
a compliment," said she. laughing. 

'■Oh, now she is scolding me!" cried Baby. 
"Don't let her, dear Mrs. Hackett ! 1 am 
afraid of her — she is so superior." 

•• Miss Grey was only dallying with a jest," 
said the Idol. 

"What a lovely death's-head !'' exclaimed 
Miss Laid ley suddenly. 

She might have been applying the term to 
Elinor, only she had seized an ornament hang- 
ing to the Idol's chatelaine. It was a marvel- 
lous little work of art cut out of a ruby, and had 
cost goodness knows how much, but the Idol 
took it off the chain at once. '• Wear it and 
love the giver, " said she. 

" Xo, no ! I didn't mean that. You are too 
kind! I haven't the strength to refuse," cried 
Mi<> Laidley. 

•■ Fain me not," returned the Idol. "It is 
but a gloomy type for so fair a flower to sport ; 
but wear it and think of me." 

To desire herself remembered in company 
with a death's-head, although a ruby one, was 
not Battering, but her intention was kindly, and 
Elinor looked on in wonder that any creature 
so young and rich could be so mean and such a 
rapacious swallower of gifts from every quarter 
available. 

"You give me so many things that I am 
ashamed," said Miss Laidley. " One of these 
days I must search all Paris for something wor- 
thy of your acceptance." 

" Speak not thus," said Mrs. Hackett ; " give 
me your sunny smiles. I could ask no brighter 
coronet." 

She was terribly stilted and not seldom hor- 
ribly ungrammatical, but Elinor vowed that 
henceforth she would not hear one so good-nat- 
ured laughed about. 

"You are the darlingest duchess!" cried 
Mi<s Laidley. "Oh, mayn't I call you Duch- 
ess? The title just suits you." 

•• Gushing child! Call me what you will," 
said the Idol. 

After that Miss Laidley often greeted her by 
the lofty appellation, and in private she named 
her Duchess Dumpty. She hung the ruby to 
her own chatelaine and did an immensity of baby 
talk over it which had ceased to be graceful to 
Elin< r, but with which the gullible Idol was 
enchanted. '"The irradious flower of youth!" 
cried she. "Ah, Miss Grey, to you in your 
Elizabethan puressness, to me in my world- 
worn experiences, how sweet this fragrant art- 
lessness is." 

"Oh, do you think Elinor Elizabethan?" 
cried Miss Laidley. •• My, she isn't an old maid 



yet" — with an almost imperceptible lingering 
on the particle. 

"My child," exclaimed the Idol in horror, 
" Miss Grey is at the axis of maiden loveli- 
ness. 1 applied the term to her stateliness, 
her queenly mien." 

Elinor would not give Miss Laidley the satis- 
faction of supposing she thought the words 
maliciously intended, else she could have dealt 
her a delightful stab ; besides she must be polite 
j in her own house, and the creature was not 
worth an answer. 

'• Oli no," continued the Idol ; " Miss Grey is 
my cynosure — my dream of perfection." 

••Oh, now I don't know what you mean in 
the least; you are too poetical," said Miss Laid- 
ley. wishing she had kept her malice to herself 
since it only resulted in praise of Elinor. 

" Miss Grey has been a toast on titled lips,'' 
pursued the Idol loftily ; "a monument of ad- 
miration in imperial halls." 

" Dear me, a monument !" said Miss Laidley 
innocently. '• Wasn't it very tiresome, Elinor." 

"In metaphor." said the Idol. 

" I'd rather have been in white tulle," said 
Miss Laidley. 

•• lie sure she was in whatever A'enus's taste 
might have chosen," said the Idol. Present or 
absent she was faithful to her friendship. 

•• Oh, don't praise her any more," cried Miss 
Laidley, in her most naive way. "Praise me 
now. " 

"Lovely blossom — transparent dew-drop of 
purity," returned the Idol, quite moved by her 
artlessness. 

"I'd rather be that than a monument," said 
Miss Laidley. " What if I should call von so, 
Elinor?" 

" I think you may keep to my name unadorn- 
ed," replied Elinor quietly, but Miss Laidley 
understood the tone and knew that it would be 
wise so to do. 

'• Hark !" said the Idol, assuming a tragic de- 
meanor, as she was fond of doing. "The roll 
of wheels. The world is rushing back to dis- 
turb our Ethiopia." 

" I am going to repeat that too ; it is beauti- 
I ful," exclaimed Miss Laidley, and she was as 
good as her word. 

"I fear we shall be thronged," said the Idol. 
"I have told my friends, dear Miss Grey, that 
I was to be with you this morning — so sweet of 
you." 

" On the contrary I am very much obliged to 
you for coming," said Elinor ; " it turns out a 
real favor, for Mis. Copeland sent me word last 
night that she could not be here, and I am too 
near "Miss Laidley's own age to be chaperon 
and hostess too." 

If Miss Laidley could have bitten her it 
would have been bliss to her feelings, but she 
could not venture to speak even. 

"Always thoughtful, always Vesta's self," 
cried the Idol. " I hold myself honored that 1 
can do you the least favor." 

"I mean it too," said Elinor; "and I beg 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



91 



you to believe, Mrs. Hackett, that I am grate- 
ful for your friendship and admiration although 
they do overrate me." 

Miss Laidley thought it would be well to be 
cautious ; evidently Miss Grey did not mean 
her to make sport of the Idol with impunity. 
" Somebody coming at last," said she, and felt 
relieved. 

While she was arranging a new smile, she 
thought how she would revenge herself by talk- 
ing of "Duchess Dumpty ;" and that Elinor, 
grown odious, how could she worry her ? It 
was difficult to find a way, skilled as Miss Laid- 
ley was in the art of annoyance. The" horrid 
thing had no secrets — she cared for no man — 
how could she touch her ? A little martyrdom 
might be effective. If she could make people 
think Elinor tyrannized over her — that would 
be delightful and punish her properly for her 
dignity and reserve and fling a new halo of in- 
terest about herself. She was frank enough to 
own the thoughts ; she was not in the least 
ashamed of them, and kept her lies for other 
people. 

Callers came and went, and said languid stu- 
pidities and drank more chocolate than was 
wholesome, to pass the allotted time. The Idol 
loomed magnificent, and Miss Laidley was like 
a streak of sunshine — April sunshine — because 
occasionally she would do a little grief, stretch 
her hands toward imaginary guardian angels, 
slip in wickednesses about Duchess Dumpty, 
and shy stinging words at Elinorwhen an oppor- 
tunity offered. Fortunately men are not a rari- 
ty in Washington — indeed, I think I don't go too 
far in saying there are more than I see any need 
of, if it is a paradise for women — so the feminine 
ranks were not left to their own resources. 
Plenty of men came who ought to have been 
in their seats or at their bureaus, but men would 
go where Elinor Grey was, and that made sis- 
ter-women want to be near her. 

Leighton Rossitur found his way before the 
morning was over — about the time he thought 
Elinor would begin to wish for him — and his ap- 
pearance had never been more welcome. 

" Ah, Mr. Rossitur," said the Idol, "only 
think how fleeting life is!" It was useless to 
inquire what caused the thought. " I am think- 
ing of that fair bud of Murray Hill whom we 
all admired." 

"Oh yes; poor Miss Jones," said Rossitur. 
"I was shocked to hear of her death; very 
sudden, was it not ?" 

" Very. She caught cold ; guitar in the head 
followed — was neglected ; tubbercils formed on 
the lungs, and she went to the stream of Lethe 
— though was it Lethe or Tempe where the an- 
cients sent their lost ?" she asked. 

Rossitur was silent because Miss Grey was 
close at hand, but a grave Congressman, who 
probably knew about as mucli of ancient lore 
as the Idol, replied that he thought it was both. 

"It may have been," said Mrs. Hackett. 
" And she has gone ! So it is we cry to our 
loveliest, val veil; and they fade away." 



Lethe and Tempe had recalled her classical 
studies to her mind, but she instantly apologized 
for her indulgence in learning. "It was a 
lingual lapse; I would not be a pedanter; I 
employed the sweet Latin phrase thoughtlessly. 
I have been wandering with Augusta, Mr. Ros- 
situr." 

Wickedness must gain the day if it lost him 
Elinor, and Rossitur could not help replying 
that he hoped she had found Augusta an agreea- 
ble companion. 

"The poets of her age, you know," pursued 
the Idol — "sweet-singing JEneid and eclogic 
Homer." 

Elinor had to smile under Rossitur's eyes, 
but she shook her head, and he did a bit of 
penitence a few moments after. " I didn't mean 
to," said he; "please forgive me." 

" But we won't laugh at her," returned Eli- 
nor ; " don't let us be like these people." 

" You have said ' we,' " whispered Rossitur. 
" She is safe as far as I am concerned. Arc 
you sure I am your friend still ? I have scarcely 
seen you for three days." 

"And I have missed you," answered Elinor; 
"does that content my friend?" 

Some one was coming up ; he could only re- 
ply by a look, but it had such patient devotion 
in it that Elinor was absolutely pained. 

" Oh," thought Miss Laidley, " if I only knew 
whether she cared for him!" She was talking 
sweetly to two men, but she saw Elinor all the 
while, and her head was clear enough to pursue 
a train of reflection entirely removed from her 
conversation. " He haa no eyes except for 
her," she went on, between a smile and a repar- 
tee for her admirers ; "and he is so handsome. 
I wish I knew. Bless me doesn't he even re- 
member I am here ?" 

Rossitur's polite indifference had caused Miss 
Laidley to think a good deal about him of late. 
If the strongest passion his heart would ever 
know had not had full possession of the em- 
bryo statesman, and he had desired to win the 
heiress and her cargo, he could not have pur- 
sued a wiser plan than this which he followed 
without any regard to her. She had begun to 
think about Leighton Rossitur; it was quite 
probable if something new did not divert her 
attention that she would make a romance in 
her mind and adore him as the hero ; for live a 
romance in some form she must. If she could 
only have been certain that Elinor cared for 
him she would have rushed into love and abso- 
lutely made Rossitur carry off herself and her 
money. For she thought incessantly about her 
money, delicate and refined as she looked ; she 
loved it and she was miserably avaricious except 
where her own vanity could be gratified. 

The Idol had agreed to stay and eat a quiet 
dinner after the fatigues of the morning, and 
Elinor asked Rossitur to come back and help 
her through. 

" That will be delightful," said the Idol over- 
hearing ; " quite Lucullian." 

"What does that mean?" asked a woman 



92 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



who came up at the moment to take leave, ami 
who baring conceived a hatred for the Idol 
longed to deal her a blow. " Lucucullian ? 
What is it? Any thing like culinary ?" 

The Idol glared. This woman — this Mrs. 
Tallman — had on several occasions made her- 
self odious to her. It was unusual and insup- 
portable to the Idol to have her pedestal shaken 
by such thrusts. "I addressed a responsive 
soul," returned she loftily; "Mr. Rossitur un- 
derstood." 

"Have you any thing culinary in your soul, 
Mr. Rossitur?" asked the undaunted Mrs. Tall- 
man, not flinching under the Idol's gaze, but 
returning it audaciously even and eager for a 
fray. 

"I have a liking for culinary triumphs, at all 
events," said he. 

"And I believe," said the Idol with great 
majesty, "that Mr. Rossitur at least" — she em- 
phasized the words — "perfectly understood 
when I referred to the banquets of Lueullus." 

" We shall all have to provide ourselves with 
classical dictionaries," retorted Mrs. Tallman, 
determined not to be put down. 

" If wc could be more classical in many 
ways it woidd be an improvement," said the 
Idol, and feeling that she had the best of her 
adversary she turned away. 

Mrs. Tallman took her leave, vowing revenge 
in her soul, for she had an old grudge against 
the Idol which the triumphs of this Washington 
visit had only increased. Elinor could have 
made a little moan over the unpleasant things 
which she was forced to do and the disagreeable 
people she was obliged to meet. This very 
Mrs. Tallman — certainly it was a mild species 
of torture to bo obliged to send her cards for 
receptions, to endure her loud voice and her 
overpowering manners — but it had to be done. 
Mrs. Tallman's husband was seated where 
he had a vote, and there was a measure com- 
ing up before the House in which Mr. Grey de- 
sired to secure the Californian's voice on the 
side of the Administration, so Elinor must be 
civil to his wife. But she must allow herself 
the privilege of saying that it was hard, and 
she was at times inclined to think that however 
glorious a republic may be in practice, and bow- 
ever noble democratic principles in theory, any 
position would be more pleasant than that made 
by political honors. 

"An odious woman," said the Idol, who 
was seldom harsh in her opinions. " She quite 
hikes my breath away. Ah, Miss Grey, great- 
ness has its ills, and the most golden crown will 
droop a thoughtful brow." 

She was convinced that she had been quoting 
poetry, and assumed an inspired attitude at 
once. She was more stately in mien and over- 
powering in language, for the rest of the morn- 
ing in Iter desire to make the difference be- 
tween herself and a woman like Mrs. Tallman 
duly felt, and was wonderfully supported by 
the reflection that she had gained the advan- 
tage in. this little tilt of words without having 



compromised her dignity. Indeed she enjoyed 
the entire day and evening without allay. Aft- 
er dinner she played e'earte' with Mr. Grey, 
and they sent Elinor to the piano, whither Rossi- 
tur was bound to follow. 

Genevieve Laidley had one of her silent de- 
mons in possession of her — she was watching. 
But finding that a waste of time — for her quick 
ears were not rewarded by a stray word, or her 
eyes, which Elinor fancied shone in the shadow 
like those of a cat, able to intercept so much as 
a tender look between the pair at the musical 
instrument — she grew tired and turned her at- 
tention -to her guardian ; hung over his chair 
and helped or hindered him play, and there be- 
ing no one but the Idol to listen, did not scruple 
to say pretty, sweet things to him, and she was 
so innocent and child-like that he could not help 
feeling pleasure and taking them for gospel. 

" Gushing youth !" murmured the Idol, gaz- 
ing pensively at her cards and holding a knave 
by the heels in doubt whether to play him at 
that juncture. " How sweet thou art!" contin- 
ued she, modestly placing Jack on his feet once 
more and sending forth a queen instead. 

"We shall spoil this child," said Mr. Grey. 
"But if she will be so charming, how can we 
help it ?" 

"I am so glad you like mc!" cried Gene- 
vieve, clapping her hands and cooing. "Don't 
ever see my faults; I can't bear that." 

"You will have to adopt some first," said 
her guardian. 

" Ah, yon are very kind ; you won't see 
them. Elinor is so superior and so intellectual 
that she discovers them — only she is much bet- 
ter to me than I deserve." 

They called from the piano for her to come 
and sing, but she declared that she was cold, 
her voice was frozen, and whispered, "I'd 
rather stay here. I'm a lonesome little thing. 
Mayn't I stay ?" 

The Idol took a portion of the request to her- 
self and gave a rapturous assent, but if she had 
caught the glance at Mr. Grey from the blue 
eyes with their yellow scintillations, she might 
have discovered that her opinion was of little 
consequence. 

"Stay," said her guardian, "and make it 
summer for us." 

"I'll stay if you tell mc such pretty things," 
said Baby. 

The Idol, still occupied with her cards, de- 
livered a brief eulogium on Mr. Grey's powers 
of compliment, and Genevieve cried — "Oh, 
if I could have said that !" Then she made a 
delightful little grimace at the unsuspecting 
lady which nearly upset Mr. Grey's composure. 

By and by Elinor came away from the piano, 
leaving Rossitur absently running his fingers 
over the keys, recalling stray Fragments, and 
stood by the fire looking at the card-party. 

" Oh, that's a little German thing," cried 
Miss Laidley. " Play it, Mr. Rossitur.'' 

" I can not," be said. 

Miss Laidley flew to the piano and set him 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



93 



unceremoniously aside. She played and sang, 
and her voice, neither strong nor sweet, had 
something bewitching in it. Rossitur told her 
that it was like listening to some Rhine nymph, 
some dangerous Lurely, to hear her. 

"But I am not dangerous, said she; "any 
way not to you." 

" No ; I have escaped so far," returned he. 

The blue eyes shot out their odd light again. 
" It was Lurcly's fate, maybe, only to be pow- 
erful with those who were not worth putting in 
danger," said she. 

"Wherein you differ from Lurely," replied 
Rossitur. 

"You say so, but you don't mean it. You 
think me an absurd little thing that couldn't be 
dangerous to you." 

"I didn't think you had even honored me 
with a look," returned he, laughing. 

"I don't think I have," said she; "but I 
know where your eyes are always turned. I 
am not so blind as these people." 

"Don't, you make any mistakes, Lurely," 
said Rossitur. 

"Do you never think she is a beautiful 
snow-queen animated by a spell, like the people 
in fairy-stories ?" continued she. 

" Now whom do you mean ?" 

"Elinor!" called Miss Laidley, " Mr. Ros- 
situr says you arc a snow-queen animated by a 
spell." She gave him a delightfully wicked look. 

"Miss Laidley supplied the last," said he, 
laughing. " I said that only such comparison 
was befitting Miss Grey's pure serenity." 

The party at the card-table laughed too, and 
Miss Laidley whispered — " Oh, now I hate 
you — hate you !" 

She rose from her scat and darted toward 
the lire. " Get away, snow-queen," said she; 
" I am chilled to the heart." 

She curled herself up on a rug close to the 
blaze, which fairly illuminated her. Rossitur 
followed, trying to make up his mind about her. 
Was she a heedless child — was she a little mis- 
chievous devil — was she after all one of those 
passionate souls sometimes put by mistake 
under such slight forms and babyish graces ? 

"This has been an evening of sweet com- 
mune," said the Idol, when it was time to go. 

Elinor had kept her from being ridiculous 
for half an hour, to Miss Laidley 's chagrin, but 
Mrs. Hackett could not take her leave except 
on the swell of some sublime sentiment. " I 
feel ethcrealizcd and subtlcized," said she ; 
"my spirit has been panoplied in purer airs 
and bathed in Parhclian groves. Farewell, 
dear friends ! I quaff greetings to future sym- 
posias." She waved her hand and glided away 
and Elinor followed her to the dressing-room. 
As soon as they were out of hearing, Miss Laid- 
ley sprang up from the rug and did the Idol to 
the life and convulsed the two men. 

When the Idol's voice was heard in the hall 
the three went out. "This was unnecessary," 
said she ; " dear Mr. Grey, never disturb your 
laurel-earned repose for me." 



" My dear friend, I always want to see you 
to the last moment," said the bland hypocrite. 

" The last moment is what he thinks the 
best," Miss Laidley whispered in Rossitur's ear ; 
then she darted at the Idol and kissed her as a 
fly does sugar. 

" Beautiful Spring !" said the delightful Idol. 
" How to find a fitting emblem for her. She 
is like the fair goddess who poured ambrosia 
for Mercury — Phoebe, was it not?" 

"No, I won't be — it isn't a pretty name," 
said Miss Laidley. 

"After all, I think it was Aurora," said the 
Idol. " Phoebe drove the chariot of the sun. 
Mr. Rossitur, I pass your hotel — let me set you 
down." 

" Yes, be his Phoebe," said Miss Laidley. 

Elinor looked so vexed that neither Mr. 
Grey nor Rossitur ventured upon a smile. 

"Farewell again," said the Idol, embracing 
Elinor. "I must tear myself away. Parting 
is such sweet strain that I shall say farewell for- 
ever, as Hamlet hath it." 

"He ought to have been vaccinated for it," 
whispered Rossitur to Miss Laidley, and she 
did a little impromptu waltz of delight. 

Mr. Grey would lead the Idol down the steps 
to the carriage — she would keep stopping to 
make speeches, so that the proceeding was as 
long and as fatiguing as a royal progress, but 
she was very happy with it all. When she had 
gono Elinor went away and Miss Laidley start- 
ed for her own room, but she had to come back 
several times for tilings she had forgotten, and 
on each occasion she talked a great deal of 
pretty nonsense to Mr. Grey, who was still 
standing by the drawing-room fire. 



CHAPTER XIX. 



INDIANA. 



It was a dismal morning, and Spring after 
promising a speedy arrival seemed to have been 
seized with a fit of the sulks, as a pretty woman 
often is in the midst of her smiles. Elinor and 
Miss Laidley sat in the breakfast-room, where 
Mr. Grey had left them. Elinor had a great 
longing for the privacy of her own chamber, 
but when she made a move to go, her compan- 
ion said — " I shall go too. I can't be left 
alone to-day ; I shall be wretched. Oh, you 
sweet Elinor, don't leave me." Elinor remain- 
ed. If she must have Miss Laidlcy's society it 
should be endured there ; she would not have 
the young lady fkll into the habit of invading 
her private haunts. So they talked ; and Miss 
Laidley was sufiicently amusing, there was no 
denying that. She made sport of every body 
and every thing, and mimicked people delight- 
fully ; but when Elinor could not help warn- 
ing her how dangerous it was to indulge in 
such pastime, she cried — " Oh, I don't mean any 
thing — I am so heedless." She talked about 
Mr. Rossitur, and was disgusted because Elinor 



91 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



discussed him as coolly as she would have done 
one of the overpowering foreigners or a Prancer 
strayed forth from the Youth of New York. 

Soon Henry brought the letters and a new 
French novel that Rosa Thornton had sent from 
town. "Now you read to me, like a dear!" 
cried Miss Laidley. " It's About's new book. 
I wisli it was George Sand — About is so dread- 
fully moral. Will you read, love ?" 

"Certainly," replied Elinor; "but I must 
Write a note first. Oh dear, there isn't a scrap 
of paper here." 

" I am going up stairs to get some chocolats ; 
I'll tell Coralie to bring down some," said Miss 
Laidley. 

" We can ring," replied Elinor, somewhat as- 
tonished at Miss Laidley's proposal, for she 
was the most indolent creature breathing ; but 
the reason for this unwonted effort appeared. 

"Thank you," said she, " but I can't trust 
Juanita to get my bonbons. She steals them — 
the greedy tiling ! I hide every box I have — 
the horrid old magpie !" 

" Then please ask Coralie to bring down my 
writing-desk," said Elinor, covertly smiling at 
this new trait of meanness in the heiress. 

Indeed Miss Laidley never scrupled to save 
her money at other people's expense, but she did 
it gracefully. She used Elinor's carriage and 
Elinor's saddle-horses without mercy, and had 
more than once kept Miss Grey at home — but 
she was always going to be provided with them. 
At her request her guardian had ordered some 
Centaur to send scores of steeds for her to try, 
but none of them suited, and the probability was 
none of them would please her as long as she 
could be provided without cost to herself. She 
went away carolling one of the quaint German 
ballads she affected — the only things she sang 
well — and Elinor listened as long as her voice 
was audible, and then fell to reflection concern- 
ing her, and was sorry to feel herself harsh in 
her judgments. 

Miss Laidley appeared at length, bearing the 
writing-desk herself. "The heavy, horrid, 
beautiful thing !" cried she, setting it down on 
the table. 

"Why did you bring it?" inquired Elinor. 
" You should not have troubled yourself." 

" Oh, Coralie wasn't in your room. I shriek- 
ed myself hoarse, and then I went in and got 
it. Now write your note like a darling and 
read to me." 

Elinor was soon ready to begin the book, and 
Miss Laidley coiled herself up on an India 
shawl with her head on a pile of cushions, the 
box of chocolats by her siita, and prepared to 
listen. " Tins is delightful:" cried she. "I 
am warm to my very soul." 

She had so little vitality that she was always 
frozen. Elinor looked at her basking in the 
fire-light and thought of all sorts of odd stories 
— of Lamia, of a white snake that one of Du- 
mas's heroines wore about her wrist — and pretty 
as the creature was she felt as if she were a ser- 
pent, and, innocent as she looked, would bite 



venomously if her repose were disturbed. Eli- 
nor read in a clear voice and with her perfect ac- 
cent and Miss Laidley reclined croquante, but at 
length the warmth and the unexciting nature of 
the pretty story, so unlike the French novels which 
she perused in private, lulled her into oblivion. 
Elinor looked up from her book, and seeing the 
graceful head flung back with the fair hair 
straying over the cushions and the blue eyes 
closed, thought what a picture she made and de- 
cided that she might pause in her task of trying 
to amuse the Princess Monchalante. She drew 
her writing-desk toward her and began turning 
over its contents. She came upon Ruth's letter 
crumpled small under some papers, and was 
shocked at her own carelessness. She thought 
she had burned the sheet on that black night 
when its reception caused her such suffering. 
It was very careless, wicked of her, for the letter 
was one that might have made Ruth's secret at 
least suspected by any person who read. Eli- 
nor was glad to remember that the desk closed 
with a secret spring — she would burn the letter 
now. She sat holding it in her hand and think- 
ing of so many things which the sight of those 
little pages brought into her mind. She fasten- 
ed her reflections upon Leighton Rossitur at last 
— oh, should she ever be able to love him and 
be at rest? She reminded herself of every no- 
ble trait in his character ; she made herself feel 
how she trusted him, how helpful he was to her ; 
but trying to get beyond that, to contemplate 
other possibilities, the old horror came back, 
and the touch of his hand seemed on hers filling 
her soul with dismay. Ought she not tell him 
now just how she felt ? He might be forming 
too much hope. It seemed so doubtful whether 
she would ever be able to care for him except 
as a friend, to get beyond that dread of the 
very idea of feeling her hands in his and he 
with a right to speak words of love. 

Looking up suddenly she became conscious 
that Miss Laidley's eyes were partially open and 
watching her. Elinor believed the creature's 
first impulse was to feign sleep that she might 
still watch, but if so she relinquished it, seeing 
that she was discovered. " What are you 
thinking about?" she asked, lifting her head laz- 
ily. " You look like a sybil." 

Elinor flung the letter in the fire and sat 
looking at it burn. 

"What is that?" demanded Miss Laidley. 
"An old love-letter? Oh, why didn't you 
read it to me? You never will tell me the 
least secret." 

"I have repeated so many times that I have 
none to tell," replied Elinor. 

"You don't trust me. I don't believe you 
love me a bit !" said Miss Laidley piteously. 

Elinor was quite certain that she did not. 
and being in no mood for uttering fibs, she re- 
mained silent. 

" It's wicked of you," said the girl, " when I 
love you so much." 

"I hope wc like each other very well," re- 
turned Elinor. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



95 



"Oh, you cold thing — you Northern heart! 
I am glad my blood is warmer ; I can love my 
friends." 

" But, my dear Miss Laidley, real friendship 
is a thing of time. It doesn't grow in a night 
like Jonah's gourd." 

"I don't know any thing about Jonah's 
gourd — it's in the Bible, isn't it ? I never read 
the Bible — Aunty made me hate it when I was a 
child — I had to learn verses for being naughty." 

"Perhaps if you were to read it now you 
would feel differently." 

" No, I shan't ! Don't prose at me, that's a 
dear. Poor papa got quite Methodistical while 
he was sick ; just weakness, I knew, but it gave 
me the horrors." 

Could she realize what she was saying ? 

"Oh, Miss Laidley," Elinor began, but not 
very well knowing what she ought to say, and 
saved saying any thing by an interruption from 
her companion. 

" You will call me Miss Laidley — it's wicked. 
Poor little me — making a stranger of me." 

"I say Genevieve sometimes; I forget from 
not hearing you called by that name." 

"I mean to ask Mr. Grey to call me Eva; 
formality kills me," cried she; "freezes me 
outright. " I am a child — a baby — I won't be 
held responsible for every thing I say and do as 
if I was a grand creature like you." 

" Baby Genevieve," said Elinor, laughing. 

"There, I like that. I wish your father 
would call me so." 

Elinor wished that she would leave her father's 
name out of such conversation ; she did not 
relish the idea of hearing him address his ward 
by affectionate epithets. 

"What is that old song?" continued Miss 
Laidley. "It was meant for me. I want to 
be called a star, an elf, a bird." 

" Shall I call you a blue jay ?" asked Elinor. 

" Now you are laughing at me. I don't like 
it ; I am a foolish little thing and can't an- 
swer. Besides, I'm nervous this morning ; I'd 
cry in a minute and make a dreadful scene." 

' : Please don't," returned Elinor. 

" Yes I will ; I want to cry ! Oh, my papa 
— my dear papa ! I feel as if I was choking 
— my hands are like ice — oh, oh !" 

She looked very pale and her eyes fairly di- 
lated : she could work herself into a nervous 
spasm; she did it sometimes from pure love of 
excitement. 

"lam afraid you are not at all well — let mc 
get you something," said Elinor. 

"I won't take a thing ! I shall have convul- 
sions ! I mean to die ! Oh, I am choking !" 
cried she. 

Elinor knew very well that she could control 
herself if she wished, but any remonstrance 
would only make her worse. " Lie still a lit- 
tle while, Genevieve, and it will pass off," she 
said soothingly. 

"Then pet me. If you pet me I'll try. 
Oh, my breath ! See my 'hands twitch !" 

She caught Elinor's hand in her icy fingers, 



and she looked such an uncanny thing, shivering 
and shaking, with her face deathly pale and her 
eyes shooting yellow gleams, that Elinor felt 
absolutely uncomfortable. Miss Laidley insist- 
ed on holding her fast, on lying with her head 
in Elinoi-'s lap and being sung to, and if Elinor 
hesitated to obey her caprices she began to beat 
her clenched hands on the cushions and to moan 
piteously. At last Elinor got away from her 
and rang the bell. By that time Genevieve 
began to shriek in spite of herself. Miss Grey 
sent for Juanita and the mulatto rushed in, say- 
ing — "Oh, Senora! Lord bress! Juanita's 
darling! Come to niamsey — poor lamb." 
She was accustomed to such scenes and knew 
what to do. Genevieve would not he carried 
up stairs, so the mulatto flew off and brought 
some drops and coaxed her to swallow them, 
and Elinor had to hold her head, and at last 
she tired herself out and went fast to sleep. 

There Elinor sat in a very uncomfortable post- 
ure and held the girl, and presently she woke 
and began to coo and laugh. "I feel well 
now," said she. "Oh, you darling Elinor, to 
hold me all this while. Now I want to dance ! 
Elinor, let's have luncheon and eat lots of brandy 
peaches — there's some that have the meats put in 
to flavor them — it's like drinking refined prussic 
acid." After luncheon she wanted to go out, and 
Elinor was glad to get her into the air ; any man 
would have thought she was going mad, but 
women are able to cope with prussic-acid loving 
damsels. 

That evening they were invited to the rehears- 
al of an amateur concert which was being gotten 
up as a proper penitential amusement for Lent. 
Miss Laidley, after dining off soup flavored with 
some horrible East Indian compound with 
which Mr. Grey was fond of making a small 
purgatory of his interior, olives, indigestible 
sweets, and a glass of champagne with a little 
strong coffee added, was able to go to the rehears- 
al, and looked more peculiar and attractive, 
than ever, and was as gay as a bird. 

The Idol was at the rehearsal, and Mrs^ Tall- 
man was present, and they were both interested 
in the affair, which was to be made subservient 
to some charitable design. There had been a 
great deal of discussion and not a little disagree- 
ment as to the particular purpose for which the 
proceeds should be employed, and at this rehear- 
sal they were to come to some definite conclu- 
sion in regard to the matter. Elinor thought 
the infliction of the concert would be quite 
Lenten mortification enough without submit- 
ting to this rehearsal, but the Idol had begged 
her piteously to come, desiring to have her 
opinions strengthened by the presence of as 
many allies as she could" bring. Mr. Grey re- 
served himself for a card-party, like a sensible 
man, but Mrs. Copeland appeared at dinner 
prepared to chaperon the young ladies to any 
extent. 

The rehearsal was in the hall which had 
been hired for the concert, in order that the 
performers might accustom their voices to its 



9G 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



proportions. Mrs. De Lucy shrieked till she 
was black in the face, Mr. Jervis roared, and 
the rest of the band screamed in turn and flung 
their arms about, and every young woman with 
a voice suited to the mildest efforts essayed 
grand cavatinas from lone or Traviata, and 
every man thought himself Mazzoleni or Carl 
Formes, and every body abused and laughed at 
every body else, and every thing went the way 
usual with such performances. 

Several prominent women interested in a pro- 
posed fund for erecting a statue of the Goddess 
of Liberty in the grand entrance of the White 
House were there, and clustered about the Idol, 
who was chief mover in that idea, and wanted 
the concert proceeds to be made a nucleus for 
future bequests. A little apart sat Mrs. Tall- 
man, enforced by her friends, most of them 
Western people ; for her plan was that the 
money raised should go to help some remark- 
able society in Chicago. Mrs. Tallman — In- 
diana Tallman was her full name and she was 
fond of being so called — was the wife of a Cali- 
fornia politician, and she was rich and held a 
certain sway. She had seen the light some- 
where toward the setting sun, and concerning 
her early course the historic muse is silent. 
She commenced her career in Washington some 
years previous as a widow, and very soon took 
possession of the wealthy son of El Dorado. 
People said that her first husband had been a 
tavern - keeper ; people said she had been a 
school-teacher ; people said she had been sever- 
al things which I shall not set down here ; and 
how much of cither story was true, nobody 
could tell. At present Indiana Tallman was a 
woman past forty, a little too raw-boned for 
elegance, but still imposing. Having passed 
her childhood on Western prairies and being 
nourished on corn-bread had saved her from 
the gaunt appearance which she would have pre- 
sented had she been reared within the shadow 
of Plymouth Rock and fed on codfish. She 
was well educated — possibly the teaching story 
had some foundation ; she had all the insolence 
of these last years of ease and power plated over 
her native brass ; she had a tongue which spared 
neither friend nor "foe ; she wanted to shine and 
be a whole constellation by herself, and she was 
greatly admired and reverenced by her own set 
as was meet. Behind her back she was famil- 
iarly known as the "Banger," owing to a certain 
rush and confusion with which she moved, ex- 
pressive also of the force which she carried into 
any plan that might chance to engross her at- 
tention. 

Now the Banger — I like to call her that, it is 
so sonorous and it does her no harm ; every 
body has a nickname in this abandoned century ; 
you and I have, only we don't know it, and are 
too busy inventing titles for our friends to find it 
out — now the Banger — that other sentence 
evaporated in a parenthesis — Indiana the Ban- 
ger, had conceived a bitter hostility to the Idol. 
It was an old wound and had rankled in her 
mind as ancient wrongs did in the breast of 



Juno. It had been fanned into new fury by 
the sweep of the Idol's garments as they made 
a high wind in the Capital, and she was as de- 
termined on revenge as Saturnia was on annihi- 
lating that wretched prig jEneas and all his 
Trojan crew. Only the winter before, Indiana 
the Banger had ventured into New York for a 
few weeks, and armed with letters from many 
Washington notables had striven to disport her- 
self in the sacred precincts of Murray Hill. 
But Murray Hill is peculiar. Murray Hill can 
endure a certain degree of coarseness, but West- 
ern coarseness makes Murray Hill shudder 
through all its breadth. The Banger was not a 
success ; I may go further — she was even snubbed. 
Nobody cared for her money, because she was 
not going to live there ; nobody cared because 
Honorable was tacked to her name ; what was 
that to the wives of men who were Bulls and 
Bears and divers other kinds of wild beasts ? 
It is hard to assign reasons for Indiana's fail- 
ure ; it always is hard to assign reasons for a 
failure or a success in New York ; but the fact 
was there. The Idol disliked her because she 
talked loud and long and knew hard words and 
pushed people about, and the Idol turned her 
back on her and the rest of Murray Hill turned 
the rest of its back. 

No wonder that Indiana, meeting the Idol on 
ground familiar, felt her soul burn to avenge 
those former slights. She could not venture on 
snubbing her — the Idol was too potent even in 
a strange territory for that — but she abused her; 
she laid ambushes for her ; she tormented her 
a great deal, and the Idol never appeared quite 
at ease when she knew that Indiana the Banger 
was listening to her gorgeous sentences. In 
dress the Idol had the advantage, for though the 
Californian was rich there was a bottom to his 
coffer, but the Bull's coffer was like the deep, 
deep sea, and the Idol could dash at its treas- 
ures with the hugest possible bucket anil leave 
no trace of diminution. Indiana fought man- 
fully ; she counted that the Idol never wore 
more than six different colors at once, so she wore 
nine, and all the Western people thought that 
she had conquered in the way of gorgeousness. 
But this matter of the concert brought about 
an opportunity for a pitched battle, and that 
was what Indiana craved. The Idol had no 
fancy for battles, but she had started the God- 
dess of Liberty project and could not retreat, 
when to her wrath she saw Indiana array her- 
self and her Western host against her and dash 
with gauntleted hand a rival project into the 
arena. The conflict had raged for days ; it had 
deferred the concert, but now the performers 
were tired of being kept in obscurity and vowed 
that they would sing, no matter to whom or 
what the results of their piping was paid. 

Elinor had heard very little about the affair, 
and though her name was down among the di- 
rectresses would have kept away from the rehears- 
al if she had known that the Idol desired her 
presence as an aid to victory in the strife which 
her prophetic soul told her the Banger would 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



97 



have. And Indiana glowered like an angry- 
giantess at Miss Grey from the place where she 
held her court, and Miss Grey, unconscious of 
having giving offense, greeted her with a pleas- 
ant smile. 

Mrs. De Lucy sang; Mr. Jervis sang; the 
the nervous young lady sang — at first she had 
to be coaxed to begin and then she had to be 
coaxed to leave off; the pale young man with 
the tenor voice sang, and his voice cracked like a 
reed in the middle of the first howl ; the foreign 
gentleman who condescended to be Carl Formes 
snng, and jerked and pulled himself till it seem- 
ed that he was going down into his boots after 
his voice, and when he found it the voice sound- 
ed very wheezy and hoarse, as though the boots 
were wet and it had taken a heavy cold. 

When he was lifting the voice up (it did not 
seem to be his, but one that he was trying to 
use for that occasion) the deaf old lady who 
never had any name that any body mentioned, 
and whose invitations Washington said were 
sent round the corner, made her appearance 
armed with a huge trumpet which looked like a 
sea-serpent. She had on a white opera-cloak 
and a bonnet with blue feathers, and she stood 
still in the middle of the aisle and levelled her 
trumpet at the amateur Carl as if she were go- 
ing to blow things out of it directly at him. 
Several busy people tried to make her under- 
stand that it was not the night of the concert, 
and to hint at the tops of their voices that she 
had no business there. The old lady smiled 
and nodded, not hearing their shrieks or the i 
groans of impromptu Formes any more than 
she would have done the songs of May breezes 
or the report of a percussion cap cracked direct- 1 
ly on the top of her bonnet. " What does he 
say ?" she asked, her voice* one instant a yell 
and the next a whisper, and the yelling when 
she thought she whispered. " Tell him not to 
shake his fist at me — I'm disturbing nobody." i 
She subsided into a seat at length and was 
tolerably quiet ; occasionally she would stretch 
oat her trumpet and tap somebody in the eye 
or on the nose, as it happened, and whisper, 
" What did he say ? What is Congress do- 
ing?'' But on the whole she was discreet, and 
the very bass man stopped at last and returned 
his borrowed voice suddenly to the boots, where 
it wheezed and grunted a little and then was 
still. 

They all sang, and they all looked very pur- 
ple and wretched when they were through, and 
afterward the young women that were to do the 
piano-forte and the young man who was to be 
flutist, and several other young men and wom- 
en who were to be a variety of things, wanted 
to rehearse and were condemned to silence from 
lack of time. So they made a quivering knot 
of themselves and bemoaned their wrongs, and 
audibly expressed a conviction that perhaps if 
they were not needed they had better retire 
from the affair altogether. As nobody asked 
them to stay they persuaded and softened each 
other and determined to be magnanimous and 
G 



do their duty regardless of the slights of the 
envious and the stings of the proud. 

At last somebody said that it was really nec- 
cessary to decide what the concert proceeds 
were to go for. Tickets to the amount of hun- 
dreds of dollars had been sold — to what end ? 

Then uprose a gentleman who had the 
Idol's project at heart, and he explained it in 
glowing language. He said it was a noble 
aim, worthy of the heart and brain from which 
it emanated — and he waved his hand toward 
the Idol — and declared that the White House 
needed a work of art like that. He told them 
how the goddess would bend benignly over the 
troops of noble Americans who sought those be- 
loved halls ; and here he was interrupted by the 
Banger, who said — "If a statue bends, it breaks, 
and then it tumbles — I hope none of the troop 
of noble Americans will be crushed under it." 
The eloquent gentleman was embarrassed; he 
tried to recover himself, but the group about 
Indiana tittered so audibly that after stumbling 
over a few fragments of the broken statue, he 
sat down in utter confusion. 

"This is not a meeting," said Indiana, seiz- 
ing her opportunity; "we are all acquaint- 
ances — we have come here to consult — I shall 
venture to be strong-minded enough to do my 
own talking. I dare say some persons may be 
shocked ; but I am not a delicate Eastern lady : 
I am a true, earnest daughter of the West, and I 
shall speak a few words." Her friends loudly 
admired ; the Idol assumed an attitude of care- 
less ease and looked as blind as a bat and as 
deaf as an adder, but Indiana vowed that she 
should hear. "In the first place," said the 
Banger, " this is a Washington concert, got- 
ten up by people who may call this their home£- 
who, as men, serve their country here, or if wom- 
en, do their duty in their natural sphere. I 
do not think that a plan ought to be proposed 
by a lady from any sister city, however distin- 
guished she may be — in her own little circle." 
Indiana paused for breath ; Elinor, seated behind 
the Idol, laid her hand softly on her arm and 
kept her silent. "I have a project," said In- 
diana, "not my own indeed — I am not so am- 
bitious of a little brief notoriety that I thrust 
my crude efforts upon statesmen — but this is a 
project which is worthy of the highest praise." 

Somebody asked to hear what it was. 

"Oh, that horrid woman!" whispered the 
Idol. "My dear, she will get her own way ! I 
would rather give fifty thousand dollars." 

"Sit still," returned Elinoi - . "If you will 
promise not to answer her or seem to hear, you 
shall defeat her yet." 

Elinor whispered to a gentleman and told 
him what to say when the Banger's plan was 
offered, and told him to propose a third use for 
the money and to carry the day before the en- 
emy could recover. 

The Banger said — "I want — we want — 
most of us want — to help that society for the 
relief of orphans in Chicago. Let us be inform- 
al — all those who are in favor can hold up 



98 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



their hands. Don't let us be too fashionable— 

we are not on Murray Hill." 

But up rose the gentleman to whom Elinor 
had given an idea, and ho showed how prepos- 
terous it was for them to send the money to 
Chicago when a society for distressed something 
in Washington needed it so much. In fact 
he carried ins point, and when Indiana was ex- 
ulting because at least her enemy had not tri- 
umphed and had made her friends voto tor the 
distressed something and it was too late to re- 
tract, op rose the gallant knight and said he 
begged them all to thank their dear and ad- 
mired Mrs. llaekett, who had proposed this 

scheme which was so favorably received. 

Indiana eould have Bown at the Idol and 
maimed her tor lit'e : but she had to endure it. 
Then up rose the Idol, am! on her way out she 
collected her wits and dealt a last Mow. 

"Dear Mrs. Tallman, " said she, "what a 
mellifluous speech you made — what a colleague 
your husband must find you." Away she sailed 
and left Indiana foaming at the mouth, from 
which burst in smothered accents the one word 
— •• Trollop. " 

a deaf lady had sat with her ancient head 
taming in vacant surprise from one group to 
another, understanding nothing that went on. 

evidently at a loss to know where she was or 
what people meant, and looking more da ted 
than usual. Suddenly she started up when she 
saw the groups dividing, rapped one man 
fiercely with her trumpet and grasped another 
by the arm. " Are they going to have supper ?" 
she cried. He nodded and tried to get away. 
'■ Show me where !" she wheeled. " 1 want my 
supper — I will have my supper!" She held her 
trumpet extended to impede further progress 
till she should have discovered where the supper 
was. 

••She'll stand there all night." said one of 
the performers. 

•• No. " said the tenor whose voiee had eraek- 
ed ; •' I'll show her down stairs. She'll think 
1 am taking her to supper." 

He was a good-natured youth, like most 
tenors whose voiees crack, and he went up and 
Offered his arm and she levelled her trumpet at 
him, but concluded to be led away, whispering 
faintly. •• Supper? Are they going to have sup- 
per ;" 

Indiana stood erest-fallen among her coterie; 
she had expected a triumph and it had been a 
miserable failure. Every body said the Idol 
decidedly got the best of it. and Indiana raged 
like one of the buffaloes on her native prairies to 
think that her enemy would return to the inac- 
cessible haunts of Murray Hill and she be un- 
able to sate her soul with vengeance. 

The Idol was so grateful to Elinor that when 
she called next day to express her feelings she 
was quite unable, and it really seemed probable 
that some of the huge phrases she gasped out 
would suffocate her. " 1 have no words," 
said she, over and over again. " If all my sen- 
sibility were coined into spoken intellectuality, 



i; would be as weak to express my emotions as 
river billows are the ocean's swell." 

•• I would not think o( it," said Elinor; "the 
woman was rude and impertinent." 

" Hut your kindness — [thought of that. Your 
illumination of genius — a real emulation ! My 
darling Miss Grey, you were perfect before in 

my eyes, but now you are constellated into par- 
adisaical brightness." 
Miss Laidley's appearance soon put an end 

to the compliments and gratitude: she had not 

patience to listen to the chanting o( Elinor's 
praises and changed the conversation, finding 

that her little sneers and sly hits had no effect 
upon Miss Grej . 

The Idol had set her heart upon taking both 
her favorites back to town with her for a visit 
during the brief season of renewed life between 
the elose of Lent and the general flitting of the 
Idol's world toward the country. Elinor pro\ ed 
easily hew impossible it would be for her to 
think of any thing of the sort, and the Idol was 
forced to admit the validity of her excuses, - i 

she centered her I'ersuasions upon Miss 1. aid- 
ley, and the fair Genevieve made hasty but clear 
comparisons of the two fields. She knew that 
before long l.eighton RossitUT was going to 
town : he had said so only the other evening. 
The Idol would hymn her praises to all Murray 
Hill, and feast her with lofty honors, and New- 
York would be less dull than the Capital. 
•' 1 can not refuse you. dear Mrs. llaekett," 
said she. at the elose ot' her compendious but 
precise mental statements. " If you will be 
troubled with a foolish little thing like me I 
shall be very happy to go." 

'•Darling child," cried the Idol, ••you reju- 
venate my soul! How my friends will envy me 
the beautiful ray of sunshine 1 bring back." 

•• And you will pet me — you will be good to 
me!" exclaimed Miss Laidley, in the tone of a 
child who had been suffering for six months 
from the fiendish cruelties of a step-parent 
and was about to be carried away by a fairy 
godmother. 

Elinor perfectly understood, although the 
meaning was lost on the Idol. 

"Your lightest wish shall bo my law. love- 
ly one," said she: "your smile my guer- 
dion." 

•• I will go — thank you SO much — if my guard- 
ian is willing, " said Miss Laidley with sweet 
humility, "and if dear, wise Elinor thinks it 
right." 

"Oh, your guardian will not refuse." said 
the Idol. 

•• I am sure my father and 1 both desire Miss 
Laidley to consult her wishes in all thing-." 
added Elinor. 

••t.)f course," returned Genevieve. "It 
makes no difference where I am now. there is 
no one to miss me, no one to regret. Oh. papa ! 
papa!" She raised her eyes to heaven, she 
Stretched out her hands to the imaginary guard- 
ian angel, and she looked very pretty and very 
forlorn. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



CD 



The Idol was moved almost to tears, and if 
she could have thought her adored Miss Grey 
guilty of a fault she would have considered her 
a little cold just then. ' She lavished endear- 
ments onJ3aby, and very soon the young lady 
was as gajfcas a sky-lark. Elinor could not 
help feeling a sense of relief in the temporary 
quiet and solitude she should have, for the 
companionship of a Baby who was a sylph, an 
l inline, and a scratching little puss all in one, 
had become somewhat wearing. 

Miss Laidley was stricken with grief at leav- 
ing her, and went through a farewell scene 
which would have done credit to a veteran act- 
ress, completely fascinating Mr. Grey, and even 
blinding Leighton Rossitur, who had come to 
say adieu, (Men are such asses. We have 
been since Adam ; we shall be up to the last 
man.) Elinor bore it all — the pathos, the 
shower-bath — and knew that she appeared a 
very stony, inhuman woman, compared to this 
sensitive fairy; hut histrionics were not in her 
line and* she could only utter a few civil common- 
places. When left alone she felt as if she had 
disposed of a hooded-snake or got rid of a cha- 
meleon who might any time turn into a monster, 
of any impossible tiling most unlike the fair, 
childish creature who had been swept away on 
the Idol's lofty pedestal. 



CHAPTER XX. 
clivb's book. 

Have you forgotten Clive Farnsworth ? He 

was sitting in his library, an almost gloomy 
room in spite of its cheerful furniture, and dark- 
er, from its deep-set windows and old-fashioned 
ceiling of carved black walnut, than the haunt 
of a studious or melancholy man ever ought to 
be. It looked out on the broad stone terrace too, 
and Clive had long since taken to his solitary 
prowlings up and down the slow-talking flags. 
The terrace was dreary enough with the gar- 
den stretching below in its winter desolation ; 
though the days had begun to be bright, they 
had little real warmth and comfort, " for the 
spring comes slowly up that way." 

Clive was busy with his book. It was al- 
most finished, and he would soon lose the socie- 
ty of those ideal people who had been such 
realities to him. lie had bent all his energies 
to his task, and hail tried to make the work a 
good one. There was no Elinor Grey and no 
('live Farnsworth in it. lie had kept his gloom 
as much aloof as possible, and had written con- 
scientiously day after day, but fie was very doubt- 
ful of the result. 

He had been writing all 'the morning and 
was dreadfully tired, and now he sat there with 
the pile of manuscript before him, and leaned 
his arm on the table and wondered where his 
energy and his brains had gone. 

Soon the door opened and Ruth came in, so 
bright a blossom in her tasteful dress, with 



such life in the brown eyes, such happy smiles on 
her lip. "Clive, dear," she said, "I know 
you must be done work ; any way you ought to 
be. I don't disturb you, do I ?" 

It would have been a relief to growl, to an- 
swer coarsely like Eord Byron, but Clive had 
been faithful to his determination even in the 
smallest things. " You never disturb me, and 
your scat is always ready here, you know," 
he answered, smiling, and pointing to the otto- 
man by his chair, the place where she often sat 
while he was at work, trying to study or watch- 
ing him. "Rut I am through writing for to- 
day." 

" Such a tired old darling," she exclaimed, 
going up to him and laying her hand softly over 
his eyes. "I ought to have interrupted you 
two hours ago." 

" Such a bright young blossom," returned he, 
not shrinking from the touch of her fingers, 
though she had not the power to soothe him by 
the pressure of her hand, and so only made the 
pain and irritation more acute. "Has some- 
thing happened, or is it that you look brighter 
than usual because my eyes are tired ?" 

"I have had a letter from Miss Grey," said 
Ruth ; " a dear, sweet letter.' Will you read it 
Clive?" She held up the envelope — Clive in- 
voluntarily stretched out his hand, then remem- 
bered that lie could not trust himself. • 

"You shall tell me about it," he replied; 
" my eyes won't bear any thing more in the way 
of manuscript." 

" You bad old fellow to work so hard," cried 
Ruth. "And to be so patient — how can 
you ?" 

"I feel so cross and irritable this moment 
that I could snap like Fonto," said Clive. 

Ruth laughed ; he often made that confession 
and she never believed it, and saying so did a 
great deal to relieve him. Indeed, I do not 
know a better remedy than to avow the cross- 
ness ; sometimes you can laugh and it passes 
away. tf**^" 

" Shall we go and walk ?" 11^ asked. 
"I wonder if we mightn't ride? The sun 
shines warm and this wind must have dried the 
mud. Do you think you would freeze, little 
one ?" 

" No, indeed. I am longing for a gallop." 
" Then go and get on your habit and I will 
order the horses." 

"Yes, this minute. — Oh, the letter." 
"That will keep." 

"You naughty thing, to consider women's 
letters of no importance — but I can scold you 
another time." She ran away to change her 
dress, leaving the letter on the table. Clive 
glanced at it, and resolutely shoved it out of 
sight under the papers, and walked up and 
down among the shadows till Ruth came back 
in her plumed hat and trailing skirt to say that 
the horses were coming round. They mounted 
and rode away through the keen air, and Clive 
felt the irritation and fatigue gradually leave 
him, and could talk gayly with her. 



100 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



"It is perfectly delightful," she said, "and 
not in the least cold." 

" What did some American woman write 
about a gallop ? ' The queen in my sonl puts 
on her crown — ' " 

"That exactly expresses it," cried Ruth. 
" I remember the poem." 

"And the crown is very becoming to your 
soul, and that little hat to your face," saidClive. 

"As if you could speak for my soul — " 

" I am looking straight in your eyes." 

" You do tell me the sweetest things. They 
say other men don't compliment their wives." 

"Perhaps they are not worth it, little one." 
He did say pretty things to her always, and 
though sometimes he felt a pain the while, he 
was not insincere ; and he was determined to 
keep watch over himself in every trifle. 

They came back from their ride, and Clive 
read aloud for a while ; then they dined, and lie 
helped Ruth with her French and praised the 
daily improvement in her voice as she sang, and 
she was as blithe as a bird. She had set her 
heart on not hearing a page of his book, not so 
much as an outline of the plot, until it should 
be finished. That trifling tiling showed how 
entirely satisfied she was ; how perfect his self- 
control, how vigilant his care had been. 

With her auick intuitions and her vivid fan- 
cy, if, she had been troubled by a shadow, if she 
had been smitten — even no more than to make 
her restless — with a vague fear, she would have 
wanted to read it page by page, to keep herself 
constantly in his mind, to know that she was 
prominent in his written thoughts, by way of an 
assurance to dispel the suspicion. 

So Clive had written with that sense of lone- 
liness which it is hard for a writer to bear — 
which made Molie're read his plays, as he 
wrote, to his old housekeeper ; but in his own 
case Clive knew that it was better, though he 
missed the gratification. Ruth would have giv- 
en such unqualified praise — every line would 
have been perfect. Once that might have been 
agreeable endBpt, but since that period ('live had 
known what it was to read his productions to a 
woman whose intellect could grasp every half- 
expressed thought, whose critical judgment had 
weight, who could understand, too, every dream, 
because she might have been a poet herself had 
fate so directed her life. Oh, that poor unfin- 
ished tragedy — hidden away carefully where he 
could not by any chance stumble upon it and 
receive a shock — where no one would ever find 
it during his life-time. How sadly he thought 
of it, with an absurd pity such as he might have 
felt for a beloved child that he had in some in- 
sane fit shut up in the dark, and could not let 
out although its lamentations hurt him cruelly. 
Never to be found during his life— he thought 
of that when he concealed it ; he often had 
since, and wondered who, after his death, would 
come upon it, and what would be said of his 
strange whim. For it would be found long be- 
fore the ink had paled or the paper grown yel- 
low. He was strong and well — but he was not 



to have a long life. Ah, that would be as God 
pleased ; how glad he was that he need not re- 
proach himsel£for the belief. Perhaps Elinor 
Grey, coming to soothe Ruth in her loneliness, 
would search among his treasures at the little 
wife's request, and discover and recollect those 
incomplete pages ; would recollect the long sum- 
mer afternoons when he read to her under the 
shadow of the maple-trees, and standing with the 
manuscripts in her hand, would look back upon 
his memory, softened and touched. It might 
easily be ; some way it had become a settled 
idea in his mind that she would find it. If so, 
she, and she alone, would understand some 
words written at the close of the last half-fin- 
ished page— a few words and two dates, nothing 
more — the day on which he had read the 
opening scene of the tragedy to her, the day on 
which he had read the last. She would under- 
stand, she alone, and, standing there at such 
time, would acknowledge that he had redeemed 
his faith, had striven up out of the dark ; and 
that would be reward enough for his po»r life. 

So Clive was alone in his work, and they 
never sat in the library in the evening. 

To-night Ruth was tired with her long ride, 
and Clive told her that she must be put in bed 
like a naughty child. 

" I have not the energy to stir," she said. 
He took her in his arms and carried her up 
stairs as he often did in sport, and when she 
was in bed he sat and read to her until she fell 
asleep. " But you won't go back .and work ?" 
she urged, as he took up a book. 

" Not a line. I am not sleepy, so I shall go 
to my den and smoke while you dream." 

She held fast to his hand as children will to 
some one watching them ; very soon she was in 
a sound slumber, and he could steal away with- 
out fear of disturbing her. He went down into 
his library and sat over the smoldering fire 
and smoked. He did not however at once en- 
joy his meerschaum and think about the chap- 
ter he would write to-morrow. As he passed 
the table he stopped to arrange the papers, and 
Elinor Grey's letter peeped out and stared him 
in the face. He looked at it, half turned away, 
but took it up and read it — a letter full of 
friendship and kindness, with no allusion to the 
past ; many good wishes, and a fitting mention 
of Ruth's husband, whom she had met. That 
was all he was to her now — Ruth's husband ! 

Clive had a weary hour of it, and cursed his 
own folly in reading the letter ; then remem- 
bered that he must become accustomed to more 
than that. He must meet her and behave as 
people are expected to in modern days, and 
above every thing, his heart must not struggle 
or throb — he was Ruth's husband ! Those 
words reminded him that he had more to do 
than that which should be simply decorous and 
proper — he had to do right, to be faithful even 
in thought to his vow, lest through mental wan- 
derings he should be led into actual wrong. 

And it is hard to do right. Almost any of us 
are capable of some one grand effort, but to live 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOE. 



101 



up to it day after day when the excitement is 
gone and life as dull as a muddy beach from 
which the tide has gone out — it is very hard 
then. The agony of a great sorrow brings a 
certain strength — it is the little stings which are 
unendurable. A stab with a dagger bright and 
sharp is quickly over, but to he stuck full of 
pins and needles, to be made a human pincush- 
ion for petty sufferings to be thrust in, is a mar- 
tyrdom beyond that of Saint Lawrence. 

Clive had a return of the agony that night — 
a fierce stab from the dagger which had before 
drunk his blood. It was a change, any way, 
from the dull aches of the past weeks, the add- 
ed feeling of self-contempt because he cowered 
under the details of the life he had accepted ; 
and a change of torture is a species of relief. 
After awhile he smoked and got back some- 
where near tranquillity ; and when he thought 
he could sleep, he went to bed. Just as he turn- 
ed on his pillow, and congratulated himself 
upon the fact that he was beginning to doze, 
the dissipated moon, newly risen, looked in 
through the curtains and assured him that he 
was doing no such thing. He would get up 
and shut out the diabolical planet with her wan 
stare ; but Ruth stirred in her sleep, murmur- 
ed his name, and took possession of his hand; 
so he lay there and watched her in the ghostly 
light, and never closed his eyes until it was clay. 

They are very long and very dreary, those 
night watches, but we can bear them ; we can 
bear any thing if we only try in the right man- 
ner. Youth goes, life itself goes on the current 
of those wakeful hours, and very rapidly too — I 
am not sure but that is the one ameliorating 
thought. 

Clive Farnsworth woke and went about his 
duties like other men — the world and the work 
of toil or pleasure must proceed, though Hamlet 
may have been wandering with his father's 
ghost all night, or Othello may know that Des- 
demona lies strangled in the next room. 

They lived there, the husband and wife, al- 
most as much alone as if they had been encamp- 
ed on some western prairie. The people own- 
ing places in the neighborhood who could lay 
claim to Farnsworth's acquaintance were of the 
order who flee the country in autumn and do 
not return until late spring has warmed the earth. 
There were two or three dismally quiet and 
correct families who avoided the dissipations of 
town life and remained stationary on their broad 
acres. These people had called soon after Clive 
brought his wife home, had been called on in ' 
return, and had offered the newly-wedded a few 
precise, uncomfortable dinners, where Ruth could 
not eat she was so busy swallowing her yawns. 
There was the rector, to be sure, and he was a 
very agreeable man ; but his wife was a thorn 
in his own side and the sides of his whole par- 
ish ; and he was always busy, going about 
among the poor and keeping watch that his 
lambs did not stray off into dissenting chapels 
or frighten themselves with Calvinistic horrors. 
Good as he was, he was always reproaching him- 



self for his sins, and wore a mental hair-shirt 
with which he scratched himself unmercifully. 
So he was not much to be counted on as a com- 
panion ; once in a while he would stray up of 
an evening without his wife, and he and Clive 
had a pleasant chat. But when he thought 
about it after, and remembered how much he 
had enjoyed the glass of wine and cheerful 
talk and a game of backgammon with Ruth, 
he was afraid that he was too fond of pleasure, 
and put an extra quantity of rough hair into 
his shirt. He need not have done that, how- 
ever, for his nuptial hyena scratched him enough 
to atone for more sins than his quiet nature, 
cooled by fastings and a perpetual Lent, would 
lead him to commit during his whole life. 

But the result of it all was that Clive and 
Ruth were left very much alone in the great 
house to which the Presbyterian preacher often 
alluded in his sermons as " the gilded balls of 
feasting and wicked revelry." Ruth was very 
happy in that solitude, and she had time to grow 
accustomed to the change in her destiny, to 
accept her place as mistress with a very pretty 
dignity, and, more than that, time to adore 
Clive to the fullness of human possibility. She 
read, she studied hard, love supplying the power 
of application and making the work pleasant, 
and was so quick to learn every necessary trifle, 
as women are, that very soon she might have 
appeared among the most exclusive of her hus- 
band's friends without fear of being commented 
on save for the unusual quiet and ladyhood — is 
there such a word ? — which characterized her. 

She saw Elinor Grey's letter on the library 
table that morning and said to Clive, "Oh, the 
letter, dear. "Won't you read it before you be- 
gin work?" 

" The letter ?" Clive repeated, somewhat de- 
ceitfully, to give himself an instant's breathing- 
space. 

" Miss Grey's, you know — " 

"Oh yes; I did look at it last night while I 
was smoking," replied Clive, pulling his ink- 
stand nearer and picking up his pens. "A 
very charming letter, as you said." 

"I love that woman, Clive." 

He had drawn his paper toward him ; he 
looked a little abstracted, as was natural. 

"You want to work," said Ruth. "lam go- 
ing to read ; I'll be as quiet as a little mouse." 
She fidgeted him sometimes by her very still- 
ness ; to-day particularly he would have given 
so much to be alone ; it was almost impossible 
to write knowing there was a human creature 
within a mile. But he was patient and quiet. 
When he looked up from his work, after he had 
succeeded in working, he was rewarded. Ruth 
had dropped her book and was gazing intently 
at him. "I am so happy!" she whispered. 
" I was waiting for you to look up, that I might 
say so." 

"You might have jogged my elbow even to 
tell me that," Clive answered. 

" You are such a dear boy to want me always 
with you. Not a bit like those horrid men we 



102 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



read about that had so few pretty thoughts they 
must keep them for their books." 

" Aren't you afraid of my growing outrageous- 
ly conceited, little one, with all your praise?" 

" No, indeed ! you are too proud for that. 
My Clive is perfect." 

"Forgetting that you have just admitted I 
owned one of the seven capital sins." 

" Oh, you wickedness — I never did ! Clive, 
please, since you have stopped, read this little 
bit of Metastasio." 

And Clive read the mellow old measures 
about the beate rjcnte, and made a little rhymed 
translation which pleased Ruth so much that 
she must needs write it down ; and Clive was 
patient. She went away at last to feed her 
pigeons, and Clive found that he could not write 
any more that day. Elinor Grey's letter had 
disturbed the groove into which he had slipped 
during the quiet of the past weeks; he must 
devote himself to getting back, and must learn 
to guard against similar shocks. 

He could not write that day or the next, so 
he went out with Ruth into the sun and they 
galloped over the hills, and he essayed many 
healthy exercises, as was sensible, instead of 
giving himself up to moody feelings and misera- 
ble pains, as his inclination prompted. He 
reaped the benefit of his discipline in fresh spirits 
and the ability to resume his task with a certain 
forgetfulness of himself which made the compan- 
ionship of those dream-children more pleasant. 

But the restlessness of those days and the 
dark thoughts it had created left certain effects 
which betrayed themselves in a conversation 
with the rector, who chanced to stray into his 
library before Clive had become thoroughly set- 
tled. Ruth was not there, else he might have 
been silent through a fear of disturbing her; 
and though the rector could not help him much, 
and was flattered exceedingly by this glimpse 
of a soul struggling toward the light, when he 
had come for easy talk and a little enjoyment, 
I think it did Clive good. 

The rector was an excellent man, but he was 
no logician ; he knew it himself and deplored 
the deficiency more than he need to have done : 
his life was a better lesson than a whole quarto 
of arguments could have been ; and his compan- 
ion felt that. Besides, Clive had reached the 
point where, humanly speaking, he could help 
himself. He had lived enough and his soul had 
sufficiently grown so that he was no longer afraid 
of being weak in the possession of a simple, 
child-like faith. It sounds very grand, no doubt, 
to be able to bring up endless fine theories and 
showy sophistries ; to say that the thinking 
soul demands this and the bold mind will have 
that ancient superstition flung aside; but it is 
a grander thing to have the intellect and soul 
so developed that they can say to the heart — 
" Lead me — help me on to faith — I am not 
afraid of being weak — not afraid of being a child 
in this." 

Clive gave his restlessness vent and felt bet- 
ter, suddenly reminded that there was nothing 



new or wonderful in it, that doubt is not suffi- 
ciently original to be a matter of triumph ; and 
he glided away from the subject, leaving the 
rector to compose his mind on simpler themes. 

The good man liked to talk about his choir- 
boys and the new painted window at which the 
dissenting preachers lifted their hands in holy 
horror, and the growing faithfulness and atten- 
tion among his flock, whom he was trying hard 
to make understand that religion was something 
for every-day use and practice. He liked his 
painted window, and it made him think of 
heavenly things to see that row of white-robed 
boys chanting with their fresh young voices, and 
he liked flowers on the altar, and a thought-in- 
spiring cross, and a variety of matters which 
I like and hope you do. He loved and rever- 
enced his Church, and was glad to do every thing 
which kept her seemly and beautiful. He avoid- 
ed making a guy of himself in a black Geneva 
gown, and was particular to honor the Church 
clays, and had learned that in spite of new creeds 
and isms, religion, if it is to be an all-permeating 
power, must address every sense. He knew too 
that each seeming tritle which has come down 
to us as a symbol of Catholicism, helped to 
widen the minds of his people, and tended as 
much to remove them from the chill errors of 
schism and dissent as it did to keep them from 
slipping into the cold forms and fetters of Ro- 
manism. 

Clive brought him back to tranquillity by a 
long talk about pleasanter things than weary 
old doubts, and was a little ashamed to perceive 
that, with all his intellect and his growing fame, 
this humble parish priest had a broader soul 
than his, since he was willing to acknowledge 
his own littleness, and was not afraid of being 
weak or narrow-minded by yielding to faith. 

The days went by, and Spring drew nearer 
and thawed the brooks into good nature, hung 
out red tokens on the maple-trees, and sent warm 
whispers down the wind to say that she was- 
coming. Clive was busy, and occupation is the 
surest safeguard against any trouble. If he 
could not write, if his books grew pages of dull 
hieroglyphics, and Homer and Sophocles had 
neither sound nor poetry to his car, and modern 
bards and schoolmen were dryer yet, there was 
enough to occupy him without. Perhaps the 
first impulse might have been selfish ; but to be 
busy with other people, to look persistcntly 
away from the pain and admit that life does not 
hinge upon one feeling, will bring thoughts 
which are not selfish and have their reward. 

So it was that gradually Clive became the 
master of his sorrow, instead of allowing it to 
grow into a grim tyrant which would have 
dwarfed his powers, checked his mental growth, 
and warped and distorted his nature in every 
way. And Ruth was like a flower in the morn- 
ing sun, she so rapidly developed new graces 
and new charms. As he waxed stronger, the 
bitterness and the mad yearning by degrees less- 
ened ; it ceased to be such constant effort to 
appear gentle and kind. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



103 



He would never love this child, but he would 
grow very tender of her, and in time the old 
wounds would cease to throb, and — We are 
such poor creatures, there is a good deal left in 
life after we think that every thing is lost. A 
good deal left, and it is well perhaps that we are 
poor creatures. 

Ruth was occasionally frightened anew when 
she had time to think how the weeks were pass- 
ing, and to remember that the neighboring 
mansions, standing silent among their great 
trees and broad pleasure-grounds, would soon 
be inhabited, and that as Clive's wife she should 
have to meet Clive's friends and encounter a 
segment <from that mysterious circle called 
Society. 

"But you have not been frightened yet by 
any one you have met," said Clive, when she 
was one day confiding her doubts to his guardi- 
anship, by way of relieving herself of their 
weight. 

" No — I believe not. But then old Mr. and 
Mrs. Sherman are so commonplace, even if they 
are stately, and old Miss Livingston is deaf, and 
Mr. Walters is so good-natured — " 

"Oh, pause in your list," laughed Clive ; "the 
catalogue of names is like enduring their actual 
dullness." 

" But they have all been good-natured to me, 
Clive." 

" I should think so, my little brown thrush." 

"But when the people come up from town, 
and the hotel at the lake is full, and there are 
picnics and dinners and dances and — '' 

" Horrors innumerable ; why then, little one, 
you will take stupidity in large doses instead of 
small ones." 

"But if I should do something very out- 
rageous and make you ashamed?" 

" I am not afraid of it ; you are a small 
princess by nature." 

" And you are a darling old boy to assure me. 
I don't believe I shall be afraid with you by me." 

"And we need not dine or picnic ourselves 
into fevers," said Clive; "you had forgotten 
that." 

" But I must not think that I am separating 
you from your old friends, Clive ; I should be 
miserable." 

"People that eat one and picnic one are not 
necessarily friends," replied Clive. 

"Perhaps I can't explain what I mean. I 
must not stand between you and old associations. 
You have loved me, given me a place here ; I 
must be a part of your life, not selfishly drag 
you off into a new path." 
. "You don't know how to be selfish, little 
one." 

" If your petting does not teach me ; I am so 
afraid of it sometimes." 

He remembered what he tried as much as 
possible to forget — the necessity there was for 
doing nothing which could cause comment 
about her. They must see people and live among 
them ; every thing must go on as it would if he 
had married the dullest and richest girl in his 



set, whose antecedents could be traced back to 
the Mayflower or Virginia cavaliers or good 
old Knickerbocker blood which grows scarcer 
and more diluted than one could wish. " Yes," 
he said, " we can not be hermits, and my Ruth 
will look like a violet among all those tired 
creatures coming back from unlimited Germans 
and late suppers." 

"If they'll only be good to me and not 
stare." 

" Of course they will stare at any thing so 
pretty." 

" You absurd boy. But, Clive, I don't in- 
tend to think ; I mean to let every thing go its 
way and enjoy myself." 

" The very thing you ought to do." He 
knew her well enough to be certain that this 
would be. She was perfectly happy ; so un- 
conscious of self that little things would not dis- 
turb her as they might have done another. 
She enjoyed amusements so much in her qui- 
et way that she would never be on the look- 
out for slights or whispers ; she was so satisfied 
that she must be worthy since she was worthy 
of his love, that she would undergo scrutiny 
with composure. 

And Ruth had laid her happiness as an offer- 
ing just where she had laid her sorrow, and it 
was made holy. 



CHAPTER XXI. 

TELLING THE SECRET. 

After Miss Laidley's departure, Elinor 
Grey's home life fell so much back into its old 
routine that she might have forgotten the young 
lady had not occasional letters, full of affection- 
ate phrases and elaborate accounts of her pleas- 
ures, arrived to remind her that the present 
quiet was a respite which must terminate when- 
ever the fair Genevieve's caprice changed. The 
epistles, written in the daintiest and most illegi- 
ble of hands, were so replete with encomiums of 
the Idol, that Elinor became confident they 
were written for that lady's eyes as much as for 
her own, but she knew that one part was real — 
the impression made by Mrs. Hackett's wealth. 

It had not required a long acquaintance with 
Miss Laidley for Elinor to discover the respect 
which she had for money, and her lip curled 
over many little exhibitions of character which 
the writer unconsciously betrayed. Her greed 
of receiving presents appeared to have not in 
the least declined, and Mrs. Hackett had cer- 
tainly taken the surest means of reaching her 
heart, for she loaded her with costly gifts ; and 
Genevieve wrote that she was absolutely 
ashamed to take them, but dear Mrs. Hackett 
would hear no refusal, and she, Miss Laidley, 
intended when she came back to consult her 
sweet Elinor's perfect taste in regard to sending 
to Paris itself for some token which should be 
worthy of the Duchess's acceptance — if such 
could be found. 



101 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



" That last touch was worth a new bracelet 
to her," thought Elinor, throwing aside the let- 
ter. " I am sure Mrs. llaekett paid her in dia- 
monds." Miss Laidley was always going to 
send to Paris for something for somebody. Eli- 
nor knew that the assertion meant about as 
much as the old promise given to children of 
treasures they arc to reeeivo when Mamma's 
ship comes from the moon. 

But as the weeks went on Elinor had graver 
thoughts to occupy her than those connected 
with this affectionate creature who signed herself 
a variety of childish names and had numerous 
pretty French and Italian phrases at command 
to break the tedium of dull, cold English. 
Graver thoughts indeed, and more under the 
influence Of reason than they ought to have 
been to be very romantic, considering that they 
centered upon a member of the opposite sex. 

Elinor knew that her heart was no nearer 
Dbightou Rossitur than it had been when he 
first addressed her, and she was perplexed and 
troubled how to act. lie had been a great help ; 
she had the kindest, truest regard for him ; she 
acknowledged that his society and the conscious- 
ness of his love had done much to enable her to 
come out of the gloom ; but sho feared that she 
should never go beyond this ; if not in his case, 
certainly never in the case of another. She de- 
cided that it would be wrong not to tell him 
this frankly, but she was confident it would have 
no effect ; besides, as he kept to the strict letter 
of his promise, and never "made love," it was 
difficult to speak of these things which gave her 
more and more uneasiness. 

There was an opportunity at last, but it was 
not easy to improve it as she ought. Rossitur 
was going to town for a week upon some busi- 
ness connected with the Department ; he was 
intrusted too in certain private matters of Mr. 
Grey's which were better arranged by another, 
and Rossitur desired to see the hull on his own 
account, for confidence between them was an 
old bond, ami had helped them both before now. 
The evening previous to his departure he spent 
with Elinor. "I dread to go," ho said ; " 1 
don't like to make any change, lest nothing 
should be the same after." 

Elinor remembered the time that another 
man had spoken similar words; she remember- 
ed what followed, and she suffered most at the 
idea that she did still remember. If any way 
to forgetfulness might be found — if marrying 
Rossitur could be the means, she would not 
have hesitated at that moment. The impulse 
passed, and heighten Kossitur did not know that 
in spite of his penetration he had lost an oppor- 
tunity which might bo long in recurring. "At 
least you will miss me a little," he said, by his 
very voice rousing her from that mood. 

"You are quite certain that I shall," she re- 
plied. 

"Not so certain as I could wish. Oh, Miss 
Grey — Elinor — I may say so now — haven't 1 
kept my word?" 

" You have been every thing that was gener- 



ous and noble, Mr. Rossitur," sho answered, re- 
membering that she ought to tell him what had 
been in her mind. 

"And you don't know how hard it has been 
to keep silence. If the time only comes when 
I may tell you how hard, 1 shall be more than 
repaid, Elinor." 

" It is that which makes me seem so wicked," 
sho exclaimed impetuously ; "your patience, 
your kindness. Oh, my friend, I don't know how 
to say it — but if you could go away and not think 
of me any more." 

A sudden light blazed in Rossitur's eyes and 
ho grew very pale. The mere thought of losing 
her now filled him with fierce rage, lfut lie an- 
swered quietly — " I can't go — you know it." 

"And if the time passes and I can't — and I 
am unable — " 

" And you can not love me," he added ; 
"don't try for gentle words, Elinor — that was 
what you meant." 

" Yes, it was. I have wanted to talk to you 
about this ; I am afraid of myself — oh, I am 
wicked to let you go on loving me when there 
is so little hope of a lit return." 

" Neither you nor I have any thing to do with 
that," he answered; "that is beyond our con- 
trol — I must love you." 

"If any one could advise me," exclaimed 
Elinor in her distress; "but in this nobody 
can." 

"Nobody?" 

"Yes, you could; and vet how absurd that 
is." 

" Let mo advise you, Elinor," ho said, putting 
aside his anger and his sudden fears. '• 1 am 
your friend now — not the man who loves you. 
Surely you can trust me — you have promised, 
you know ; put the other man out of sight — for- 
get him completely." 

"And what does my friend advise?" Elinor 
asked, inquiringly, softened by his gentleness. 

"That you should not allow yourself to 
think—" 

" That would be unfair to the man who loves 
me." 

" But I, your friend, shall be content, Elinor. 
When these weeks are over do not think about 
your lack of love ; if you are certain you can 
trust that man, marry him." 

"Oh, Mr. Rossitur! And if I never loved 
him and he knew it ?" 

"Never mind the possibilities. You would 
not like to be alone again, Elinor; without vani- 
ty I may at least believe so much." 

" 1 would not lose my friend for the world." 

"You see? I am not afraid, and I promise 
you that the lover shall be as patient as the 
"friend." 

How could she put in words that which she 
really feared? She could not understand the 
feeling herself. She only knew that when sho 
thought of him as her friend his presence was a 
pleasure to her — when she dreamed of the possi- 
bility of being his wife she was tilled with unut- 
terable horror. There was no language in 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



105 



which she could express a sensation which it 
was impossible for her maiden purity to compre- 
hend, but of which her soul warned her with 
all its force. "I can not explain," she said, 
" but one thing is evident — 1 ought not to trille 
with you; I must not let the time go by and 
leave you deceived up to the last." 

" You are not deceiving me, Elinor. I was 
to wait until the summer; you are not to think 
at all." 

" I do believe you would be noble enough 
not to blame me," she replied ; " but that does 
not satisfy me." 

" It must. I would sooner go away from 
you forever, Elinor Grey, than know that I was 
tormenting you." That was not heart-felt, but 
it sounded so grand that he could not resist say- 
ing it. 

" I don't know how to act," returned she sad- 
ly. 

" Only be quiet and don't think ; it is all you 
have to do." 

" I can not rid myself of the responsibility in 
that way. And oh, Mr. Rossitur, if I were will- 
ing, never marry me because I am grateful for 
your affection and afraid of my own loneliness. 
It would not do. I ■am not gentle, not good 
enough ; it would be black work for both of 
us." 

' ' Trust to my friendship now, Elinor ; trust to 
that love later. I shall never change ; you know 
me thoroughly. I am a better man just from 
the influence of the past weeks. I shall grow 
better and stronger — you need not be afraid." 

"It is myself, my own weakness that I fear. 
Mr. Rossitur, every day shows me some new 
trait in your character that heightens my respect 
and esteem ; but I told you the truth when I 
said that I was not worth such love." 

"My pearl of women! You must let me 
judge of that." 

She was gaining nothing by this attempt at 
explanation ; she was only more softened by his 
goodness, and placing herself on less certain 
ground. "I know I ought to end this," she 
said ; "I ought to answer now." 

"But you have no right; you gave me till 
July ; I won't have your answer now. It is your 
friend talking to you, Elinor — we won't mind 
that other man." 

She would marry him at last, he was certain 
of that ; he had never failed in any thing on 
which his whole heart was set. There was a 
peculiar charm in this present aspect of affairs, 
mi unlike any experience he had ever known. 
He loved her — he would win her. It did occur 
to him that he might kill her with his love if 
every pulse was not his then ; but he would not 
think; he believed himself capable of a great 
deal that was noble, as we all do till we are tried. 
" Promise me that you will not fret about it 
while I am gone," he said. 

" And that will not be honest." 

"Let me judge; it is what I wish. Promise 
me, Elinor." 

This was all she had accomplished by the ef- 



fort which cost her so much. He had gained 
an advantage, yet she was no nearer loving him 
than before, and by an additional step had made 
it so much harder to go back if time should 
prove it necessary. 

" Do you give me your word, Elinor ?" 
" I will at least try to be more of a woman, 
and less horribly selfish." 

That was very unsatisfactory ; if once she 
thought of things in that light, he was lost. 
"You promised to regard me only as your 
friend," he said ; " to find a comfort in my love." 
" You tempt me so," she answered, smiling, 
but nearer tears than she liked. "I am in- 
clined to -be selfish and weak, to float on in a 
dream ; and you aid me." 

Let her float on. If she could only remain 
in that state of mind until the time came for a 
decision, her conscience would not allow her to 
retract. With her overstrained ideas of right, 
she would marry him through a fear of having 
trifled: he should conquer any way. "Only 
miss me," he said; "I will be importunate 
then." 

"You know I shall do that everywhere I 
go." 

"I am quite satisfied, then — quite. If you 
tell me when I come back that the week seemed 
long — am I very selfish?" 

" You make me ashamed of myself, Mr. Ros- 
situr. You arc very noble, and very generous." 
He thought he was, himself ; and it was true, 
if his virtues did not fail when the decisive mo- 
ment came, as yours or mine would have been 
very likely to do. " So there is an end to all 
these doubts and fears," he said; "tell me 
that I have succeeded in dispelling them." 

"While I listen to you, yes; but indeed, 
Mr. Rossitur, I must not forget. I must be 
just to you and to myself." 

" I am going away now, so I can say noth- 
ing. A hope of gaining your love will make 
me happy, and my happiness will give me pow- 
er to keep you at least quiet and content : there 
is nothing to fear." 

" A wrong to you is what I dread most — do 
believe that." 

"I believe — I know it. But, if you can trust 
my love, it is enough ; you need not fear for 
my happiness." 

So she had gained nothing by the interview, 
and she recognized the fact very sensibly after 
he had gone. Still there was little to do but 
follow his advice — avoid thought as much as 
possible. She did miss him, even more than 
she had expected ; and a woman has gone a 
long way when she misses a man. If lovers 
could know that a little wholesome neglect, ap- 
parently brought on by uncontrollable circum- 
stances, is a capital aid toward winning a woman 
in Elinor Grey's state of mind, it strikes me they 
would not trust to uninterrupted teasing and at- 
tention. Elinor missed him; and as his ab- 
sence was unavoidably lengthened into a fort- 
night, she had ample time. He wrote to her, 
and his letters were exactly what they ought to 



km; 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR 



have been; the friend wrote, and the lover 
peeped through here and there in the most de- 
lightful way. I'm Elinor did not answer those 
epistles; she had warned him that she should 
not, and she persevered in her resolution, al- 
though sometimes she "as sorely tempted. If 
she did write, she should he certain to say some- 
thing that she would regret. She could guard 
her tongue and her actions ; but she knew w hat 

an instrument of mischief a pen is in a woman's 

hand, and she avoided that danger. 

She had never told her lather of the story 

Rossitur had whispered weeks before; not thai 
she was given to keeping secrets from him, but 

she was so anxiourt to he strictly lionorahle in 
her conduct toward this man. She did tell hint, 
however, during Kossitnr's absence. Jt came 

ahoul from the fact of two of Elinor's adorers 

laying their distressed cases before Mr. Grey 

himself, instead of appealing directly to the 
young lady a very Upright and manly sort of 
proceeding, we all say and think, hut it is bla- 
tantly asinine, nevertheless. Elinor had to tell 
her father that the pining ones need not come 
to her, and was very glad to he relieved from 

having to say unpleasant things to them. 

•• it becomes alarming, my daughter Elinor," 
said Mr. Grey, laughing a little, as the best of 
men will at others' disappointments. •' 1 have 
scut so many despairing swains away during 

these last five years, coming, 1 think, from every 
quarter o( the globe." 

M Bui 1 can't help it, papa. 1 do not llirt, 
and I WOUld be in love if 1 could." 

'•And when 1 think of it," returned he, "it 
is a little odd you have never cared." 

•■ \ on are in no hurry, papa?" 

'' I am not anxious to he left alone, my 

daughter. No, I think even to have said 'your 

ladyship'— as I might three separate times, only 
you were hard-hearted — would not have been 
any compensation." 

•' I shall just stay with you, papa." 
"Ah! ah! young ladies' promises ! No, my 
daughter Elinor, you shall marry the man to- 
ward whom your heart goes out. I shall love 

hint tor your sake, and resign myself to growing 
old gracefully." 

'•You will always he young, papa. You 
should not he the most agreeable man in the 

world if 1 am to have a husband." 

•• My Elinor knows her flattery is exceeding- 
ly pleasant." 

••Ami papa knows I mean it." 

•• And my daughter is a foolish puss, in spite 
of her dignity," said Mr. Grey. The purest 

feeling that man had ever known was his atl'ec- 
tion tor his child ; and these past years had 
made her a companion so congenial that it would 
be very hard to yield her to another. "1 only 
stipulate that you shall give me fair warning, 
my daughter," he said ; "I must have time to 
grow familiar with the idea of losing you." 

Elinor thought that she ought to tell him the 
terms on which she stood with Mr. RossitUT, and 
she found it very difficult. "Papa," she said 



! suddenly, " if I should marry, it must he a man 
wdio has your full approbation." 

" My daughter Elinor could not love a man 
who would fail to have it," he replied ; " I know 

too well what your judgment is to have any 
fear." 

" l'apa, do you like Mr. Rossitur?" she asked 
abruptly. 

lie was a little startled, hut his composure 

was not easily shaken. lie only showed that 

he had been surprised by opening his snuff-box 
and taking a pinch of the odorous mixture in a 
dainty, graceful way. " 1 like Mr. Kossitur 
very much,'' he answered in his deliberate 
voice ; " hut what has your question to o\o w ith 

the subject, my daughter Elinor?" 

"I should have told you before, papa, only it 
was not my secret ; though I have been quite 
troubled at keeping it from you." 

"Oh, it is a secret Of Mr. Kossitnr's? Kut that 

has nothing to do with our subject either." 

'" Oh yes, it has. 'What a goose 1 am at 
making explanations. l'apa, he would insist 
on loving ine — he would wait six months for an 
answer." 

" And what will the answer be, my Elinor?" 

" Indeed, if I could decide 1 should he so glad. 
I believe I have a cold heart, except for you. 
lie was so noble and kind 1 could not send him 
away ; and yet 1 think 1 ought to have done 
so."' 

" My Elinor is so wise that 1 need not tell her 
how dangerous such compromises usually are." 

"I know it, ;iapa, and I want to do right; 1 
told him frankly I could not love him. Since 
that he has acted like the truest and most pa- 
tient o( friends — not a word or look that could 
disturb me." 

"Then 1 see no way but for you to wait till 
he comes to receive his answer, my daughter." 

" Kut is that right, papa ?" 

" It is simply unavoidable. 1 know very well 
\ou will not trifle with him." 

"That you may be sure o(\ papa." 
"Mr. Kossitur is not rich ; he will be a dis- 
tinguished man if he is persevering and works 
hard," continued Mr. Grey. " I can only say that 
you must decide for yourself, my Elinor." 
" Kut, papa, if 1 don't love him ?" 
" Perhaps you will discover before then." 
"I never shall — I am certain of it; 1 shall 
never love any man. lie would be satisfied— 
he is so good he would take me with my cold- 
heartedncss ; but I can not think it would be 
just to him." 

Mr. Grey did not quite understand. Men of 
fifty do not easily comprehend all the workings 
of a young woman's heart and mind— not men 
of his stamp, at least. Kut Mr. Grey talked 
very prettily about gratitude warming into love, 
and a girl's friendship being often tamour nuns 
i/tii.r, and so rather helped Kossitur. 

" 1 have told you, at all events, papa," she 
said ; "whatever happens, you at least will be- 
lieve that 1 have tried to do right." 

" Kut you must he very careful. 1 know 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



107 



how sensitive you are, my daughter Elinor. If 
you desire it, when the time comes I must give 
you up to Mr. Rossitur ; but if it should be oth- 
erwise, you must not have a doubt with which 
to torment yourself." 

Elinor explained every thing, and was con- 
soled to find that her father did not think she 
could have acted in any other way. Certainly, 
ambitious as he was and eager to employ every 
aid in self-advancement, Mr. Grey had no mind 
to make use of his daughter's happiness. Be- 
sides, there was no man already in power whose 
alliance could benefit him particularly ; there 
was a good deal more to be hoped from this as- 
pirant for dignities. 

Mr. Grey appeared very noble and disinterest- 
ed, and, at the; same time, gratified his affection 
for his child, being in no haste to lose her, and 
loving her so well that he did not think any 
event in life could arrive which would make him 
admit even the possibility of sacrificing her to 
his needs. Elinor had a sense of relief in con- 
fiding the matter to him, and gained a refuge 
from her doubts by remembering that he ap- 
proved of her conduct. 

In the mean time Leighton Rossitur was de- 
tained in New York, and, as was natural, he 
often visited the house of the Idol, where he was 
always a welcome guest. Miss Laidlcy was in 
her best looks, and made quite a little Circe of 
herself; and Rossitur could not help being 
pleased with her, although he was in love with 
another woman, lie was not fearful that any 
report which could go back to Miss Grey would 
cause her an instant's reflection; he knew her 
pride and generosity too well. As for the fair 
Genevieve's peace of mind, I do not suppose I hat 
he once thought about it. Indeed, he had no 
intention of having a flirtation ; but the little 
thing was very bewitching, and the Idol's house 
was pleasant, and Rossitur did not hesitate to 
sweeten the Jiangs of life in every way that 
offered. Rut it was all very unsatisfactory to 
Miss Laidlcy when it was over. She could not 
be certain of having made an impression on his 
heart — had not so much as discovered whether 
that, uncomfortable bit of property belonged to 
Miss Grey. 

It' lie bad loved her, gone mad for her as men 
bad done, it is highly probable that she would 
not have cared a fillip of her ear-ring for him ; 
but as it was she did care a great deal, and in a 
stormy, impetuous fashion which would have 
astonished the wisest physiognomist that ever 
looked for people's characters in their faces. 1 f 
her fever had no other cil'ect, it deepened her 
detestation of Miss Grey into tolerably strong 
hatred to be indulged by a pink-and-whitc creat- 
ure in this latter half of the nineteenth century. 
It was bad enough for Elinor to be beautiful and 
stately, and what Genevieve called " deadly su- 
perior ;" to have no secrets, and be ridiculously 
truthful; but to have, in addition, the fear that 
Leighton Kossitur loved her, was more than 
Miss Laidley's equanimity could endure. She. 
would have liked to stick her unconscious rival 



full of pins and needles, literally or metaphor- 
ically — both, if that had been possible. Shi' 
praised her wherevcrshe went, and made it clear 
all the while that she was a sweet little martyr, 
and that Miss Grey was jealous and tyrannical. 
She did not try that dodge much with the 
Idol, for the Idol was true as steel to her favo- 
rites, and actually believed in the people whom 
she liked — oh, marvel of the age ! Rut Genevieve 
prowled about her, and poked her here and trip- 
ped her up there, and tried to discover if she 
were acquainted with the least mystery concern- 
ing Elinor. She was at length rewarded by 
Mrs. Ilackett's telling her what she knew about 
the affair with Clive FarnBworth, although that 
was very little. "lie was a glorious creature, 
my dove," said she, "and I thought he flung 
his noble heart at our beautiful princess's shrine. 
I must have erred, else he felt the blight that 
preys upon the rose, for be wedded another — 
the fairest floweret." 

" Hut was there nothing odd about it — no se- 
cret?" Miss Laidlcy asked. 

" His marriage was very instantaneous — " 
"No, no — he's of no consequence now. Rut 
did not Elinor care for him — are you sure?" 

" It could not have been, my perfect. Our 
Statuesque Elinor could not have loved in vain." 
"So he married nobody' knows whom," said 
Genevieve. 

" Some little country blossom — a treasure. 
But indeed I think Miss Grey told me that she 
knew her formerly." 

" I think it is very odd, at least." 
"Perhaps so, now you make mc cogitate. 
But not if Miss Grey was acquainted with her; 
our princess never errs in judgment." 

"I'd like to pull your turban off and stamp 
on it," thought Miss Laidlcy. "You old par- 
rot, chanting that horrid thing's praises!" 

Genevieve was fain to leave the subject, since 
it resulted in Miss Grey's charms being loudly 
extolled. She did the only ill-natured thing 
she could — she insisted upon it that Mr. Earns- 
worth's marriage was a very mysterious affair 
until the Idol thought it was too, and said so to 
Rosa Thornton, who, womanlike, began to be 
infected with the same suspicion. If she had 
known that it originated with Miss Laidlcy, she 
would have held it in contempt at once, for she 
had conceived an aversion to that pretty creat- 
ure, who cordially returned it. The conse- 
quence was that they were very sweet to each 
other; and Rosa wrote to Elinor that the Laid- 
lcy was the most abominable little cat among all 
the eats she had known, and cats seemed to 
comprise the greater portion of her female ac- 
quaintance; but the Laidlcy was the worst. 
After that they kissed each other when they 
met; and Miss Laidlcy said very innocently to 
every body that Mrs. Thornton was a lovely 
woman — how beautifully she flirted — how lucky 
Mr. Thornton did not care ; she was so open 
about it, and let Mr. Norton kiss her hand in the 
conservatory at the Idol's house; but Miss 
Laidlcy did not mean to mention that — she was 



108 MY DAUGHTER ELINOR 

■ 

so heedless — there was nothing in it, of course, 
but people would talk. And of course Rosa 
heard it, and she and Tom had a hearty laugh ; 
but it did not make her dislike Miss Laidley any 
the less, and she called her worse names in the 
next letter she wrote to Elinor. She was glad 
that pussy had not arrived when she left Wash- 
ington ; now she need not invite her to Alban 
Wood. Artful Rosa decided that she must 
make the Idol ask Miss Laidley to sojourn with 
her in the country, so that Elinor would be free 
to go where she liked. 

Rossitur's stay in town was over ; after he 
bad gone, Miss Laidley took the edge off her 
feelings by breaking an engagement between 
two happy young people, carrying a disgusting 
Cuban, who chanced to be of importance at the 
time, away from a married flirt, and performing 
several feats of a similar nature, the most won- 
derful of which was flirting with Jack Ralston, 
and keeping Jack's wife, who was Jealousy in- 
carnate, blissfully blind and complaisant- — a 
thing no other woman ever succeeded in doing. 

Tom Thornton told Elinor the next summer 
that he never saw any thing to equal the way 
in which the Laidley turned poor young Grey- 
son's head, and drove his affianced so mad that 
she broke the engagement in her frenzy ; while 
Tom regarded the performance with an artistic 
eye, his opinion of Miss Laidley was best not 
put in words. Of course Greyson made an ass 
of himself and brought his heart to Miss Laid- 
ley, who did not wish the gift and had never ex- 
pected it. She sent him off quite insane be- 
tween penitence and wrath, and she went weep- 
ing to throw herself on the Idol's bosom and 
deplore the harm she had unconsciously done. 
The friends of the young pair were not dumb, 
and every body knew the story, but somehow 
Miss Laidley managed to preserve her credit — 
she had not meant to do mischief. After that 
she attacked the Cuban, and, though she had a 
veteran coquette to contend against, she was suc- 
cessful. The Cuban actually laid his sequins 
and his slaves at her feet, and she did a bit of 
virtuous indignation, and told the Idol that she 
considered it an insult to be persecuted by a man 
who had been so talked about with a married 
woman. 

When there was no more deviltry to be trans- 
acted she began to find town very dull in its aft- 
er-Lent awakening, to grow weary of the Idol's 
long stories and sesquipedalian words of compli- 
ment. She wrote a beautiful letter to Mr. Grey 
— some business matter was the pretense — 
wherein she depicted so vividly the woes of a 
solitary canary-bird pining for her parent, who 
had gone to be a seraph, and hinting that nobody 
could soothe her loneliness but her guardian, that 
Mr. Grey answered begging her to return, and 
told her how they bad missed her. Neither of 
the letters were shown to Elinor ; Mr. Grey 
mentioned having received a business note from 
his ward, but for some reason, probably unde- 
fined in his own mind, he kept the contents to 
himself. 



Miss Laidley told the Idol that her guardian 
desired her to return ; she must bring her visit 
to a close, though it broke her heart to leave her 
darling Duchess; but she must be obedient to 
him who stood in the place of her lost parent. 
The Idol admired her angelic virtues, wept over 
her, and made her promise to come back and go 
up to the Castle in the country, which looked ex- 
actly like a square tea-tray decorated with four 
pepper-boxes. 

Under the protection of old Juanita and one 
of Mrs. Hackett's men-servants, Miss Laidley 
journeyed back to Washington, and got up a re- 
spectable little flirtation with an entire stranger 
on the road, to relieve the tedium of travel. 
She descended upon Elinor more blooming and 
excitable than ever, and upset the whole house 
in the most innocent manner possible, causing 
the servants- to consign her mentally to a hotter 
place than the kitchen furnace, and making El- 
inor wish that the Millennium would come. 

Mr. Rossitur was unusually occupied at that 
season of the year ; indeed, he rather kept out 
of the fair Genevieve's way, finding that she ex- 
pected the town episode to be followed up. 
Miss Laidley in her heart believed that Elinor 
ordered him out of her reach for fear of danger. 
She thought virtuously that such wickedness 
deserved to meet with righteous retribution, and 
constituted herself an avenging angel to admin- 
ister the punishment. Having such resolutions 
in her mind, made her more affectionate than 
ever to her hostess; she did the martyr with in- 
creased sweetness for other people's benefit, and 
swooped down on the nnwary Mr. Grey like a 
beautiful pigeon-hawk. 



CHAPTER XXII. 

A SCENIC EFFECT SPOILED. 



I believe I have quoted somewhere what 
wise old Balzac said about fifty-two being the 
age at which a man is most dangerous to wom- 
en. I never was fifty-two, and am therefore 
unable to speak from experience, but observa- 
tion has taught me that if a pretty girl wants 
to make a puffy, pulpy, disjointed idiot of a 
member of my ill-used race, she ought to select 
a man of that age to do it in perfection. 

Now Mr. Grey was a wise old serpent, and 
had been un homme rjalant, and knew a good 
many things about women that women never 
know about each other; but Miss Laidley's type 
was not familiar to him, and he was completely 
deceived by her pretty innocence, her appealing 
helplessness, her solitary condition, and the en- 
tire trust she had in him, which was expressed 
with such artless freedom. He was not to be 
deluded into making a blatant idiot of himself, 
but he was a good deal more fascinated than he 
would have liked any body to perceive. 

Elinor did not observe Miss Laidley's per- 
formances at first — puss was exceedingly wary. 
She had ways and means of knowing when Mr. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



109 



Grey was alone in his library — old Juanita was 
the most faithful of waiting-women — and she 
was always going in by accident, or to seek ad- 
vice, or to ask him to comfort her because she 
was a lonely little thing, who would never be 
wise enough to remain unguarded in a wicked 
world. When Elinor did discover what was go- 
ing on she was filled with wrath ; and not as- 
piring to angelic amiability, she gave way to 
her temper, and Miss Laidley had an unpleas- 
ant morning. Not that Elinor betrayed the 
real cause of her irritation ; she was quite a 
match for any woman when it came to the ne- 
cessity of employing high art ; and the Laidley 
had not the satisfaction of knowing that her suc- 
cess was noticed. In the midst of her rage Eli- 
nor would be civil ; but there was an opening, 
and she improved it. Miss Laidley chanced 
to amuse some callers with a reproduction of 
the Idol the very day on which Elinor discover- 
ed her machinations toward the Secretary, and 
she read her a lecture which was worse than 
being scalped. 

And Elinor would not quarrel ; she only 
would do her duty. She told Miss Laidley that 
she had talkecfso much about duty that her, Eli- 
nor's, mind was infected too ; and she had to say, 
that to accept a person's hospitality and presents, 
and then laugh about him or her, was the most 
contemptible thing of which any woman past 
twenty could be guilty. She frightened Miss 
Laidley by vowing that if it happened again 
she would write to Mrs. Hackett and let her 
know how her kindness had been returned ; 
she begged to be understood thoroughly in 
earnest. She conquered, and Miss Laidley 
had to cry and beg, and wound up with a 
hysteric fit from passion. Elinor gave her a 
dose of very bitter medicine, spattered her new 
dress mercilessly with water, and brought her 
out of it. 

"I mean it all for your good," said she, 
sweetly; "you know that. But, my dear 
Genevieve, I can not permit you to abuse my 
friends ; I want you to remember it." 

Miss Laidley did a war-dance in private, and 
pulled old Juanita's hair, and called Elinor 
certain names which would not look well in 
print, but which are sometimes not strangers to 
the lips of pink-and-white creatures who look 
too ethereal for an earthly thought. 

Elinor could not be sorry that she had given 
way to her temper, and she vowed inwardly 
that, with all her craft, the creature should not 
trouble the peace of her home. She had the 
highest respect for her father's judgment, but 
she did know what unheard-of things men will 
do, and she had no intention that Miss Laidley 
should carry proceedings far enough for her to 
be forced to acknowledge that her father had 
foibles like common men. 

Miss Laidley was more wary than ever, be- 
cause she had sworn vengeance, and meant to 
sting Elinor's very soul. Indeed, she felt that 
she could almost marry Mr. Grey for the sat- 
isfaction of torturing her; perhaps she would 



have said quite, if it had not been for the recol- 
lection of Leighton Rossitur and her unfinished 
romance. She did show her hand, however, 
crafty as she was. A few days after the explo- 
sion in regard to the Idol, she suddenly fell at 
Elinor's feet, and sobbing as if her heart would 
break, cried out — 

" Eorgive me, Elinor, forgive me! Your 
coldness tortures me." 

"I have not been cold," replied Elinor; "I 
have treated you just as usual." 

"But I feel the difference — here — in my 
heart. Only say that you forgive me. I know 
how wrong it was to speak so of Mrs. Hackett ; 
I know you meant it for my good ; I should be 
called ill-natured if I indulged in such thought- 
lessness. Only say that you forgive me." 

"If you want my forgiveness, Miss Laidley, 
you have it." 

"Darling, perfect Elinor! And don't be 
icy ; you won't, dear ? That nearly kills me, 
for indeed I am a good little thing." 

"I am willing to think it was only thought- 
lessness," replied Elinor kindly enough, but not 
to be deluded, " unless you force me to believe 
otherwise by continuing the practice." 

" I never will say a word against any body," 
sobbed Miss Laidley. "You are sure you for- 
give me, c/ierie ? You will, I know you Mill, be- 
cause you are better than other women ; you are 
perfect — " 

" If I am not amiable when my friends are 
attacked, "said Elinor, not thinking it necessary 
to thank the young lady for her encomiums. 

"I am thoroughly ashamed. I can't think 
how I came to let my tongue run away with 
me ; I am so heedless. But I shall be careful 
now ; you have made me see how wrong it is, 
and I thank you so much for doing it — oh, so 
much !" 

She did such exaggerated gratitude that Eli- 
nor knew how venomous she was at heart. Miss 
Laidley made the mistake of employing too 
much art ; her penitence and her thankfulness 
might have deceived a man, but they only left 
her little game more apparent to her listener, 
and she was on her guard. 

Elinor did not say a word to her father, and 
she hoped that he was too much occupied to be- 
stow any thought on the small serpent. But 
one day, when weeks of preparation led Miss 
Laidley to believe that she could venture on 
striking what she would have called her grand 
coup, make a smiling idiot of her guardian, and 
have the pleasure of telling the story far and 
wide, she rose up like a young Napoleon in his 
might. 

Elinor was out, and Mr. Grey had returned 
earlier than usual. The Laidley heard him go 
up to his room. She knew his habits, and was 
certain that he would presently descend to the 
library. She stood before the glass and made 
her wavy hair look more picturesque than ever ; 
she could at any time grow pale by working 
herself into a nervous state ; she would have ar- 
tistically darkened her eyelids till they seemed 



no 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



heavy with painful thoughts and unshed tears, 
had she not remembered tluit she. might have to 
sheil real ones, which would disturb the lines; 
and down stairs she crept with the velvet tread 
Of a panther. 

When Mr. Grey opened the door of his libra- 
ry a few moments later, he saw a figure crouch- 
ed iii a graceful attitude on the floor with her 
head buried in her hands, and heard a broken 
voice Bob — 

"() my lather, my father! Come and take 
tnc — your lonely little Evangel — O my father, 
my father !" 

The diplomatist was absolutely startled by 
this paroxysm of suffering, lie closed the door 

softly and stood uncertain what to do, but the 
Blight sound he made was enough to disturb the 
mourner, who sprang to her feet, uttering in a 
tunc of passionate bitterness — 

"Who is it? Can I never have a moment's 
peace?" 

" My dear child." he. said, going toward her, 
"what is the matter?" 

" Hilas I it is my guardian," she gasped, 
putting out her hands with a gesture of con- 
fusion. " Let me go. I bog your pardon, Sir ; 
1 did not mean to intrude; I thought I was 
alone in the house; let mo go." She ran 
Straight to him, and almost fell in his arms. 

" You in nst not go," he said, greatly touched 
by her grief. ''Tell me what has happened — 
what troubles you?" 

"Nothing — nothing! Let me go ; let me 
go!" and she clung tight to his hand with both 
her trembling fingers. 

''Arc you ill, dear child? Have you had 
bad news ?" 

" No, oh no. There is nothing the matter. 
I was lonely — foolish. Oh, I was thinking of 
papa. 1 would not have had you found mo for 
the world; I did not dream of your being near." 

" My dear little Genevieve, you know I am 

your nearest friend now," he said, somewhat 
fluttered, as masculine nature, will be by the 
trembling pressure of two white hands. 

"The kindest, dearest friend ever a lonely, 
heart-sick creature bad." she murmured, look- 
ing up in his face through her tears. That ap- 
peal was irresistible. 

"You can talk to me if you really consider 
me such, you can tell me every thing that pains 
you," he continued. 

"Oh don't: you will make me cry again; 
don't, speak in that gentle voice. I thank you 
so much. 1 am so sorry to distress yon." She 
tried to check her sobs, but they would burst 
forth in spite of her efforts, and very lovely she 
looked in her agitation. 

" 1 am grioved to think you suffer," he said ; 
" 1 can not have it ; you stay too much alone." 

" No, no ; I am best alone. Nobody under- 
stands me, nobody cares for me — but you," 
with the softest lingering inflection on the pro- 
noun. 

" Poor child, if I could help you in any way, 
you must know how ready I should be." 



" I do, I do; I am not ungrateful. Say you 
believe I am not." 

" How could I think it? Rut where is my 
daughter Elinor ?" 

" She is out. Don't tell her how you found 
me ; it would only pain her. Oh, dear Sir, I am 
such a foolish child. You are both too kind to 
mc ; but when 1 sec you happy together, it 
makes me wretched. Once I was loved and 
petted, and now I am alone — all alone!" 

She flung up her snowy arms with a despair- 
ing gesture as they do in novels, and fresh tears 
gushed from her eves ; then she clung to him 
again with that mute expression of confidence, 
and Mr. Grey was very much moved, and quite 
dazed between her grief and her entire trust in 
him. 

" I must go now," she said mournfully. 
"Forget this, dear friend. Promise mc that 
you will forget it. I will come back presently, 
and you shall see mc gay and smiling — the 
thoughtless child I seem to the world. I will 
not throw back the disguise again." She be- 
gan to sob more violently than ever, and be 
held her hands fast as she made an effort to 
withdraw them. 

"You must not go yet,'' he said kindly; 
"you must have no disguises with me, but let 
me soothe your grief." 

"Only you can," she whispered; "you are 
so good to me ; I can not thank you, but oh ! 
if you could read my heart !" 

" You confidence will be my best reward," 
he answered ; "I can not let you go away to 
weep alone." 

"Thanks, a thousand thanks. May I stay? 
I shall be better in a moment. May I talk to 
you ?" 

"I shall be very happy if you can, dear 
child." 

" Yes, call me child — call mc Evangel." 
He did call her so — a pretty little Evangel 
she was likely to prove to the worldly man of 
fifty-two, who ought to have been dangerous, 
and was near being a goose for once. 

" Mv lovely Evangel — the loveliest man ever 
had!" 

"Ah! the word is so sweet!" she sighed, 
lifting her eyes to heaven. "I was alone — I 
was in the dark — and you came to me like a 
guardian angel, bringing such precious words 
of sympathy." 

" Rut you must not be lonely," he said ; " I 
can not permit that. Remember how much I 
want to make you happy." 

"I do — I do ; I bless you for it. There is 
not a night but I recall your kindness in my 
prayers. Oh, I am not ungrateful." 

" You are every thing that is gentle and love- 
ly," said he; " but it makes me feel guilty to 
sec you sutler. 1 fear that 1 have been careless 
o( my precious trust." 

" No, no ; don't think that. Yon have been 
all goodness, all kindness. I have no words to 
utter what you have been to inc." 

" Hut we must find some means to keep these 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



lit 



gloomy thoughts away ; you must be made con- 
tent and happy." 

" You are only too good to think it worth 
while," she answered, with a fleeting smile. "Are 
you busy ? do I disturb you, Sir ?" 

" Your presence here is always a pleasure to 
me," lie said, "and no business could be so im- 
portant as my ward's happiness." 

"Thanks — oh, a thousand thanks. Then sit 
down, and let me sit by you — I'm such a foolish 
little thing, you know. See, I am quite com- 
posed and happy now," and she turned her an- 
gelic eyes upon him and smiled again. 

He permitted her to lead him to his favorite 
seat ; she nestled on an ottoman close at his 
side, and, in her childishness, laid her head 
down on his hand, which chanced to be resting 
on the arm of the chair. 

" Now I am quiet," she said, in a voice which 
might have made Mr. Grey think of Lurcly, or 
the wind spirits of German legends, or any other 
dangerous and devilish and beautiful thing, if he 
had not been for the time under the influence of 
her spells. " Now I am quiet ; I can rest here 
— I can rest." 

" Rest, my pretty Genevieve," he replied; 
*f this shall be your place as long as you choose 
to keep it." 

He was bewildered, and he was a good deal 
fascinated, but he was not prepared to be quite 
a smiling idiot. Lurcly saw that she must go 
further, she must do something that would up- 
set him completely ; she might never have anoth- 
er opportunity like this. 

"At rest, at peace," she murmured; "ah! 
if I might always be as happy as I am now!" 
She raised her blue eyes to his and smiled ; 
her soft hair floated over his sleeve. I'll be 
hanged if she would not have made a fool of 
Solomon himself. 

" If it were in my power to make you so, you 
should be," he said. 

"I know that," she answered; " oh, don't 
think me ungrateful." 

" I think you every thing that is lovely and 
charming," returned he, "and yet a child at 
heart." 

That was very pretty and it was pleasant to 
hear, but Lurcly wanted more than that, much 
more. She had not been singing her siren's 
songs for so little return ; she wanted to dizzy- 
bis brain with her notes till she could carry him 
down an unresisting captive, and bang his head 
against the sharpest rocks, in order properly to 
avenge herself upon Elinor; and bang his head 
she would, no matter what sort of song she had 
to sing. 

"Yes, yes," she sighed, "you only think of 
me as a child to be petted and coaxed out of 
crying ; you forget that I have a woman's 
heart." 

Bless the creature, what did she mean? 
Had he not been deceiving himself? Did this 
lovely girl care for him in earnest, despite the 
difference of age ? What was he to think — 
what was he to say? He had no fancy for being 



a dunce ; he had known from the first how 
absurd he should have considered thoughts like 
his in another man ; but indeed, when it comes 
to having a pink-and-white creature lay her 
head on the arm of the sagest Solon of fifty-two, 
and look up in his eyes, and be the very soul of 
childish innocence and truthfulness, it is omc- 
what difficult to think at all. 

" And I shall always be a child," Lurcly sang 
in his ear ; " I need to be petted and loved — it 
is sunshine and life to me ; I fade, and freeze, 
and die without the warmth." 

And the statesman was more bewildered than 
ever. 

' ' I shall never marry ; nobody will ever pet 
me as you do, so I shall stay here always— al- 
ways," sang Lurcly. "Oh, mayn't I stay? 
Won't you keep your little Evangel? When 
darling Elinor marries some great man, I'll stay 
and be petted ; oh, mayn't I ?" 

He was more bewildered and dizzy still, but, 
before he could speak, Lurcly suddenly cried in 
a changed voice — 

" I forgot. Perhaps I ought not to say such 
things. Oh dear, I am such a foolish girl, wear- 
ing my heart on my lips with those I trust; but 
they are so few now. Oh, my poor, lonely little 
life — only you — I have nobody — no one in the 
world left but you !" 

Without the slightest warning she went off 
into a fresh paroxysm of anguish more poignant 
than the first, more painful to her audience of 
one from its unexpectedness, when he had 
thought her lying on his arm and singing her- 
self into quiet. 

"Oh, my lonely life," she sobbed, snatching 
her hands from him and flinging them wildly 
about. "Oh, my heart! I freeze — I die! Oh, 
papa, come and take your poor Evangel — father, 
father, come ! Is there no one to hear ? Are 
the angels deaf? has Heaven no mercy?" 

"Genevieve, Genevieve!" pleaded Mr. Grey, 
nearly frightened out of such wits as he had not 
lost before, 

"Let me die," she moaned ; " I only ask for 
death ! O Heaven, be merciful, and give me 
rest in the grave." 

She threw herself on her knees, looked up, 
and seemed ready to soar away, but Mr. Grey's 
voice checked her heavenward flight. 

"My dear child, you frighten me ; be calm, 
I entreat." 

"Yes," she shrieked, "one friend left — one! 
Oh, my only friend, don't grow tired of me — 
don't hate me ; don't let another take my place." 
She caught his hand in her frenzied pleading; 
she had changed her attitude, and was leaning 
on the ottoman. "Promise me," she repealed, 
with passionate sobs ; " promise, if you would 
not sec me die here!" 

Oh, Mr. Grey, Mr. Grey ! Lurcly had con- 
quered, and you fifty-two ! The words were on 
his lips — he actually was going to he, not a 
smiling but an agitated idiot, and ask Lurcly if 
she could be content always to stay there, if she 
could be his wife, his darling, his — Goodness 



112 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



knows what he might have said : an elderly fool 
is much worse than a young one. 

But at that instant the door opened and 
Elinor Grey walked unsuspectingly into the 
room, not knowing that her father had returned, 
and stood petrified by the tableau. Mr. Grey 
saw her and felt his senses come back ; no, he 
felt as if somebody had slapped a lump of ice 
suddenly on his head. 

"Is Miss Laidley ill?" asked Elinor in the 
lowest, quietest voice, but one which would have 
sent the wildest dream whizzing away from a 
man when heard under such circumstances. 

Miss Laidley called her a dreadful name be- 
tween her teeth, went off into a new spasm of 
sobs dictated by different sensations, and rushed 
frantically out of the room. Once within the 
privacy of her apartment, she gave way to her 
emotions without restraint. She had made 
herself nervous in order to play her part well, 
and now, enraged by this defeat at the moment 
when victory was within her grasp, she was 
ready to have spasms in earnest. She fairly 
danced up and down ; she flew at the bed and 
pulled the blankets off; she caught some china 
ornaments from the mantle and dashed them 
on the floor; she must break things and dance 
and storm or she should fly in pieces. She 
moaned and shrieked and belabored Elinor in 
terrible apostrophes, and when Juanita came up 
and tried to get her in bed she flew at the long- 
suffering mulatto and nearly took a brown frag- 
ment out of her with teeth and finger-nails ; but 
it did more to restore her than a quart of red 
lavender could have done. 

When disappointed Lurely dashed past Eli- 
nor and flew out of the room in that high-tragedy 
way, the wise princess said coolly — 

" Has Miss Laidley gone quite mad, papa ?" 

Mr. Grey was h good deal confused, and it 
took several pinches of snuff to revive him, but 
somehow the sight of Elinor had restored his 
senses ; the remembrance of her would steady his 
•head during any future scene Lurely might at- 
tempt. 

"I am afraid the poor child is ill," said he. 
" I found her here a few moments ago, crying as 
though her heart would break." 

" What occasioned her grief?" 

"Upon my word, I hardly know. She was 
weeping for her father, and I did my best to 
soothe her ; but I absolutely thought she would 
burst a blood-vessel." 

" Oh no," returned Elinor quietly ; " she oft- 
en makes those scenes. She told me herself that 
she did it on purpose, by way of having a little 
excitement when she was dull." 

" Oh !" was all Mr. Grey said, but he said it 
in the voice of a man Avho had just tumbled out 
of the clouds ; and he took another pinch of 
snuff. 

" She has them only twice a week, as a hab- 
it," continued merciless Elinor, "and she has 
had two without this one, which must have been 
for your special benefit." 

Mr. Grey lingered over his pinch of snuff. 



When any woman who has a claim on a man, be 
she sister, daughter or aunt, interrupts a tender 
scene and remains beautifully unconscious that 
it was tender, but talks about the woman who 
did Pauline in that mild voice, I would counsel 
the man in whose home the speaker rules, be he 
President of the United States or Emperor of 
France, to follow Mr. Grey's example — take a 
pinch of snulYand say nothing. 

" Yes," said Elinor, still unconscious, "this is 
the third. Juanita will be obliged to you for 
playing audience, papa dear, and so sparing her, 
for Miss Laidley pinched her on Tuesday till 
she was blue instead of brown. She didn't 
pinch you, did she, papa?" 

Mr. Grey was a little red. I do not suppose 
he had been guilty of coloring before in a quar- 
ter of a century. But he laughed. 

" To tell you the truth, my Elinor, I was ut- 
terly at a loss what to do ; I am not much ac- 
customed to young ladies fond of scenes. But, 
really, I did think her in earnest ; and she cried 
bitterly." 

"Oh yes," said Elinor, " she is fond of crying 
in pretty attitudes. I saw her do so on Mr. 
Ames's shoulder last week." 

" My daughter, are you not a little severe?" 

" I think not, papa; but I fancy Mrs. Ames 
would have been if she had seen it." 

The dream fled forever. Mr. Grey stood self- 
convicted and full of disgust. A girl that would 
cry on the shoulder of old Ames (he was good 
five years younger than the gentleman who men- 
tally called him thus) was only to be set down as 
an artful, ridiculous creature who deserved se- 
vere punishment. 

The opportunity was so favorable that Eli- 
nor related a few more of the young woman's 
performances ; and Mr. Grey disposed of nearly 
the whole contents of his snuff-box, and the tip 
of his nose looked angry for the rest of the even- 
ing. Elinor did not believe that her grand fa- 
ther could have been in any real danger from 
Lurely's arts, but she did not choose his sympa- 
thies to be played upon and future risk in- 
curred ; therefore she made those little state- 
ments, and did not weaken their effect by a word 
of censure. "I suppose she is only thought- 
less," was what she wound up with, well aware 
that the remark would complete her triumph. 

"Thoughtless!" exclaimed Mr. Grey, more 
sharply than he often spoke. "A girl who 
makes trouble between engaged people, and 
wants to distress men's wives, is not to be let off 
on that plea. I am shocked with Miss Laidley ; 
I desire you to tell her from me that my ward 
must not allow her conduct to make her the 
subject of such stories." He was very indig- 
nant, as was natural, to discover that an inno- 
cent young Una with half a million instead of a 
lion for a dowry, who seemed to consider him 
Jupiter (excuse the confusion of comparisons), 
was a deceitful Lurely that had come near rap- 
ping his august head with great force against 
jagged rocks. That was what Miss Grey gain- 
ed by having tact and being sensible ; nine worn- 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



113 



en out of ten would have gone into a passion 
and played directly into Lurely's hands. 

The Laidley wearied herself with her tossings 
and bouncings, and had to go to bed, and was 
sick the next day from the effects of the medi- 
cine she was obliged to take. Elinor was sweet- 
ness itself, and watched over her so patiently 
that Lurely knew she was found out and had 
been again thwarted by her enemy. She lay in 
bed and snapped at Juanita and was pettish to 
Elinor, who smilingly disregarded her petulance. 
She wished that the ceiling might fall and mash 
her conqueress's face, or that she could plead in- 
sanity and poison her, or do something like some 
woman in a sensation novel ; but instead of that 
she had to lie still and content herself with be- 
ing as disagreeable as possible. 

The need of excitement was stronger than 
wer after, this defeat, and Miss Laidley buzzed 
bout like a humming-bird and threw off the 
ight restraint which her mourning had at first 
jen to her. She could not bear to stay alone 
;h Elinor; Mr. Grey was as kind and gal- 
nt as before, but she knew that it would not 
i wer to sing Lurely songs in his ear or get up 
ivate theatricals for his benefit any more, 
[ aise Elinor in her wickedness had done 
, .e.thing to make it useless. She might have 
jditated until she could actually have brought 
rself to marry Mr. Grey for the express pleas- 
ure of making Elinor's life wretched, but that 
bought of Leighton Rossitur still stood in 
the way. Therefore, as she must have excite- 
Ircni after her agitation and disappointment, 
L iVely, accustomed to enamoring victims, fell 
into her own trap. She thought about Rossi- 
tur, she dreamed about him, and finally she was 
in love with him with all the force of which her 
nature was capable. She could exert so much 
Strength for a time in any feeling, that it looked 
"orth a great deal more than it really was; 
*i it indeed this was a stronger emotion than she 
! id ever known. Rossitur's indifference, the 
'sire to thwart Elinor, carried her far along ; 
.d her passion for romance, her wish to live a 
•ee volume novel with every page fuller of 
. •ident than the wildest effusions of her favor- 
authors who crowded four murders, a duel, 
; licide and a conflagration into a single chap- 
' r, did the rest — Miss Laidley was in love. 
Mr. Rossitur was so much occupied that he 
■1 no opportunity to think about her — little 
j portunity even to visit Elinor. The duties of 
ius place pressed heavily upon him at that time ; 
and he did not shirk labor, although he hated 
it. Besides his duties he had many things to 
employ his mind, and was engrossed with plans 
that promised to ripen into glorious successes. 

After that conversation with Elinor, Mr. Grey 
gave himself more freely up to the confidence 
he had been inclined to place in Rossitur ; and 
lie was convinced that she would marry him, al- 
though in his intercourse with Rossitur he ap- 
peared perfectly unconscious of any knowledge 
or perception of the secret which had been con- 
fided to him. In his heart Mr. Grey trusted 
H 



no man ; he believed that each had his price 
and would betray his grandfather if there was 
enough to be gained by it ; but he had need of 
a person like Rossitur, and he grew more bland 
and slipped into an intimacy highly satisfactory 
to its recipient, while Mr. Grey was at ease from 
feeling that a community of interests bound his 
ally to him, the hope which glittered in the 
distance in regard to Elinor, being the strongest 
proof of any. 

As for Rossitur himself, he knew that in the 
end he should succeed — that Elinor would marry 
him. He was glad to like and be liked by Mr. 
Grey ; but deeply in love as he was, he did not 
lose his clear-sightedness. He meant that the 
Secretary should give as much as he claimed, 
and the wave that carried him up must raise 
Leighton Rossitur also, which was a natural 
enough determination on his part, seeing that 
he belonged to a world which is not quite ready 
for the thousand years of peace and purity, in 
spite of latter-day prophets. 

Rossitur managed to see Elinor alone some- 
times, notwithstanding the vigilant watch Miss 
Laidley maintained at this period, for he pos- 
sessed a good deal of that young female's art in 
finding out things and turning them to personal 
advantage. He joined Elinor in her rides when 
the Laidley had refused to go because she 
thought from some remark of his that he would 
have no leisure to ride for a week ; and there 
would be a pleasant morning beyond the reach 
of eyes and ears. 

He stood out more and more noble in Miss 
Grey's sight ; nor was his conduct acting. He 
was in earnest; he believed in himself; and it 
was true that he was young enough for life yet 
to receive the stamp which must decide the 
future. Any important action now would help 
him very far along in one direction or the other. 
If two ways opened before him and he chose the 
right, he might redeem and outlive his faults, 
overcome much in his character that had a twist 
in it, and go on to honorable success. 

As the rides and the quiet talks took their 
course in spite of Miss Laidley's vigilance, so 
did Rossitur's manner, when he met her, leave 
her in a state of delightful uncertainty which 
fanned her fancies into new fervor. He became 
a hero to her in downright earnest; she was 
feverishly impatient to know whether he meant 
to play his part properly. She thought it was 
because he had so little opportunity that there 
was such slight progress, and she blamed Elinor 
therefor, adding another wrong to the list of 
injuries which must be repaid, for, like all mean, 
crafty people, Miss Laidley believed in venge- 
ance. 

In the mean time the days and weeks swept 
by without much incident, and Spring asserted 
herself in the most determined manner. Con- 
gress continued its session until late in May. 
Not that any thing of importance was done, but 
the venerable body was always going to do 
something to cover its reign with glory, and, 
while waiting to achieve that desirable consum- 



114 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



mation, squabbled and made itself ridiculous in 
the old fashion. It fell to pieces at length in a 
crumbly, mouldy way ; the members separated 
till autumn and went their different roads to de- 
light their individual constituents with an ac- 
count of the heroic acts that would have been 
performed if so many villains had not possessed 
a vote and a voice within the august halls. 
Washington dropped dead at once; there was 
not even the ceremony of dying ; you could only 
say that it became a heavy, senseless, ill-smell- 
ing corpse in the spring sun. The hotels emp- 
tied simultaneously ; schemcrsand pleasure-seek- 
ers rushed away as if the familiar haunts had 
been plague-smitten. The season was over, 
and those who had succeeded in their plans, 
men or women, went off triumphant, and the 
disappointed took their moans whither they 
pleased, or if not that, wherever they were 
obliged, meeting with no more sympathy than 
has been the portion of the vanquished since the 
days when the old Romans originated the re- 
quiem for them that from ages of repetition has 
grown as wearisome as the sight of the defeated 
themselves. 

Miss Laidley had the satisfaction of thinking 
that she had sent her share of injured men and 
enraged females into obscurity. Indeed, many 
a girl who had believed that this season would 
prove her last in the business of husband-hunt- 
ing, and thought she saw the nuptial-ring close 
to her linger, had to go home a disconsolate and 
unwilling Vestal, blaming Miss Laidley for the 
discomfiture. Poor things, it is melancholy to 
think of them — that return must be so doleful. 
To have ill-natured cousins sneer, to hear Papa 
fret over the expense, and to find Mamma deaf 
to entreaties for new dresses, must he hard to 
hear. The dilapidation, not to say ruin, of 
wardrobes, is one of the horrors of a Washing- 
ton trip. No woman goes away with a whole 
gown; and, in addition to the mortification of 
defeat, to find Papa obdurate and M annua dis- 
playing a stony disregard of the devastation, 
must be frightful, as they sit like so many Mar- 
iuses among the wrecks, not of Carthage, but of 
silks. But Miss Laidley cared nothing for the 
sorrows of these Ariadnes grieving in seclu- 
sion ; she would not have been moved if their 
united moans had come up in one grand howl. 
Women have missions in this century, and .Miss 
Laidlev's mission was to make all the trouble 
she could for her own sex, and work the severest 
havoc possible among the opposite one ; and she 
performed her mission very thoroughly. 

At last there came pleading letters from the 
Idol. She was goinjj; up to her Castle early that 
year, and she longed for the Companionship of 
her young favorites ; she must have them both, 
her princess and her rosebud, or her Castle 
would he a dreary prison and her state a bril- 
liant mockery. Elinor could not think for an 
instant of going : she had no intention of leav- 
ing her father so soon. She wrote a kind letter 
to the Idol, but held out no hope of a visit, as 
the only weeks she could give that neighborhood 



were promised to Rosa Thornton. The Idol 
besieged Miss Laidley, and Lurely was willing 
enough to go, because she was very dull, and. 
when she was in that mood, would have gone 
to purgatory for a new sensation. It offered 
her an occasion to be unhappy ; she could de- 
part and mourn over Leighton Rossitur — that 
would be the next best thing to having him 
make love to her, which he had not begun to do 
— from lack of opportunity, Miss Laidley saw 
fit to believe. 

She wavered a little, undecided whether to 
wait and win him or to end her novel in a traff- 
ic manner by marrying somebody and have him 
come after it was too late and tell her that be 
loved her all the while, but was forced to be si- 
lent under the pressure of some dismal secret, 
connected perhaps with Elinor Grey. In that. 
case they would be delightfully wretched, and 
that idea pleased her. She fancied herself a 
pining wife, and Rossitur soothing her lonely 
hours. She pictured him unable longer to bear 
his burden and sorrow, and one day when 
they were rowing in a boat on some beauti- 
ful lake, suddenly seizing her in bis arms, and 
having poured out his passion in burning words, 
proposing that they should die together. Some- 
times he rescued her from danger — saved her 
life — and consequently, by every law of trans- 
cendental philosophy, her life belonged to him. 
Sometimes the imaginary husband was a grim 
tyrant with jet black beard and eyes, and a com- 
plexion pallid as a vampire's; and she, unable 
to endure bis cruelty, allowed Rossitur to carry 
her off in a chariot drawn by four horses, hotly 
pursued by Bluebeard, who fired pistols in the 
air ami cursed horribly. Not seldom she bad a 
duel, and husband and lover lay at her feet wel- 
tering in blood. Occasionally she confessed ev- 
ery thing to Bluebeard, and implored him to save 
her from the 3 earnings of her heart. Some- 
times she went down, down, to where only lau- 
danum or a pan of charcoal could aid her ; but 
in whatever manner she ended her novels (and 
she composed enough to have made a library), 
she Mas always lovely and pitied and picturesque 
to the last. 

She decided to accept the Idol's invitation, 
and thomrht that it would be well to join her 
before she left town, in order that a dazzling 
wardrobe might be procured for the summer. 
It occurred to her how many beautiful dresses 
and costly trinkets the Idol would force upon 
her. and she could be practical in the height of 
her romance. Indeed, she often left Bluebeard 
and Rossitur lying on the ground with nobody 
to stanch their wounds, while she diverged to a 
mental discussion of the ways and means most 
likely to soften the Idol to that degree where 
her gifts would nearly fill the huge Saratoga 
arks, and leave Miss Laidley's pocket as little 
touched aspossible. When she thought of that 
she began to be eager to go ; and recollecting 
that Elinor would be quite alone and very dull, 
she was more anxious than ever. 

She yielded gracefully to the Idol's prayers, 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



115 



and made a great merit of leaving her friends 
who were so kind to her. Still she must not 
be selfish in any way ; she must show her dear 
Duchess how grateful she was for the love be- 
stowed upon a solitary little creature whose heart 
was not in the amusements of a vain world, but 
had followed her dear papa when he mounted 
on seraphic pinions. She wrote a letter so 
moving and sweet that the Idol wept over it, 
praised her in endless sentences to her entire 
world, and rushed out to buy vanities enough 
to have stocked all the booths at a fair, to give 
the lovely blossom on her arrival, as a sign that 
her virtues were duly appreciated. 

Miss Laidley departed, and not having an op- 
portunity to make a scene with Rossitur, occupied 
herself on the journey with a vision in which she 
died of a broken heart, and in her last moments, 
pride yielding, she allowed him to be sent for, 
and breathed her final sigh in his arms, and lie 
went mad directly and stabbed himself, and that 
wicked Elinor immured her conscience in a con- 
vent, and was properly punished for her sins by 
a hollow-checked Abbess who, as a sequel, sus- 
pecting Elinor of heresy, ordered her to be put 
to death. She was smothered between two feath- 
er-beds, and the whole troop of nuns sat on the 
top mattress and chanted the Lamentations of 
Jeremiah, while the Abbess and three priests 
marched in solemn procession about them and 
cursed the departing soul with book, candle and 
bell. • She elaborated the closing scene greatly, 
and exulted so much over Elinor's groans when 
a fleshy sister, whom even fasting and penance 
had left a heavy weight, seated herself directly 
on Elinor's stomach, that she fell asleep think- 
ing about it, and dreamed that the sister had 
planted her hulk upon her chest instead of her 
enemy's, and woke to find that some lurch of 
the train had bumped her ruthlessly against the 
edge of the window ; and she blamed Elinor for 
the pain — the nasty thing absolutely caused her 
bad dreams. 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

PLATING WOOD-NY M P IT . 

Clive Farnswoktii's book was now finished 
and had gone out of his hands. The ideal men 
and women with whom he had been living had 
disappeared forever among the shadows, and, 
after the first feeling of loneliness was over, 
would never be any thing to him again. Even 
the half-pleasurable, half-uncomfortable work 
of reading the proof-sheets was at an end, and 
Clive ceased to be tormented by the sight of 
puffy, distorted envelopes at inconvenient hours. 
The book was finished and published, and it was 
a success. The reading public happened to be 
in the right mood, and the work struck a respon- 
sive chord — Clive was sent up like a rocket. 

The book and its reception made Ruth so 
happy that Clive felt it would have repaid him 
for his labor without other reward. " My life 



is full of new pleasures," she said, "and they 
all come from your love." 

" If I can only keep it full, little one," he 
answered, " I shall satisfy my dearest wishes." 
"Because you are an unselfish old darling. 
I believe you care for the fame and the praise 
only because they please me. 
" And they do please you ?" 
" They make me so proud, so glad — oh, you 
know, Clive." 

Clive could hear such speeches now and suf- 
fer no pang of self-reproach. He knew that he 
was trying to do his duty, and he believed that, 
it would grow easier as time went on. 

Ruth's days had many interests beyond or 
rather growing out of her love, because that af- 
fection permeated every feeling and action. 
Her happiness made her more and more alive to 
the beautiful; and though Clive was a poet, her 
quick eye helped him to discover new charms 
in their walks and rides. She was busy super- 
intending the planting of her flower-gardens, 
and with her customary thoughtfulncss remem- 
bered Tad Tilman, the bad boy, who had offered 
his services on the clay of her arrival, and who 
had often since made visits to Mrs. Sykes and 
endured her fiery sermons, in the hope of catching 
sight of the mistress of the mansion. Tad had 
conceived an admiration for her that in an Ital- 
ian peasant would have been like devotion to 
the Virgin ; but this twig of a Protestant tree, 
brought up in an atmosphere of such piety that 
he regarded religion as a species of jail, and its 
devotees the jailers, only waiting for a favorable 
moment to give small sinners like himself over 
to the Devil, would not have dreamed of the 
horrible sin of finding such a comparison for his 
respect. 

Tad was skillful and willing, and he and Mrs. 
Farnsworth devised several flower-beds which 
the cross Scotch gardener or his underlings were 
not to approach ; and Tad, at Ruth's suggestion 
that they should attempt the cultivation of 
wild flowers, ransacked woods and morasses 
and the banks of the lake for tiger-tongues, 
spring beauties, lady-slippers, wild geraniums, 
cardinal-flowers — or, as he called them more 
musically, Indian plumes — and every other 
species of delicate or gorgeous-hued blossoms 
which fill our forests and fields, that could be 
expected to bear transplanting from their na- 
tive woods by dint of care and sufficient of their 
proper soil to make them forget their exile. 
Tad's chief enemy, the deacon, would not have 
recognized him had he seen him working so 
cheerfully, his brown face lighted up with a 
childish pleasure that was new to it; and he 
breathed freely in that garden from the conscious- 
ness that its mistress absolutely considered him 
a trustworthy creature : and Tad was very proud 
of her confidence. 

Mrs. Sykes could not understand the change 
at first, and, whenever she caught the boy alone, 
shook her head and groaned over him and looked 
warnings in the old fashion, till Tad began to 
worry her as much as ever in private. He 



11G 



MY DAUGHTEE ELINOR. 



would make diabolical faces at her behind 
Euth's back, or stand on his head, or secretly 
hold writhing fish-worms toward her, until she 
decided that his pretense of goodness and in- 
dustry only concealed darker designs than he 
had ever before meditated, and pondered much 
whether it were not her solemn duty to expose 
him to her lady, particularly to mention the 
enormity of standing on his head or showing 
how the deacon rolled up his eyes and snorted 
while engaged in prayer. 

Euth took Clive away from his books and 
forced him to be idle, and did him a world of 
good. " You have written until the lines have 
come in your forehead," she said; "I want 
you to sit still and let me kiss them away. If 
I did not watch, you would be at work again 
just from habit. Come out and be foolish, like 
a dear old boy." 

And Clive allowed her to make him as idle 
and content as was in her power, and to regard 
her happiness as best of all. 

"Every thing here is so lovely," she used to 
say ; " Clive, I walk about in a garden of Eden 
the whole day long." 

Besides her flowers, her books, and other 
new sources of enjoyment, Euth was glad to let 
the old rector find her work ; and she helped 
his poor so unostentatiously that he was delight- 
ed with her ; and she never grew stately re- 
membering that she was doing good. 

The days and the weeks went by, and the trees 
again cast broad shadows across the lawn ; the 
flower-gardens were gorgeous masses of purple 
and white and glowing scarlet ; the house was 
redolent with the odors of hyacinths ; the birds 
trooped back to their old haunts, and from the 
first break of day the air was filled with the joyous 
songs of thrushes and orioles ; the woods above 
the dwelling was the pleasantest dream-haunt 
imaginable, and Spring flushed into full beauty. 

People began to stray back from town ; the 
adjacent country-seats showed signs of life ; the 
hotel commenced to furbish and brighten in ex- 
pectation of what a little more time would bring. 
Pale, weary faces, with a long winter's business 
or dissipation written on them, met Clive and 
Euth in their drives, and called at the house in 
a languid fashion and were called upon, won- 
dering at Euth's freshness of bloom and taking 
pleasure therein. 

Before long the Thorntons returned and flut- 
tered into their dove-cote, and were so glad to be 
in the country again that they abused each other 
for having stayed so long away, and were as 
merry and happy as of old. They made ac- 
quaintance with Clive's wife, and were delighted 
with her; but Eosa could not forget that Clive 
had married in an odd manner, although she 
tried not to think about it. 

More new-comers called, and were charmed 
with Euth ; but those faint whispers spread — he 
had married in an odd fashion. She was lovely 
— they were glad Farnsworth had brought her 
among them — a new house was acceptable, for a 
bachelor's establishment had been only an occa- 



sional good ; still — it was odd ; but nobody had 
leisure to think much about it because there was 
no one to set the ball in motion. Clive was 
pleased to see the impression Euth made, and 
she scarcely recollected her fears of strangers in 
the friendliness and good-nature of her new ac- 
quaintances. "I think the world must be full 
of charming people, Clive," she said ; "I am 
not frightened in the least. I think I like Mrs. 
Thornton best of any body, however." 

Clive agreed with that sentiment, still the two 
houses were not on such terms of intimacy as 
might have been expected. There was a 
slight restraint between Eosa and Farnsworth, 
and neither could speak. She felt a little sore 
because he had not married Elinor, although 
confident it was no fault of his. But he ought 
to be pining now, and in a state to make fur- 
ther efforts to soften the princess's obduracy, in- 
stead of being bound and fettered and looking 
tranquil and matrimonial, therefore she could 
not exactly forgive him. On the other hand, 
Clive knew that Eosa had been as well aware of 
his love for Miss Grey as if he had made a di- 
rect confidence ; she had been his tacit ally 
from first to last, so that it was somewhat awk- 
ward for him. Owing to these causes they held 
aloof from one another,- though there were calls 
and frequent interchanges of civilities, and Eosa 
was ready to decide with Tom that Farnsworth's 
wife was a duck. But there was something odd 
— Eosa must think that, although she held her 
tongue even where Tom was concerned, being a 
woman in ten thousand, whose worth could not 
be estimated by mountains of rubies. 

Genevieve Laidley made herself so bewitching 
to the Idol that she fully succeeded in her mon- 
ey-saving intentions, and exulted thereat as 
much as if she had been an Israelite with a long 
beard instead of a pink-and-white seraph. The 
Idol called her Angel, as a pretty diminutive of 
Evangel, and expressive of her character ; other 
people called her Angel too, and believed in her, 
and she was radiant under their satisfaction. 
She had not grown tired of her romance with 
Eossitur for the hero; she dreamed about him, 
was mad for him as she always was for any new 
thing, but it did not prevent her weaving numer- 
ous episodes into her novel ; and she was more 
unscrupulous than ever about giving pain, be- 
cause of her own restlessness and suspense. She 
was greatly occupied with the selection of count- 
less toilettes, and it was too late for gayeties ; 
but she found occasions for doing mischief. 

Young Greyson had become reconciled to his 
.betrothed, and had softened her into a renewal 
of the engagement. The Angel fluttered her 
wings in Greyson's face once more and drove 
him wild. The end was that poor little Sophy 
married a horrid brute out of spite, and Greyson 
went off to South America, and the Angel com- 
posed her plumage, feeling that she had done a 
meritorious work. By the time Greyson sailed, 
a howling monomaniac, and poor Sophy was 
selecting her bridal finery with death in her heart, 
j the Idol was ready to go up to her Castle ; and 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



117 



Genevieve, having six new dresses at least for 
each of the coming summer days, and having 
completed her duty in every other way, was pre- 
pared to accompany her and be amused and pet- 
ted to any extent. 

The neighboring places were the abode of 
festivities, the hotel had begun to fill with guests 
when the Idol and her Angel illuminated the 
Castle by their presence, speedily followed by 
relays of visitors, according to its mistress's hos- 
pitable habit. 

The Angel was secretly anxious to see Clive 
Farnsworth ; there was an undefined feeling in 
her mind that it would be pleasant to vex Eli- 
nor by engrossing his attention to an extent 
which would make her arrival a matter of indif- 
ference : if the new wife could be teased into 
the bargain, so much the better. He was a man 
of note, too, and the Angel admired the poems 
he had published during his callow years ; they 
were full of passion and gloomy sentiment, and 
she often wept over them and knew the most 
doleful of the sonnets by heart. 

If something romantic could happen by way 
of beginning the acquaintance. Miss Laidley 
did not fancy seeing him decorous and stiff, 
seated in the Idol's reception-room, with his 
wife beside him, where only proper things could 
be said and done. If she could meet him by 
chance, as people meet in novels; if she might 
be in some danger, chased by a panther or a 
mad dog, and he could save her life or do some- 
thing preposterous and impossible ! But there 
had been no panthers in that neighborhood since 
any body's recollection, and it was not probable 
that one would stray thither for her benefit, and 
the season for mad dogs was still distant, so the 
Angel cast about in her mind for romantic ways 
and means of encounter without those valuable 
accessories. She seldom walked — she could 
waltz ten miles in a ball-room without stopping, 
but walking hurt her — she was so delicate, and 
she could not ride because she was an arrant 
little coward and was much more afraid of a 
horse than she was of the Devil. Indeed, she 
had rather an admiration for the latter person- 
age, when she believed in him at all : sometimes 
after reading Byron's Cain she thought she 
should like to see him. On the whole, she pre- 
fcred Mephistopheles to Lucifer, and could quote 
whole scenes from Faust. When she was young- 
er she had tried incantations on nights that she 
felt nervous, to see if he would not appear ; he 
did not come, so she consoled herself by draw- 
ing a skeleton with phosphorus on the wall 
of old Juanita's room and frightening that yel- 
low familiar out of her senses. 

But she was not thinking about Mephistoph- 
eles now, although the Devil was in her mind 
still — she was bent on knowing Clive Farns- 
worth in some poetical way that should at once 
establish a bond of sympathy between their 
souls. The Idol's garrulity in regard to her 
friends' habits had made the Angel acquainted 
with Clive's wanderings in the wood back of his 
house, and she discovered that it was not far 



from the Idol's domain. She prepared to sup- 
port fatigue and the perils of solitude — strayed 
out of the grounds and lost herself in Clive 
Farnsworth's "forest" in the most picturesque 
costume that could be devised. 

She had not much difficulty in finding the 
spot of which the Idol had spoken, but unluck- 
ily Ruth was there instead of Clive, and the 
Angel's moans brought her to the rescue. The 
Angel, in looking about in search of her victim, 
had stepped into a spring hidden among the 
leaves and was wet to the ankles, and between 
fatigue and rage she screamed in downright 
earnest. ' ' Help me out — help ! I'm drown- 
ing!" she cried. 

Ruth, who had caught sight of her among 
the trees, ran forward at her appeal, pulled her 
out on dry ground, pitied her, and said she sup- 
posed she had lost her way. 

The Angel told her who she was and where 
she came from, and cried bitterly as she survey- 
ed her ruined costume, and had three minds to 
fly at Ruth and pinch her as she did old Juanita, 
because she looked so fresh and dainty in her 
simple dress. 

" I am very sorry," Ruth said ; "my husband 
had a note from Mrs. Hackett yesterday ; we are 
going to see her this morning. She called on 
me last winter. I am Mrs. Farnsworth, if you 
will let me introduce myself." 

The Angel was more enraged, and wept fount- 
ains. 

"You are tired and frightened," Ruth said, 
touched by her distress, "I wish you would 
forget we are strangers and come down to the 
house ; it is only a little way. You shall have 
a pair of dry shoes and we will drive you home ; 
won't you come, please ?" 

Shoes — she, the Angel, whose feet were small- 
er than a real seraph's, coolly advised to put on 
that odious creature's shoes as if they would fit 
her ! Miss Laidley suddenly drew herself up 
with great dignity and looked at Ruth as though 
she had been a fiend trying to tempt her. " I 
will go back the way I came. Goodness knows 
I never dreamed whose woods I was in — nev- 
er!" 

Ruth was too full of sympathy to observe the 
tone or words, and continued her entreaties, 
thinking that the pretty girl was shy as well as 
tired, and having a fellow-feeling for shy people. 
" Don't mind my being a stranger," said she ; 
" I know your friend Miss Grey, and I feel as 
if you were an acquaintance from that." 

"Thank you," replied Miss Laidley, in the 
sweetest, most insolent voice; "but I am not 
romantic — I do not claim acquaintance with 
strangers in a wood. I don't know who you 
are, Madam." 

" She is really out of her senses between fa- 
tigue and fright," thought Ruth. "I am sure 
she does not mean to be rude, for Mrs. Hackett 
wrote to us that she was the dearest little creat- 
ure." Having given Miss Laidley the benefit 
of this charitable reflection, she repeated, "I am 
Mrs. Farnsworth — " 



US 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



" Ob, oh !" screamed the Angel, and jumped 
up in the air with a vigor very unlike the cus- 
tomary languid grace of her movements. "A 
snake — it has bitten me — I'm killed, I'm kill- 
ed !" A harmless little brown-and-gold reptile, 
not much larger than an overgrown worm, 
crawled away among the bushes, much more 
frightened than any body else by the sensation 
he had produced, but Miss Laidley continued to 
scream in spite of Ruth's assurances. "The 
wood is full of them !" cried she. " I shall die 
— I shall die ! Oh, you horrid woman, you did 
it on purpose ; you keep them here, I know." 

To Ruth's great relief, Clive at that instant 
appeared among the trees, and she called to him 
to make haste. When Miss Laidley heard who 
it was coming she stopped shrieking and took a 
hasty survey of herself. Here was a plight to 
be in ; this was a pretty culmination to her ro- 
mance. Her shoes were covered with mud ; 
she had torn her gown in her leap ; her petti- 
coats were draggled ; her face soiled and tear- 
stained, she was certain ; and here was Clive 
Earnsworth to see, and worse still, that horrid 
wife of his to look on and prevent her making the 
best of the catastrophe. 

"Clive, Clive!" repeated Ruth. "Do 
come." 

"What is it?" returned he, approaching near 
enough to be astounded by the sight of a stran- 
ger in their private haunt. 

Ruth ran out to meet him and give a hurried 
explanation. "It is Miss Laidley; she came 
out to walk, and lost her way. She stepped in 
the spring and a snake frightened her ; she's al- 
most out of her senses, poor thing. " 

The ridiculous side of the adventure struck 
Clive ; he smiled involuntarily, and Miss Laid- 
ley saw him. She turned sulky at once and 
stood drooping, dripping, and silent. Clive put 
by the smile for another occasion and hastened 
up with proper condolences, and reiterated his 
wife's invitation to seek shelter in their house. 

The Angel's first impulse was to give them 
both what women call "a bit of her mind;" 
then she burst into fresh tears and thought of 
running away; but she was too tired for that. 
She perceived straightway that Clive was think- 
ing more about his wife than her, and was 
amused in spite of his politeness, and on the in- 
stant she conceived a hatred for him as vivid as 
her admiration had been, and sympathizing Ruth 
came in for a full share in the aversion. She 
dried her eyes because she felt that for once 
tears were not being shed in a becoming man- 
ner ; and after pouting like a great school-girl 
for a few seconds, allowed them to lead or half 
carry her down to the house. She could not re- j 
cover her spirits enough to make the most of 
misfortune; she was cold and tired, and looked 
a very pale, stupid young thing in whom they 
were both disappointed. 

Clive persuaded her to drink some brandy, 
and treated her with great courtesy, but was ev- 
idently not impressed. As a crowning injury, 
Ruth took her up to her dressing-room and pro- 



vided her with fresh stockings and boots, and 
the boots were so narrow they hurt her feet — she 
would never forgive that; angel though she was, 
that insult would rankle forever in her mind. 
Ruth tried to talk, to be kind and agreeable, 
but Miss Laidley' would not respond — she was 
beyond doing theatricals — she could only shiver 
and sulk, and the brandy made her sick. Clive 
had his phaeton brought out, and they drove 
her back to the Castle, and she did not recov- 
er enough to attempt the least histrionic effort 
during the ride. 

So it came about that the Idol, standing at 
a window, saw Farnsworth's trap approach the 
entrance, and to her utter amazement beheld 
the Angel lifted out limp and miserable. In 
great haste she ran into the hall, and between 
her alarm, her pleasure at seeing Clive and his 
wife, and her eagerness to know what had hap- 
pened, she nearly choked herself with fragments 
of gigantic sentences. The Angel fell into her 
arms and went off in hysterics, so she had to 
leave Clive and Ruth to their own devices while 
she summoned assistance and saw the creature 
carried to bed. That done, she came back, kiss- 
ed Ruth, admired Earnsworth,- bewailed her 
pet's misadventure, and was so stilted and un- 
intelligible in her excitement that Ruth's suspi- 
cions concerning her sanity were confirmed. 
" Such joy to greet you!" she exclaimed. "Oh, 
my poor Angel — that typo of purity — half- 
drowned in a wretched spring ! Sweet lady, I 
bid you val, val! Oh poet, I see new foreheads 
on your bays — oh this fearful contretome — life is 
a cataplasm of horrors ! My lovely Angel — the 
dearest child — the sweetest heaven-breathing 
blossom, my Apolloite — that such a fate should 
desolate her !" 

Clive thought of the rumpled young woman 
who had sulked like an ill-natured, overgrown 
bab\ r during the drive, and bowed. 

"Ah, fairest nymph," continued the Idol, 
" I joy to felicitate your success — this triumph — 
his Apolloites, I mean — alas, my Angel — in- 
deed, I am bewildered ! But stay and lunch 
with me — I will see my floweret — I shall be 
more calm anon." 

They would not stay ; and the Idol felt, glad 
as she was of their visit, that she was in no state 
of mind, under the circumstances, to give them 
a proper reception. 

" You must depart ? But we shall meet soon, 
soon — I exult to be again in sylvan groves — yes, 
yes, we shall meet ! I long to show our Cyn- 
thian Phoebe the beauties of the vale — to be 
her Cicero, as the sweet Tuscan tongue hath 
it. I know a bank — a shadowy moonlight — 
nay, nay, I can not quote — memory is a cosmos 
in this bewilderment. But return anon — forget 
this ill-omened visit — not that — you have my 
thanks — so kind to my Angel — I can not express 
my gratitude — alas, alas !" 

They got away with speed, and when they 
were at a safe distance Clive laughed long and 
loud at Ruth's bewildered look and the utter ab- 
surdity of the whole affair, beginning with the 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



119 



moment when he saw Mis3 Laidley stand, a 
soiled Dryad, pouting at his wife. 

"The pool- girl," said Ruth, "don't laugh, 
Clive." 

"An Angel with blackened stockings!" cried 
Clive. "The most commonplace, red-nosed 
little damsel I ever saw — not even wit enough 
to make the best of the matter ; she'll drive 
the Idol mad at last, I prophesy." 

" Really, I could not understand a word Mrs. 
Hackett said," returned Ruth. "I am very 
sorry it happened ; poor Miss Laidley looked so 
mortified and troubled." 

Clive shrieked again. " It will cjo her good ; 
she's a ridiculous, romantic little serpent, "said 
lie ; " she will hate us both forever. But only 
to see her — " 

" Clive, don't make me laugh so !" 

" With one foot in the air — oh, the Angel !" 
shouted Clive. "And the Idol moaning and 
npset. It is the best thing I ever saw, altogeth- 
er." He laughed and jested unmercifully till 
they reached home, then both he and Ruth for- 
got the Angel, who was only a silly little girl 
to them. 

But the Angel did not forget. She lay in 
bed for several hours and was petted by the 
Idol ; she slept awhile and woke with her feet 
and her back aching, and anxious to do the 
wickedest thing she could in . order to punish 
Earnsworth and his wife for her misfortunes. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 



A MODERN ANGEL. 



From that adventure of the Angel dated 
whispers in regard to Clive Earnsworth and his 
wife which people were ready to hear — no, that 
is not exactly what I mean ; they are always 
ready to hear gossip — to which their minds 
were prepared to give credence because the 
marriage had already been pronounced an odd 
affair. 

Whispers and hinted words spread abroad ; 
every body repeated them, though no one could 
have told from whence they came ; they spread 
and grew as such venomous things will, and 
turned into hydra-headed serpents which the 
whisperers themselves did not recognize as the 
monstrous growth of their idle talk. For some 
time the reports were too vague to do any great 
harm, and so varied that nobody could settle 
npon any one of them as a truth. 

Clive had not intended to weary Ruth with 
gayety ; he wanted to go out enough to avoid 
any appearance of singularity, but had no mind 
to make his house a caravanserai for temporary 
prowlers to stray over, or a convenience for 
visitors with nothing to do added to their origi- 
nal capabilities as bores. People were perfect- 
ly civil as yet; calls were made, Ruth was 
stared at with more eagerness than ever ; good- 
natured women thought she looked too innocent 
for the changing reports to have any foundation 



in fact ; still the tide of gossip went on, while 
she and Clive pursued the even tenor of their 
days, without a suspicion of the storm which 
might break over them if something did not dis. 
sipate it. 

For a time the Thorntons heard nothing ; 
they were known to be real friends to Farns- 
worth, and Rosa was supposed to have a tongue 
when her favorites were attacked ; they were 
therefore left in ignorance for a season and then 
only heard enough to be troubled and uncertain 
how to act. 

More gossip, more stories, or the old gos- 
sip and the old stories altered and enlarged till 
they would not have recognized themselves. 
Ruth had been an actress — Ruth had been a 
model for artists — then both were lies. She 
had loved Farnsworth, and had to go into 
an insane asylum, and he had brought her 
back to her senses by making her his wife. 
Very soon that was all nonsense — perhaps it 
was remembered that marriage was more liable 
to disorder the brains than to set troubled rea- 
son straight. He had only seen her twice be- 
fore their wedding ; she had fallen in love with 
him through his poetry and been in the habit 
of writing him letters which so charmed him by 
their simplicity that he had sent for her photo- 
graph, fallen in love with it, and the rest had 
followed in due course. Next it was that he 
had proposed to Elinor Grey the preceding 
summer and been rejected. In his despair he 
had rushed off to the White Mountains, tum- 
bled down a precipice and broke his neck, and 
Ruth, picking berries in a thicket, discovered 
him in the ravine, carried him home and nursed 
him, and he sat up and had his neck mended 
and married her out of gratitude. But whatev- 
er yesterday's tale might have been, that of to- 
day gave it the direct lie ; and there was no step 
taken by any body. And Ruth appeared at in- 
tervals at dinners and picnics, and was more no- 
ticed on account of the reports. 

About this time Mrs. Piffit decided that she 
needed a little country air, and thought that the 
Lake House would be a desirable resting-place, 
and that the proximity of her acquaintances, as 
she called them, Mrs. Hackett and the Thorn- 
tons, would make it still more desirable. She 
made great preparations in her way. She went 
about to the shops where the people wanted 
newspaper puffs and bargained for pretty things 
in return for paragraphs, and being as she said 
a Fashion Editor, she was able to compose a 
variety of remarkable toilettes. 

She appeared at the Lake House with her 
trunk, the flat reticule in her hand, and her 
faithful friend, the green umbrella, under her 
arm, dressed in her worst clothes because she 
was an economical soul, and very dusty and 
tired from her journey. She stood in the 
hall and shrieked for the proprietor. Waiters 
rushed forward in abundance ; a knot of idle 
men came and stared ; no one would answer 
but the proprietor. She thumped on the floor 
with the green umbrella and ordered the crowd 



1 20 



my DAUGHTER ELINOR, 



to bring iii>" Individual, asifshewere a detective 
disguised In petticoats i>r unequal lengths, who 
had oome to ferret out n murder and meant to 
arrosl ever) soul present unless the object of 
her search was produced without delay. 

The oourteous host Appeared and In his turn 
stared in astonishment at the new comer, who 
with ridges of dust on hor forehead, spectacles 
on her nose, and a mingled air of dilapidation 
and ferocity, \> :»s more odd than ever, 

•'How do you do?" snapped she. ••! am 

Mrs Pifflt, the writer I've eonio to stay :il 

your hotol, Aie yon the proprietoi 

lie mildly said that hewasj but Pifflt chose 
to have the verdict of the guests and the waiters 
before she helloved, standing in front of the host 
and menaoing hlro with the point of the green 
umbrella, 

•' It's all right, then," said she, Sniffing vio- 
lently ; "always want to !v sure I'm right 

been cheated enough since 1 started ! Nastj 
railroad people I'll expose 'em ni put 'em 
\n the papers wouldn't give me n pass! Told 

'etn what the\ might e\peet, ami I'm always 
SS good as my word." 

'The hotel keeper tried to say something eivil 

about being sure of that, but she shook the um« 
brella and out him short. 

•'You don't knew any thins; about it," said 
she; "never saw me before in your life, .hist 

like a man agh! How do you do? I'm Mrs. 

Pifflt, the writer, I've eome to stay two or three 

weeks at your house." 

The host tried to falter a remark about be 
ing glad to hear it, but she shook the umbrella 
'.u. 
■• Chat's mjl trunk they're bringing in," she 

cried "Where'smj bonnet-box? Here, you 

porter, I want my bonnet box! It's got S. 1'. 
painted On it. and a blue string tied round the 

bandle. [fyouVelost my box I'll have the law 

of you." Luckily it was at this moment brought 
iii and set dow n beside her trunk and she mount- 
ed guard over them. "Cbme here, Mr. Pro 
prietor," continued she; '• I want to speak to 

you." 

•• I'll have yen shown to B room. Madam — " . 
•■ I tell von I want to speak to you. Why, 
COme here. I -,i\ 

She reversed the umbrella, sei.-ed him by the 

Crook and drew lum toward her. Some 
among the lookers on tittered and Mrs. Pifflt 
heard it. ''Send those waiters away," cried 

she. " Drive those people out ! Why,Inevei 
tt i set in my lift ! I'll put the whole 

■;' >eu in the papers it' yen don't take . 
staring at a bod} like a show. Men, ugh !" 
'The waiters dispersed, the guests moved. -m 

a slowly. Pifflt took offense at one man 

whom sh< .is an old enemy 

on she had assaulted in the Senate eham- 
ber " \ I pretty follow." sniffed she. 

••I've seen you before never forget ■ I 
you in Washington knew you'd runaway 

ftom somew hero." 

The unfortunate wretch, being :i meek man 



In poor health, was quite upset by this new at- 
" I believe she's mad," he whispered i,. 
those near. 

•■What are yOU savin:','.'" demanded Pifflt 

fiercely . 

" I'm not laying any thing," groaned the un- 
fortunate. " I dont want tO say any thing — I 
don't want tO see y on on on j but you're alw ay 9 
falling OVer me wherever I go." 

•• JTou do," cried Pifflt ; ••you're always say- 
ing things \eu do it on purpose 1 believe 
y OU're in hiding this minute." 

•Now did any body ever hear the Ilk 
moaned the dyspeptic, appealing for sympathy 

to the landlord and such bystanders as « ere left, 

•■ I don't knew what she means 1 don't know 
who she is." 

•• lf0U do," retorted she. •• I'm Mrs. l'illit, 
the writer. I've told you so forty times. Pent 
tell lies its wicked. Men are all wieked 
don't tell me Ugh !" 

•• 1 don't want to tell von," moaned IKspep- 
sia ; " I don't want to speak to you." 

" You do." snapped Pifflt again. " You're 

always stumbling around just to be spoken to. 
What do you mean? Why, [won't stand it ill 

put you in the papers l shan't take a dare 

from any man." 

She tlew at him and opened the green um- 
brella directly in his face, and he retreated, ile- 

claring that he would go to K&mtschatka to 

BWaj from that woman, and actually departed 

from the neighborhood by the next train. 

I'he landlord tried again to induce Mrs. Pif. 
tit to retire to a private apartment. "Wait a 
minute," said she. shutting up the umbrella and 

tying its fat carcass together with a string. 

•• See hero first always best to have ;:• 
plain." She pulled him toward her, and then 
pushed him away and said in one of her S 
whispers, blinking horribly with eaeh word. 
" I'm Mrs. Pifflt, the writer l'\e got letters tor 
everj body, from Mr. Solly, the editor. You 
must give me a good room cheap then I'll no- 

tit e um." 

The landlord assured her that she should bo 
made eomfortable ; wishing devoutly that he 
COttld filng her and her trunks out-of-doors, but 

not venturing upon the stop. 

•■1 want tilings settled." said she: u tl 
ui\ way. I write for all the papei and 

West I eau do any thing I want to I'm Mrs. 
Pifflt. I expect to pay never eat at any man's 
expense but allow auees tor what I write 1 do 
, \ ,-t, and nobody eau say that isn't fair." 

The landlord was only too glad to permit her 
tie matters in her own win, and saw her 
on the road up stairs preceded by a waiter and 
a porter earning her luggage She sniffed sat- 
isfaction at the appearance of her room, and was 

so elated by 1. -s, the battle with the 

peptie man iueluded, t'tiat she spoke somewhat 
loftily to a full-Skirted Hibernian who entered 
with fresh water and towels. 

■• \-e you the chambermaid ?" she 

••I'm the young ladv that dicoratea the 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



i"i 



apartments," replied the Hibernian, with a lofti 

noss equal to I'iHit's own. 

" I just want bo say I'm going to stay here 
two or three weeks I 'va seen the proprietor and 
he knows who I am. He expects you to lake 
great pains with my room." 

"Then It's himself that'll tell mo ami save 
w iiio throuble, ma'am," said Ireland, with a 
grand loss of her head, Hinging the towels about 

and setting the ewer down with violence 

" it's no trouble," said Mrs. Pifflt; "anyway 
i never mind trouble. Now is your name 
Bridget?" 

M Mo name is Eugenia Honora Arabella 

Dunlavy, ma'am, and I don't like tO be called 

out of it by sthrangers." 

" < )li !" snill'od Pifflt, somow hat taken aliaek by 
the young woman's fierceness and the array of 

grand names. " I write for the papers — I al« 

Ways notice people that take pains." 

"Oh, 1 thank you, ma'am," replied Euge- 
nia Honora, "but the papers In Ameriky is 
bla'guards I'm towld, and 1 won't be made para 
grums of by any body. I'm a rospectible young 

woman thai, was horn in County Clare of a high 
family, and have had misforlins nnd pitfalls, 

bul I'm not to be paragrumod in a frao coun- 
try." 

Pifflt sniffed anew and busied herself taking 

off her bonnet, and Honora watched her with a 

belligerent aspect till Mrs, Pifflt grew a little 
confused. " I don't want anything more," said 

she meekly, for Pifflt was easily cowed, like, 
most of her kind. 

" 1 thought mobhy \r\\ more histories to give 
Of yerself, ma'am," said Honora. " A V I've 

yer lave t'U rethire, for I've a grate dale of sin- 
sitiveness, and maynial employments is what I 

wasn't brought up to, horn in County ('laic, of 
n high family that, had misl'ortins." 

"Yes, it must be unpleasant," sniffed Pifflt, 

rubbing her nose and feeling afraid of llonora's 

keen eyes. 

" Ye may well say nnplisanl, ma'am. I 

couldn't tell ye what I endure av I discoorsed a. 

Week. A young lady of a high family that. 
OUght tO be at the queen's coort av me mother 
had had her rights, and compillod often to do 
maynialities for them as would never he ladies 
av they thravelled through nil the hotels in the 
land."' 

'• I should like to lie down; I'm sleepy," said 
Pifflt, looking TOry wide awake and very wretch- 
ed. 

" I'll lave ye to yer slumbers, ma'am, and 
I'm glad to see ve'ro one as can appreciate the. 

faylins of a. young lady horn of a. high family, 
that's foorced by disnsthers losarve Yankee trash 
that, never had a grandfather even." 

Eugenia Honora. swept out Of the room, and 
Pifflt vowed that whatever other person she 

might trample on, Eugenia should be left in 

peace and treated with the respect, due to a fe- 
male gladiator. Mrs. Pifflt had come with her 
flat reticule full of letters for people living in 
the neighborhood, as she always managed to do 



wherever she went. Persecuted editors and lit- 
erary men gave her the epistles to gel, ml of her, 

as she was quite capahle of invading their sanc- 
tums and of sitting, squinting and sniffing reso- 
lutely in the easiest chair to he found, eating 

surreptitious luncheons out. of the flat roticulo 

and covering her chin and dress front with the 

fragments until she looked as if she had begun 

lo crumble and would soon be in bits generally, 
There she would sit until she got what she want- 
ed, and nowadays people seldom kept her wail- 
ing. They ouarelled with her and endured her 
malevolence, or they consented to her requests 
without listening and hustled her away. 

Mrs. Pifflt arrayed herself in early summer 
attire and blossomed like a rose of Sharon — 
whatever that may be. She had a. partiality 
for checkered things, as was natural in a stumpy 
woman, and was great in bonnets which had ;i 
weakness for leaving her head ami dangling on 
the back Of her neck whenever she shook her- 
self into an excitement. If she chanced to he 
much engrossed in talk she would push the bon- 
net forward by a. dexterous rap on the crown with 

the umbrella crook, so that often, for a whole 

day after, she went about with Pifflt, her mark, 
legible upon her head decoration. She made 

acquaintance with every body in the hotel who 

could be induced to tolerate her, and as there are 
scores of people, who would give their little lin- 
gers tO be noticed in letters from places of sum- 
mer resort, as the charming Miss So-and so, or 

the elegant Mrs. 'Tother, Pifflt succeeded in 

having listeners tO her endless conversations. 
She went about the neighborhood distributing 
her letter8 Of introduction With her own hands: 
whenever It was possible following the astound 
ed domestics into the presence of her victims 
and volubly announcing her title and estate and 
Offering notices in all the papers if they WOl'O 

desired. 

Her legs were short, in fact, they wore too 
short, else her body was too long, so that when 
one saw her rise, suddenly she. seemed to linvij 
turned into somebody else, oral least in her hurry 
lo have appropriated some smaller woman's un- 
derpinning. Hut brief as the leg's were, t.hev 
did Pifflt good service, and carried her about, 

briskly, unless she could Btumble into some luck- 
less person's vehicle. She hud no hesitation in 
asking an entire, Stranger lo give her ii seat, and 
several times when sonic lady's carriage stood at 
the hotel door Mrs. Pifflt, sallying out on an ex- 
pedition, would espy it ami ensconce herself 
therein, greeting the exasperated or astonished 
owner when she appeared with, " How do v on 
do? I'm Mrs. Pifflt, the writer. Saw you at 
breakfast, thought I'd just ask \on to give men, 
lift as I'm going your way. How do yon do ?" 
The Hat, reticule was always on her arm, and, 

no matter how bright, the day, the green umbrel- 
la in her hand, and once or twice, in her anxiety 
to make coachmen stop when she wished, she 

poked its point through long-suffering people's 
carriage windows. She was always mortified 

thereat and offered amid n refreshing dew of 



122 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



sniffs to pay far the damage she had caused, was 
greatly relieved when the offer was refused, and 
promised a notice on the spot. 

It was not long before she assaulted the Idol's 
Castle with the green umbrella and carried it 
triumphantly over the draw-bridge, past oppos- 
ing guards, and into the Idol's presence. Now 
the Idol had her weaknesses — she did love to 
have herself and her glory scribbled about, and 
she tolerated Piffit because of the letters which 
Piffit read to her with so many sniffs as to be al- 
most unintelligible and sent broadcast over the 
country, signed S. 1'., which ill-natured people 
declared stood for sniffing puffy. 

Mrs. Piffit appeared at Alban Wood, once, 
twice, even thrice, but Rosa had heard of tier 
proximity and was on her guard: Alban Wood 
was an enchanted forest of which she could not 
obtain the clue. On her last visit she encountered 
Tom in the avenue as she was puffing ami mut- 
tering toward the gates, and he amused himself 
with a little talk. After that, Piffit said she be- 
lieved that his wife was crazy or drank too much, 
she was not certain which, and had to be kept 
in confinement. When somebody denied both 
suppositions, she vowed that Tom was a brute 
and so jealous that he kept watch among the 
trees to see who visited his wife, and that she, 
poor thing, dared not say her soul was her own — 
just like a man — ugh I 

As might have been expected, the Illustrious 
had not tailed to obtain a letter of introduction 
to (.'live Farnsworlh, and as a sop to please lit- 
erary vanity she had written several notices of 
his book and had them cut out of the newspapers 
and safely stowed away in the Hat reticule to ex- 
hibit to his gratified eyes. She hunted up the 
note, and one day when some luckless individ- 
ual was going to drive past Farnsworth's place, 
Mrs. Piffit boldly demanded " a lift" — she want- 
ed to visit her fellow-author. 

In her most gorgeous attire she mounted the 
Steps of the mansion and pulled the bell unmer- 
cifully. She always rang a bell till somebody 
came, no matter how long the interval might 
be, in a series of characteristic jerks, so that the 
sound dying out between the pulls, wretched 
people inside the dwellings thought, that a whole 
regiment must have invaded their privacy in 
quick succession. Olive's man opened the door 
and naturally could make no more of Mrs. Pif- 
fit than other strangers could ; he stared helpless- 
ly while she. poured out her account, thrust her 
letter in his hand and shook the umbrella at 
him as a warning to make haste, lie took the 
epistle in a dreamy sort of way, and showing her 
jnto the nearest room, departed toward Olive's 
library. Hut Mrs. Piffit never waited — time 
was too precious. She trotted along in his 
wake, and before the bewildered domestic had 
made (.'live understand what was the matter, 
Piffit appeared on the threshold, dropping abbre- 
viated courtesies and exclaiming between a 
shower of sniffs and winks — 

"How do you do? I'm Mrs. Piffit, the 
writer — you're Mr. Parnsworth. How do you 



do? I've brought a letter of introduction for 
you — from Mr. Holly, the editor. Oh, you've 
got it ! Thought I'd follow your man and explain 
myself — always my way — servants make such 
blunders. How do you do ? You're Mr. Farns- 
worth ? I'm Mrs. Piffit, the writer — with a letter 
— from Mr. Holly, the editor." 

She stopped suddenly with a loud sniff, as if 
she had been a machine and something had 
broken with a creak. 

Clive rose and advanced toward her, knowing 
her very well by sight aiul reputation, and deter- 
mined that Mrs. l'itlit should never force another 
entrance into his house. "I am pleased to see 
you, Madam," he said very civilly, but in a way 
which put her half a mile off and confused her 
somewhat, as quiet dignity always did. "Tray 
be seated." 

In her excitement she did not notice the 
chair he was offering. She whirled round three 
times, caught the umbrella in her crinoline ; 
settled herself on a pile of books which untidy 
('live had just pulled down; skipped up as the 
foundations gave way ; wavered between a ta- 
ble and the piano-stool, and finally came to 
anchor on an ottoman, plump on the crown of 
Olive's hat. 

" How do you do?" she repeated, puffing 
violently and blinking to such n degree that 
Clive thought she must have six pairs of eyelids 
at least. "I concluded I'd make you a call — 
know how busy literary people are — wouldn't 
drag you out." 

At that instant the hat crown gave way with 
a subdued murmur of complaint and 1'iffit 
bounced into the air. " Good gracious, what's 
that ?" snapped she. "Is it a eat? What do 
yon have reptiles about for? It might have 
bitten me. Hate cats — ugh ! 

" Take this chair. Madam," said Clive, set- 
tling her before she could do any more mischief, 
for she had nearly upset an inkstand on his 
wrjting-table by the Sourish of the umbrella. 

" Yes, this is better. But what do you have 
a cat for ? You're not Mahommed — nasty 
things." 

"I believe it was my hat," said Clive polite- 
ly- 

" Oh dear, oh dear ! How sorry I am. Was 

it a new one ? Don't say a word ; I'll make 
Genin send you another. I will — he often 
wants notices. A hat is a hat in these days." 

Clive begged her to think no more about the 
disaster, as it was not of the slightest conse- 
quence. 

" Yes, I believe you're rich," said she ; " dif- 
ferent from most writers. I'm not rich myself — 
but I'm not a beggar either — lie! he! How 
much have you made out of your new book ?" 

Clive civilly replied that it was too soon to 
know. 

"Yes, may be so. But keep a sharp lookout 
on those publishers — rascals, the whole of 'em. 
I know 'em — ugh ! They never try any of their 
tricks with me ! ' Bay me,' 1 say, ' or I'll expose 
you! I'm Mrs. Piffit, you know — I'll put you 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



123 



in every paper from Mai'ie to Georgia.' That's 
the way to do it ! I'll go and see yours for 
you, if you want me to." 

"Thank you, but mine are very satisfactory 
men to deal with," replied Clive. 

" Yes, they have the name, but I don't trust 
any man too far," responded Piffit. 

"A very wise rule,'* replied Clive. "I be- 
lieve, Mrs. Piffit, you are said to have a sort of 
animosity for my sex." 

"I have — I shan't deny it. Exceptions, of 
course, there are — I dare say you'll be one — but 
men in general — ugh !" She made a high wind 
of sniff's and shook the umbrella in the air as a 
warning to the offensive race in general that it 
was found out and had better keep out of the 
way. 

" I am flattered by the exception in my favor," 
said Clive. 

"That's pretty — I don't care much about 
pretty things as a rule ; I always say, talk to 
me right out — no shame. I hate lies. I'm a 
Presbyterian — been one a good many years. 
Do you profess?" Clive was a little at a loss 
to understand her meaning, but she did not 
wait for him to solve it. "I suppose not — men 
are so careless — writers in particular. I'm very 
cautious what I write — morality, morality, I 
say." 

Clive applauded the sentiment and mentally 
recalled a performance of the lady's which had 
come to his knowledge, wherein she wrote 
anonymous letters to a female friend and in- 
jured her in every way in her power. 

"I hope you aren't a Churchman," continued 
Mrs. Piffit ; " they're only Papists in disguise — 
I've written a letter about it. They say this 
parson here is terribly High Church — got candles 
on the altar and a painted window — it's ridicu- 
lous, it's wicked. I'm going to talk to him 
about it before I go away. I've got a tract I 
want him to read — a beautiful thing by Elder 
Simmons, called the ' Illuminated Road to Per- 
dition' — that's the lighted altar, you know. 
Want to read it ?" 

Clive declined on the plea of occupation. 
" Yes, I suppose you're busy. I know what 
it is — am at it early and late myself. Thought 
I'd come up here and have a little rest and see 
what the fashionables are doing — I always like 
to be posted. I'm a Fashion Editor — often 
make my own bonnets from the plates — made 
this one. But la, you don't know any thing 
about suCh matters — men never do — ugh!" 

" At least I know enough to admire the bon- 
net you wear," said Clive. 

Piffit winked and gave the wonderful struct- 
ure a rap on the crown which settled it neatly on 
her apex. Her bonnets were a weak point — 
she was somewhat mollified by this compliment, 
for she had been going out of her confusion into 
a spiteful stage on account of Earnsworth's cool 
civility. 

"You're book is a success," said she; "it's 
beautiful. I've written half the notices that are 
in the papers — always like to be obliging. May 



be I've two or three in my reticule — wait a 
minute." 

She composed the umbrella on a neighboring 
chair and opened the bag, searched a little among 
the heterogeneous contents — in the brief interval 
Clive caught sight of pamphlets, pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs, a corset-lace and some bits of chocolate 
— and pulled out several dingy slips of newspa- 
per somewhat soiled with candy. 

" Here they are," said she ; " keep 'em." 
Clive took the scraps a little unwillingly — 
laid them on the table without reading, and 
thanked her politely for her good nature. Mrs. 
Piffit sniffed ; matters were not conducted in a 
way to please her. 

" How is your wife ?" demanded she sharply 
" Quite well, thank you," replied Clive. 
" Of course my call is on her too," said Pif- 
fit; "may be she isn't named in the letter, but 
I'd like to see her — never call on gentlemen, of 
course. I'm very particular." 

" Unfortunately my wife is out," replied he; 
"she drove down into the village and will not 
be back for some time." 

"Well, she can call on me — owes a call now, 
you know. I'm very aufait in matters of eti- 
quette — being a Fashion Editor, you know. 
I've written a Guide to Polite Society — ever read 
it?" 

Clive was obliged to confess that, although 
familiar with Mrs. Piffit's newspaper effusions, 
he had not read the work in question. 

"I don't think much of it," said Piffit, "but 
it sold — had to put in lots of nonsense to'please 
people. I gave it to the smokers, I tell you," 
and she emitted the sniff suspicious. 

" I am sure all such feel self-condemned when 
they read," said Clive. 

"Oh, I don't know — men never feel con- 
demned — that's their way. I'm sorry your 
wife's out — wanted to see her. Look's odd to 
visit a man, too — hope she won't be jealous." 
Clive begged her to feel at ease on that score. 
"Lots of women are jealous," said Piffit; 
"never was myself. My husband was an ex- 
ception to men in general. I wore mourning 
ever so long, widow's cap and all — didn't mind 
the expense." 

Clive recollected to have heard how Mrs. Pif- 
fit and her deceased spouse quarrelled before 
he sailed down the river Styx, but he said that 
he had no doubt her matrimonial relations had 
been most delightful. 

"Never was a happier couple," returned Pif- 
fit ; "I shall never marry again — never !" 

Clive thought that highly probable — certainly 
the whole world could not produce a second 
man willing to be yoked with Piffit — but by the 
sniff and the little titter Clive knew that, in 
spite of her hatred to the race, Piffit would not 
be too obdurate if a husband presented himself 
— and had a squint ready for such offers, like the 
weaker members of her sex. 

"Haven't been married long, have you?" 
continued she. "Literary men always quarrel 
with their wives — hope you'll be an exception." 



124 



MY DAUUUTKU KLINOK. 



I will try to deserve Mrs. Pifflt'sgood opin- 



on,'' said he coldly. 



"Sorry your wife's out—always like to see 
puris' wives how they do dress generally — hate 
a woman thai hasn't good taste- -yours has, I'vo 
no doubt. Very much in love, weren't you? 
W'mte oceans of poetry about her, didn't you? 
Was it a long engagement? Tell me all about 

it. We writers are public property, you know 
— people expect to read every thing about us in 
the papers." 

Clive'B patience was nearly exhausted. "I 

have no ambition to see my private affairs in print, 
Madam," said he, " nor to be put there in any 

way other than where my hooks are concerned." 
"Oh, you mustn't be touchy,'' said Mrs. Pif- 
fit. "Writers are almost always irritable — 
never was myself. There's Mrs. Tweet lira — 
writes under the influence 6f opium— 1 wouldn't 
say so because she's a particular friend of mine. 
Every body knows how Hewland drinks, and 
Mrs. Jay treats her husband abominably. But 

1 never talk scandal — 1 think it's wicked- I'm 
a Presbyterian." 

"An excellent rule whether one is a Presby- 
terian or not," said Clive. 

" Hope you don't take opium ? Writers are 
so apt to seek stimulant — don't do it. What's 
in that little bottle?" 

" Red ink. Madam, but I never drink it.'' 

" Oh, of course. Do you write with red ink? 
Eccentricity of genius - we all have them. Now 
1 can write, with any thing — habit, you know — 
done so mueh for the papers. Mrs. Tweetum 
always talks about wanting space — space. I 
should think she did — such absurd stories as 
she writes." 

Clive felt confident that she would go away 
and declare that he wrote poetry with blood from 
his wife's veins, and tell Mrs. Tweetum that he 
had pronounced her work abominable trash. 

'• S lie's immoral, you know," continued Pifflt; 
"that's what she is. I wouldn't give a book of 
hers to my daughter, if 1 had one. People tell 
dreadful stories about her, but 1 never listen — 
she's my friend." 

"1 think, if you please, we will not discuss 
our co-workers," said ('live gravely 

"t>li. of course not. Dear me, you began it," 

cried I'itlit, commencing to give sniffs defiant. 

"1 never talk about any body. I'm a Presbyte- 
rian — was one before 1 was a writer — hope I 
know my duty." 

Clive bowed. 

" L must go ; wanted to see you, being in 
the neighborhood— I'm at the Lake House. 
Bring your wife down, now do. That letter will 
be proof that I'm myself — you know Mr. Holly's 
writing or you can telegraph. No, that's ex- 
pensive; don't do it." 

'« I am quite satisfied as to your identity, Mrs. 
Piffit," he answered. 

" Well, then call and bring your wife. Writ- 
ers ought to know one another. I don't write 
novels - haven't time ; always busy with the 

newspapers, you know." 



She shoved her retkjulc further up on her 
arm and grasped the green umbrella and glared 
at ('live, divided between a desire to keep on 
friendly terms with a lion and a. wish to give 
vent to her spleen. She compromised by a 
shower of winks and snill's of such energy that 
any body outside the door would have thought. 

the author had developed a taste for mechanics 

and was getting up a model steam-engine in 
private. "I must go, " said she; "had a 
pleasant call. Sorry your wife was not at home ; 
tell her to run down and see me — it's only a 
step. Come with her if you can, but if she's 
alone, just let her ask for Mrs. Piffit, the writer 
— every body knows me." 

Clive was civil to the last, but he did not 
promise that her visit should be returned, nor 
did he ask her to honor his house with another 
call, and I'itlit remarked the omission and went. 
into a silent fury which made the green umbrel- 
la shake ominously in her hand. 

" I am going to see my friend Mrs. Ilackett," 
said she; " I owe her a visit. She's very fond 
o\' me because I'm intellectual. 1 like to see 
people appreciate talent. Do you know the 
Thorntons ?" 

"Yes, Madam." 

" Friends of mine too — met them in Wash- 
ington at Secretary Grey's house. Charming 
girl, his daughter— not so young though, 1 fan- 
cy, if the truth was known — can't be, you know. 
But how they do talk about the Thorntons! 
Some say she takes too much and that he beats 
her — it can't bo true of course." 

"Certainly it can not. Let me advise you, 
Mrs. Piffit, not to repeat such stories." 

" oh, 1 never repeat any thing — I'm a Pres- 
byterian," said I'itlit, emitting the sniff pious 

and looking inexpressibly wicked. "They've 
gone off somewhere all of a sudden — looks queer. 
He can't have taken her to an asylum ? I'd help 
her in a minute if he abuses her — always help 

women— noted for ii." 

Clive told her very decidedly that the Thorn- 
tons were his friends, people universally respect- 
ed and beloved, and that to hint such suspicions 
would inevitably disgust the whole county with 
any new-coiner. 

" Ofcourse," said Piffit : " thought you ought, 
to know what people say, being a mutual friend 
— want to do my duty. So glad there's nothing 
in tin" stories. Well, good-bye. I've had a 
pleasant call. Now come down and bring your 
wife, Ao. Don't go to the door — I caiulind my 
way — always like to help myself." 

But Clive chose to ring and have a servant 

show her out. His opinion was that if left to 
herself, Mrs. Piffit would peer into every corner 
of the house before she departed. 

"Too much ceremony," said she; "repub- 
licans shouldn't ape foreign manners. Good- 
bye — come soon good-bye. She shook her um- 
brella at him frantically, partly because that was 
her way of shaking hands, but more to gratify 
her feelings as the next best thing to giving him 
several hearty pokes with it. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



125 



The moment she was pone, Clive pave orders 
that by no artifice or force must Mrs. Piffit 
again obtain entrance ; and Piffit having an im- 
pression that lie would do this as strongly 
lixed upon her as if she had been clairvoyant 
and overheard his command, trudged down the 
road under the shadow of her umbrella, snort- 
ing with rage and composing newspaper para- 
graphs and inventing stories which should pre- 
sent Clive Earns worth and every body connect- 
ed with him in the blackest colors to the 
world. 

As the green umbrella appeared like a huge 
parachute near the gates of the Idol's Castle, 
Genevieve Laidlcy walking about, followed by 
faithful Juanita, espied it, and watched its prog- 
ress as it bobbed up and down, with great de- 
light. The Angel often strayed through the 
shrubberies to that gate which was only a sec- 
ondary affair, and was not guarded by a lodge 
and a vigilant porter like the grand entrance, 
over which loomed a gigantic pepper-box that 
made an arriving guest feel as if he must be a 
cruet of some sort being driven into a proper 
place in a castor. The Angel said she walked 
for exercise and was gaining strength from her 
exertions, but she could not disport herself even 
in the grounds without the care of a sheep-dog 
— she was so modest, so keenly alive to deco- 
rum, the admiring Idol declared to all her 
friends, and there being more to gain by be- 
lief than doubt in the case, people gave cre- 
dence to the statement. Juanita was a sheep- 
dog of the most faithful and intelligent breed ; 
she never barked unless her young mistress gave 
the signal, and the Angel often left her deaf 
and blind near the gate while she strolled into 
the grove beyond and did not stroll alone. 
Some victim was sure to have been warned of her 
angelic intention and to appear in an accidental 
manner to share her ramble. Heaven knows 
whom she had expected this day; it might 
have been some stranger first encountered in a 
romantic fashion and straightway transformed 
into a Prince of Como or a wandering trou- 
badour, whose improvisations would be sweet to 
her for a time, provided she could make a mys- 
tery of the affair. 

But for whomsoever she waited on this occa- 
sion, she had waited in vain ; neither prince nor 
troubadour appeared, and the Angel had been 
solacing 'herself by a little pecking of Juanita, 
when the approach of the green umbrella attract- 
ed her attention. Presently Mrs. Piffit's wheezes 
were audible behind the parachute — it seemed 
as if she propelled the machine by her puffs, and 
the movements of the monster were irregular 
and eccentric, as though the gas-works were out 
of order. The Angel ran to the gate and open- 
ed it, exclaiming — 

' ' Why, it is dear Mrs. Piffi t ! How glad I am 
to see you, dearest, sweetest of good-natured 
souls. Oh, did you notice the dress I wore at 
the hotel hop last Tuesday? Did you say I 
was perfection and the other girls horrid guys?" 

" Pf 1 pf ! pf ! Ugh ! ugh ! " steamed Piffit, 



touching a spring somewhere about the parachute 
which caused it to collapse and revealed her 
smoking and dusty "Pf! pf! Ugh! ugh! 
How hot it is!" 

"Come in and rest; here's a lovely shady 
seat," urged the Angel. " How tired you look. 
You poor love, if you had let me know you were 
coming I'd .have made the Duchess send a car- 
riage. I am so glad to see you. Did you no- 
tice my dress, you dear creature ?" 

"Of course I did — said I would — always keep 
rny word. Besides, you're one of my favorites." 
She waddled along to the rustic bench and 
the Angel sat down by her, beaming with ten- 
der interest and taking mental notes that she 
might be able to amuse her friends with a cor- 
rect reproduction of the authoress in a state of 
fatigue. 

" So sweet of you, dear Mrs. Piffit ; I declare, 
I don't know how to show my friendship for you. 
I'm going to make the Duchess give you a beau- 
tiful present— I shall have one for you too, when 
I get a box from Paris — you're such a good 
creature." 

Piffit liked presents almost as well as the 
Angel herself, though she was not so accom- 
plished in the art of procuring them. She 
smiled till her double chin came out in a fresh 
crease and she appeared suddenly to have devel- 
oped a third. 

"But where havcyoubeen, dear Mrs. Piffit?" 
demanded the Angel. "That is not the road 
from the village." 

" Been ?" repeated Piffit, glad of an oppor- 
tunity to uncork her rage — "been, indeed — you 
may well ask ! I've been where I don't want to 
go again in a hurry, I can tell you." 

"Bless me, where was it? Do tell me 
quick." 

"I never heard such talk and such goings on 
in all my life," cried Mrs. Piffit, as usual, when 
excited, regardless of the fact that her listener 
could not have the most distant idea of whom 
or what she spoke. "Never' in all my life! 
Why, I thought of myself, a lone woman sitting 
in the room with that man— and all I could have 
done would be to put up my umbrella— and 
what's an umbrella, I ask you?" she added, slan- 
dering her favorite in her wrath. 

"Alone with whom?" demanded the Angel 
eagerly. "What did he do — what did you want 
an umbrella for ? Oh, tell me about it, dear Mrs. 
Piffit — I'm such a childish little thing. Was 
he very wicked ? Oh, what did he do ?" 

" He better not. I'd have punched him with 
the point of it if he'd so much as winked," snort- 
ed Piffit, giving the umbrella a flourish. 

" O my, did he wink? What did he mean 
by that? Who was it? Tell me ; you'll drive 
me mad. " 

' ' That nasty Farnsworth man, and that's who 
it was!" and Piffit sneezed twice. 

" And he winked at you ? Oh, what did he 
mean ?" 

" I tell you he didn't dare — I'd have punched 
him ! I would as sure as my name is Piffit, if 



12G 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



he'd been twenty authors and I'd been twenty 
unprotected women." 

"Then what was it? Tell me, dear, though 
I can"t understand if it is any thing wrong — I'm 
such a baby," cooed the Angel. 

"I'd like to have heard him say a wrong word," 
cried Piffit, with another war-horse snort; "I'd 
have liked him to try it ! But his looks were 
enough — his talk about women ! I know he's 
as wicked as he can live— all men are — ugh !" 

"Are they, dear Mrs. Piffit? Oh, you 
frighten me — I've such a dread of wicked peo- 
ple." 

" Sitting up there as if he was King Herod," 
pursued Piffit; "and all because his trumpery 
new book is praised. Can't other people write, 
I'd like to know ? Haven't I been filling the 
papers for years ? " 

"And beautifully you write too," said the An- 
gel. " But tell me about Mr. Farnsworth, like 
a dear." 

" Bless me, there isn't much to tell. He has 
a great opinion of himself. Wait till his next 
book comes out — I'll be ready, I bet you !" 

"But I thought you had to put your umbrella 
up," cried the Angel in an aggrieved tone. "I 
don't understand you at all — I can't see that 
any thing happened." 

" Of course not. Do I look like a woman j 
that things happen to ?" snapped Piffit. "No, 
indeed ! But I could read his mind, and I tell 
you he's bad — bad — worse than that fellow in 
hiding — ugh !" 

The Angel started and glanced about with a J 
sudden fear, but there was no one to be seen 
except the trusty sheep-dog seated at a discreet 
distance chewing some sort of brown bark after 
her habit. 

"And you think he is wicked?" she asked 
innocently. 

"I'd swear to it in a court of Justice," ex- 
claimed Mrs. Piffit, bringing the point of the 
umbrella down on the grass with great violence. ! 
"He abused every other author — he said the 
most horrible things about Mrs. Thornton. Oh, 
he's got a forked tongue indeed!" 

"Did you see his wife?" asked the Angel. 

" No, he said she was out. I wanted to see 
her — tell all about a woman the minute I set 
eyes on her." 

" And they say such dreadful things about 
her," sighed the Angel. 

"I know it. I believe 'em — I believe 'em 
all!" cried Piffit viciously. "Let me find out 
the truth, that's all ! I'm Mrs. Piffit, the writ- 
er. I'd show up the President and all Congress 
in a minute !" 

The yellow gleams began to shoot from the 
Angel's eyes. Here was a way to vengeance — 
set Piffit on fire and let her illuminate the 
neighborhood. The Angel had been obliged to 
be cautious, although she had done a reason- 
able share of mischief; but she was not satis- 
fied. Here was a favorable opportunity, and if 
the stories came back to her she would be be- 
lieved rather than Mrs. Piffit. The Angel 



thought of her attempted romance that ended 
in a fiasco so mortifying — she thought of Elinor 
Grey, and that stung her into new bitterness. 
Besides, she was unusually irritable and wicked 
that morning on account of the non-appearance 
of the Prince of Como. Every thing conspired 
to make this the occasion for striking the blow 
she had held in reserve for weeks past lest some 
harm should come to herself. 

" His wife !" she repeated. "Oh, Mrs. Piffit, 
there's worse than you know — worse than I can 
understand. Juanita heard it — found it all out. 
Oh, I couldn't even listen— but she'll tell you." 

"What is it? what is it?" exclaimed' Piffit 
in a frenzy. " Call her here, quick! You yel- 
low woman! what's your name?" She flour- 
ished the umbrella and shook as if she would 
come in pieces. 

"Juanita," called the Angel, in her most 
seraphic voice, "dear old Juanita, come here, 
please." 

The sheep-dog approached, alert and watch- 
ful. " Please to want me, young Senora, bress 
her ?" she demanded. 

" Tell me all about it !" exclaimed Mrs. 
Piffit. "All that wicked woman's doings. I 
dare say she's worse than he if that's possible. 
Where did he pick her up ? Who was she ? 
Why don't you tell?" 

Juanita seemed puzzled, and rolled her eyes 
till she looked like a Chinese Joss, but her 
mistress made Mrs. Piffit's hurried remarks 
somewhat more intelligible. 

"All those things you heard in Washington 
about Mrs. Farnsworth," said the Angel with 
sweet childishness. " Tell Mrs. Piffit. I shan't 
understand half of it, I know; I am so glad." 

"Don't know noffin," said Juanita cunning- 
ly. " Let lady tell her story." 

" They say she's been all sorts of things," 
cried Piffit, and she poured out a long tirade of 
gossip, whereat Juanita chuckled. 

" I can't understand half," sighed Miss Laid- 
ley. " Now, Juanita dear, you know what they 
said." 

Juanita had been primed that she might be in 
readiness for an occasion like the present, and 
seeing by the yellow light in her young mis- 
tress's eyes that she meant her to speak, the 
sheep-dog barked furiously. The story was 
dreadfully confused ; the Spanish interjections 
and words of no human language-j-probably 
hcreditary cries which had come down to Juan- 
ita from long-armed apes— made the tale more 
difficult to comprehend — but Piffit understood . 
enough. When questioned as to the source of 
her information, Juanita was more broken still, 
and seemed about to take refuge in the monkey 
cries altogether if too sorely pressed, but Piffit 
was not particular about the source. 

"The abandoned wretch !" cried she. " Oh, 
the villain! Why, they ought to be burned at 
the same stake." 

" It is horrible," sighed the Angel ; " I never 
heard of any thing so wicked, but it's all Greek 
to me. Dear Mrs. Piffit, never mention this." 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



127 



" Oh, I won't, I won't," gasped Piffit. 
" If my name should get mixed up with the 
matter," said the Angel sweetly, but firmly, 
"I should sue the person for slander, and I'm 
very rich." 

" I shan't say a word," asseverated Mrs. Pif- 
fit ; "I never talk about people. But this will 
get out— such things always do. Why, there 
won't a soul visit her." 

"Dear me, I don't think people ought," said 
Miss Laidley plaintively. " I can't understand ; 
but what a wicked thing she must be ; and she's 
not a bit pretty, is she, Juanita?" 

" Not bit,',' declared Juanita. "Pretty? no, 
indeed !" 

" She's a wretch and he's worse," said Piffit. 
"Oh, I don't know," sighed the Angel; "a 
bad woman is worse' than a bad man — more 
odious." 

" So they are," assented Piffit. 
' 'Every thing is certain to come out," observed 
Miss Laidley ; " such things never can be kept 
quiet long." 

"They ought to come out," cried Piffit, emit- 
ting two sniffs, the first in the cause of virtue, 
the second for religion. "Why, it would be 
countenancing sin. What would the world come 
to — innocent women exposed to meet such peo- 
ple ? It'll come out, and she'll be treated as she 
deserves. Let him write another book ! A pret- 
ty fellow — oh, the animal — I wish I had him 
here!" 

She gave the inevitable shake to the umbrel- 
la and looked all eyelids and chins. 

The Angel felt that she had done a good 
morning's work in spite of her disappointment, 
and now she wanted to get rid of Mrs. Piffit. 
"I must go back," she said, looking at her 
watch; " I had no idea it was so late. There's 
a clergyman coming to call on me ; dear Mrs. 
Piffit, I am so devoted to good people ! I can't 
ask you up because the poor Duchess is in bed 
with neuralgia." 

The Duchess never was in better health in 
her life. 

"I couldn't stop this morning," said Mrs. 
Piffit, eager to get back to the hotel and find 
listeners to her tale of horror ; "I must go this 
minute ; so good-bye." 

" Good-bye, good-bye, dear, "cried the Angel. 
" Write a notice about me soon, now do ; and 
forget this dreadful story, oh, promise." 
" Of course," said Piffit, " of course." 
The Angel bade her another affectionate fare- 
well and pursued her way to the house, pensive 
and sweetly melancholy, and the sheep-dog fol- 
lowed, chewing bark and rolling her eyes more 
hideously than ever. 

Mrs. Piffit elevated her umbrella and steamed 
off", but alas, in this world the virtuous and good 
often meet with misfortunes in the pursuance 
of duty, and Piffit, bent on the righteous errand 
of exposing without delay the iniquity of Clive 
Farnsworth and the woman who might be his 
wife — but that was doubtful, or if she were, was 
rather worse than if she had not been — was over- 



taken by an evil fate, probably at the instigation 
of some demon who took offense at her being 
an epitome of all the cardinal virtues. 

The way was long, the weather hot, Mrs. Pif- 
fit dumpy and suffering more from a desire to 
relate her story to numerous listeners than from 
the heat. She remembered that there was a by- 
path through the fields, leading to the village, 
which would materially shorten her journey if 
she could find it, but she was uncertain where 
it began and her short sight made the search 
for it rather unpromising. It chanced that out 
of the plantations appeared Tad Tilman, who 
had intercepted the Angel in her homeward 
walk to deliver a letter, for Tad was mail-carrier 
in general to those who had secret missives to 
send, and was now returning, whistling as he 
walked, and into the hands of the bad boy fell 
the doomed Piffit. He saw her standing where 
several roads met, squinting at various stiles and 
gates which gave admittance to the fields ; and 
knowing very well who she was, stood still to 
enjoy the peculiar appearance she presented 
and to copy her squints and sniff's on the spot, 
as a means of amusement to his evil companions 
and the older people who ought to have been 
ashamed to encourage his wickedness and were 
not. Mrs. Piffit heard him approach, twisted 
her eyes into new shapes to make out who or 
what he might be, and, having apparently satis- 
fied herself, exclaimed loftily — 

" Here, you boy, show me the right path. 
It 1 !! be the first time you've been out of mischief 
to-day, I'll warrant." 

Immediately the demon who desired to annoy 
saintly Piffit whispered to the bad boy to mis- 
lead her, and he yielded incontinently to the 
appeal of the demon. 

"Bless me, ma'am," said he, virtuously, "I 
ain't never in mischief, I ain't ; who's ben 
a takin' away my character?" 

"Nobody/' sniffed Mrs. Piffit; "I don't know 
you — never saw you before — don't want to 
again ; but you're a boy — that's enough for me. 
Always in mischief — ugh." 

" I wish you wouldn't say so, ma'am," said 
Tad sweetly, "I really do ; most of 'em are, I 
know, but I aint a common boy by any means. 
I'm a Sunday-schooler, and a prayer-meetinger, 
and a reg'lar straightforward chap every way." 

" Don't talk, " said Piffit ; ' ' words prove noth- 
ing. Show me the way if you want me to be- 
lieve you — hmf! hmf!" 

"Of course I will— I'm a goin' myself— I al- 
ways like to help folks when I can, jest like 
George Washington and the cherry-tree." 

" Oh here," said Piffit ; " don't mix things up 
that way — you ain't mad, are you?" 

"No, ma'am, oh no ; I'm a Sunday-schooler." 
" Well, well, show me the path — shorter isn't 
it through the fields ?" 

" Oh, ever so much," replied Tad, in his soft- 
est voice; "my, yes; ever and ever so much." 
" I'm glad of it — I'm tired. Come, get along 
— don't stand there — you don't think I want to 
stand here all day, do you ?" 



128 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



Why, 
" shan't 

" Want 



your 



"Oh my, no, ma'am. This way — follow me 
— over the stile ; here we be — it's all right." 

"Glad of it," said Piffit ; and thinking her- 
self now sure of her way, she added hastily, " As 
you were going I shan't pay you for showing 
me — you won't have earned it — can't expect 
money when you don't earn it." 

" Oh dear, no ; I don't want nothing 
it's a pleasure to me, it is," said Tad ; 
I carry your umberelly for you ?" 

"No — get away," snapped Piffit. 
it to keep the sun off." 

" Oh, yes ; of course. Let me take 
ridicule, ma'am." 

" No, carry my own things. Why, what do 
you mean ? Look here, boy, don't try tricks on 
me; I'll — I'll umbrella you in a minute. Do you 
. know who I am? I'm Mrs. Piffit, the writer." 

" Oh— oh— my !" exclaimed Tad. " Ain't I 
happy to help you ! Why, ma'am, I've heard 
your name ever since I can remember. Wal, 
Thaddeus, my boy, you are in luck — a showing 
the way to Mrs. Piffit — the writer ! I do be- 
lieve, ma'am, it's all 'cause I've been good and 
a Sunday-schooler, instead of stealin' apples 
and a misbehavin' like common boys. But 
reely, this seems too much reward, even for me 
— Mrs. Piffit— Me writer— oh my !" 

"I hope you're a good boy — I hope so," said 
Piffit, mollified by his expressions of delight, 
but squinting closely at him to see that he was 
up to no tricks. 

" I be, ma'am, indeed. I wish you had time 
— I'd ask yon to go round by the deacon's ; he'd 
tell you, or the school-master," 

"Yes, yes; well, I'm in a hurry. Much 
further ? Don't see any thing of the village ? 
Why, what's that ahead — woods?" 

"A grove," said Tad magnificently; "when 
we get through that you'll sec the hotel beauti- 
ful. Here's a fence ; I'm afraid you'll have to 
climb it, there's no steps — folks ought to be 
ashamed." 

" A fence ? They said the way was clear. I 
can't climb fences. Now look here, you boy — " 

" Oh ! oh !" shouted Tad in tones of fright, 
"here comes Mr. Gleason's red bull full tilt. 
Oh, get over the fence — he hates petticoats and 
umberellys — hurry, hurry !" 

Piffit bounded forward, clambered and fell 
over the rails and landed on her back, while 
her umbrella sailed off like an immense bird. 

"Oh, you're down, ain't you?" exclaimed 
Tad in wonder and pity. "Be you hurt? 
Ketch hold of my hand." 

" Stop my umbrella — get my umbrella — if I 
lose it I'll have you sent to jail ! Oh, you young 
villain !" howled Piffit, scrambling up from her 
reclining posture. 

Tad ran after the umbrella and captured it, 
muttering, " She wears one blue garter and 
'tother's yellar. She'll be so melted down by 
tins you could put her in a quart measure. 
Wal, Gleason has got a bull, and if that had 
ben Gleason's field, he'd have ben in it. I 
mistook — that might happen to the deacon." 



ipr< 



He restored the umbrella to its owner, who 
cut short his lamentations over her fall, warned 
him to attempt no tricks with her, and fol- 
lowed him through the wood. It was a hard 
scramble. There was a great deal of under- 
brush — brambles twined lovingly about Piffit's 
ankles — saplings swaying in the breeze snatch- 
ed at the umbrella she had put under her arm, 
and with every step the ground grew more 
damp, threatening to end in an actual marsh. 
Mrs. Piffit began to vituperate Tad ; he was 
chanting 

, " Oh beyond Jordan we will dwell— will dwell," 

in a voice so loud that her wheezing accents 
were quite lost, and with each instant her fatigue 
and ill-temper increased. 

They came suddenly out of the wood ; alas ! 
the predictions of the soft path were realized — 
another step forward sent Piffit ankle-deep in 
damp black mud, and as she emitted a cry of 
fright and wrath, the bad boy stopped his chant, 
ing, and pointing to something white far in the 
distance, remarked coolly — 

" I said you could see the hotel from here — 
there 'tis ; looks pooty, don't it ?" 

"Where is it? Where am I?" shrieked 
Piffit. "Oh, you dreadful boy, you've misled 
me. I'll have you sent to jail — I'll have you 
hung." 

She got her spectacles out of the reticule, ad- 
justed them on her nose, and by their aid could 
see the hotel far away and the blue lake gleaming 
peacefully beyond it. 

' ' You've led me right away from the village," 
she cried. 

" You didn't say you wanted to go to the vil- 
lage," returned Tad, apparently in great sur- 
prise; "you said you wanted to walk through 
the fields. Dear me, why didn't you tell me ?" 

Mrs. Piffit shook the umbrella at him in 
speechless wrath. 

" Why, it'sgood two miles to the village," said 
Tad. "I ain't a goin' that way myself; you 
must keep through the marsh, down through the 
blackberry patch, cross the brook and the plough- 
ed field, and then you'll come out to the wilier 
bushes — there's such lots of yellar worms there — 
and over the stone wall into the road, then 
you'll know where you be." 

"You little villain! You thief — you mur- 
derer!" screamed Mrs. Piffit, making frantic 
dashes at him with the umbrella, which he danced 
to and fro to avoid, holding his sides with laugh- 
ter. 

"Why, stop," said he; "what are you at? 
Asking me to take you for a walk and then try- 
ing to eel-spear me with an umberelly." 

"I'll have you hung," shouted Mrs. Piffit. 
"Who are you — what's your name, vou young 
villain ?" 

' ' I'm Jim Foster, the deacon's son," said Tad. 
" Oh, don't tell dad— he'd kill me— don't !" 

"I will. I'll make an example of you — oh 
dear, oh dear!" 

She jumped up and down, and each bound 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



129 



only sent her deeper into the mud — she bran- 
dished her umbrella— she kicked— she screamed 
— she was a whole mad-house in herself. 

" I do believe you're a crazy woman," shout- 
ed Tad, apparently seized with sudden terror. 
" Help, help, somebody ! Here's a poor Sunday- 
school boy set on by a crazy woman. Help ! 
help!" 

He rushed whooping and shouting away, and 
neither prayers nor imprecations could induce 
him to return. He disappeared from Mrs. Pif- 
fit's sight, and she, with a fresh howl of misery, 
sat down on a moist stump in the midst of the 
marsh and sobbed and shrieked till she was on 
the verge of apoplexy. 

A good half-hour after she was discovered by 
some sportsmen and rescued from her wretched 
condition. She reached the hotel at last — her 
clothes ruined, her umbrella wet, and she 
speechless with fatigue. To make the matter 
worse, she sent for the deacon and told him what 
his son had been guilty of, and the deacon hav- 
ing but one heir, and he a blind boy, went into 
a great rage at the slanderous charge, and they 
berated each other in the hall in a Christian way 
that was intensely edifying to the sinners who 
collected to listen. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

THE WORLD'S VERDICT. 

The whirlwind which had been for weeks 
gathering about the home where Clive Farns- 
worth had thought to make a shelter for the 
woman who loved him, burst in its blackest 
fury. 

There were no longer mysterious reports and 
vague rumors which made new-comers curious 
to see the husband and wife ; people listened 
and talked openly, and were only too ready to 
believe that the woman must be shunned as a 
moral leper and the man condemned or else 
forced into putting aside the creature who had 
deluded him into palming her off upon his ac- 
quaintance- as worthy of their notice. In a few 
days it would have been impossible almost to 
trace the stories to their original source, though 
the Lake House was the fountain-head of new 
gossip, and Pifnt's tongue ran riot. She grew 
bold from hearing other people talk freely, and 
she went about like Alecto, with her serpents 
hissing, to work the mischief desired by the An- 
gel up at the Castle who had sent her forth upon 
her errand. The Thorntons were absent ; there 
was no one to attempt to stem the tide, and it 
increased daily in fury and blackness. 

I could not exaggerate in my description ; you 
all know how scandal spreads through any circle, 
and in the idleness of summer repose people are 
able to give their whole minds to the business, 
and it is the one thing they do thoroughly. It 
increased until Clive Farnsworth, familiar with 
the world's ways, knew that the plague-spot had 
spread, although not a soul had breathed to him 
a suspicion. 



He felt the danger in the brief, cold courtesies 
offered himself and his wife by those who at 
first had been eager to claim her acquaintance. 
Several of the more decided neighbors gave en- 
tertainments to which they were not invited. 
Groups of women exchanging salutations at the 
church doors, who during service had been wait- 
ing to see the groined arches fall upon Ruth's 
sacrilegious head, separated abruptly when she 
came out with Clive, hurrying away with chill- 
ing bows which were worse to endure than words 
of actual insult. He was furious with the peo- 
ple, half insane to think that this trouble which 
menaced Ruth was of his causing, but it was 
necessary to be calm and keep her from suspect- 
ing that any thing was amiss. He only told her 
that the Thorntons being absent there was no 
one for whom he cared particularly, so they two 
would have a fortnight's quiet, and Ruth was 
glad. What was to be done after, how she was 
to be kept from a knowledge of all that would 
hurt her, he could not tell, and there was no one 
to help him to a decision. 

The first thought in his mind was to select 
some man who might so much as have smiled 
at the gossip or allowed his wife to talk, and 
shoot him like a dog. It was a natural enough 
impulse ; and if Clive had been younger or had 
possessed less judgment, he would inevitably 
have done it. Fortunately he remembered that 
by this he should ruin Ruth utterly. He might 
have the satisfaction of shooting half his ac- 
quaintance, but each murder would involve the 
woman that loved him in blacker desolation. 

Ruth did not observe that any thing was 
changed, he kept her thoughts so pleasantly oc- 
cupied that she had no leisure. Two or three 
times in their drives they encountered a female 
magnate severe in virtue, who took the initia- 
tive toward ostracising the pair, and whirled 
past in sublime unconsciousness of their ap- 
proach, and Ruth once said innocently, " Mrs. 
Hamlyn's dashing new carriage raises so much 
dust that she did not see us." 

"For which she will moan when we tell 
her," laughed Clive, and felt his heart-strings 
crack under. 

He gave every moment of his time to Ruth : 
he read to her — interested her in new studies — 
wandered with her in the woods — petted and 
watched over her, till this new trouble brought 
her closer to his heart than any thing in the 
world could have done. 

And the people talked — oh, words full of in- 
fernal malignity, breathing the essence of every 
thing that is vile and devilish — they talked ! As 
is ever the case, the story most prevalent had not 
a shadow of truth for its foundation. They said 
that Ruth was a girl whom he had discovered 
in some Southern city, a young adventuress who 
was determined to have position, and had en- 
trapped him into a marriage ; they said she 
had been on the stage and failed, and he had 
sought to console her and been led into this last 
folly. This was the chief basis of the tales, 
more of which I need not repeat, but indeed if 



130 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



the female accusers and judges could have been 
told the simple truth, they would have culled 
Clive a fool so much the more, and have been 
as resolute to trample Ruth down. 

To be sure, there were exceptional cases — two 
or three there are in every large circle. There 
w:is Jack Ualsiou's wife — every body knew 
what she was while her first husband was alive. 
Every body knew that old Sackville had actu- 
ally instituted proceedings for a divorce which 
an apoplectic fit cut short, and having no time 
to alter his will sho came in possession of his 
millions in spite of his infuriated family. She 
went into decorous mourning, and gained new 
consideration with each fold of crape — after the 
Contents of the will were known. When a season 
sufficient to satisfy morality had elapsed — like 
the woman in Scripture — "she tired her head 
nml painted her face and looked out of her win- 
dow," and caught Jack Ralston who was saun- 
tering by- 
Jack was lazy and had run through his 
money ; his relations were potent in the land, 
and they held Jack's wife up. There bad 
never been a suspicion since nor any cause, for 
she had found her hell. She loved Jack with a 
tierce passion and was jealous as a fiend, and 
Jack insulted and tormented and made her life 
miserable. She was an exception to the old 
rule, hut the Kalstons must not be offended, 
and she was an exemplary wile now. People 
forgot the old horrors in the pleasure of laugh- 
ing at her present distress. She was staying 
at the. Lake House and was one of the fiercest 
of the Furies, and would have been ready to go 
up and set lire to Karnsworth's house and bury 
Knth in its ashes. 

The good-natured Idol herself was infected 
with fears and went with the current. Mrs. 
rillii told her stories, other females told theirs, 
and the Angel was constantly harassing her mind 
in secret. 

" I can't understand it, dearest Duchess," sho 
sighed ; " I'm such a baby ; but she must be a 
horrible creature." 

" How should you understand, my lovely 
blossom?" returned the Idol. " My love, I am 
shocked — shocked ; I can not endure to credit 
these tales. lie is such a glorious Apolloite, 
ami she the most idoli/.ahle young thing." 

"Oh, my!" cried the Angel, •• 1 don't think 
she's a bit pretty — such a hold look — did you 
never notice it? — something wild in her eyes. 
1 don't know what it means, but every body says 
such women always look so." 

"Perhaps there may he: 1 had not observed 
it," said the Idol. " My heart blinded my judg- 
ment. I was prepared to take our poet's wife 
to my bosom ; 1 was ready to believe her the 

purest Cynthia of every moment." 

"But you can't visit her, darling Duchess; 
every body is cutting them. You can't fly in 
the face of society." 

" No, dearest, no; the fetters bind us." 

" If she is bad you can't wish to go near her." 

" As you say, if she is — no, no." 



"And she is; there is not a doubt. I can't 
understand, dearest Duchess — lam such a child 
— but she is terribly wicked." 

"I fear so, I fear so; but my heart aches," 
said the Idol ; for she was a kindly soul, onlv — 
she must do like the rest of the world. 

" My aunt would never let me meet a person 
like that," pursued the Angel ; " sho is so par- 
ticular — she sheltered me so carefully ; why, she 
never allowed me to read the newspapers even ! 
I am like a babe in the woods." 

" Sweet, innocent floweret ! No, she must not 
come near you ; lovely blossom, you must not 
inhale the atmosphere of her presence." 

" I couldn't, you know, if 1 liked her ever so 
much," continued the Angel. "A young girl 
must be very circumspect — above all, an orphan 
like me; and my guardian trusts me so entire- 
ly, dear Duchess, 1 must not be unworthy of 
such confidence." 

"My love, his trust shall not vibrate even," 
returned the Idol, very much troubled, but see- 
ing no way out of the difficulty only to push 
Until down. Struck by a new thought she add- 
ed — "'But she knows Miss Grey; she told me 
so." 

" I don't believe a word of it. Remember 
bow particular Elinor is — how proud — the 
haughtiest woman 1 ever met." 

" Not haughty, pet ; a concatenation of Ves- 
tal purity and Junonian grandeur," exclaimed 
the Idol, solacing her distress with the largest 
words she could recollect at short notice. 

She must he nipped for that ponderous praise 
of Miss Grey — nipped on the spot. 

" Dear Duchess — mille pardons — un instant" 
cried the Angel, darting on the Idol and rubbing 
the poor lady's left eyebrow violently. M There 
was a spot of black — you hadn't put it on well — 
it's off now. I'm so glad I saw it before any 
body came in." 

The Idol was confused by this exposure of one 
of her toilet mysteries, hut she did not go into 
a rage as another woman would. 

"It must have been false; she never knew 
Miss Grey," asserted she with new energy, by 
way of forgetting the spot on her eyebrow. 

The Angel would have liked to assail Elinor, 
to hint that she was odd ami capable of knowing 
strange people, but it would not answer; be- 
sides, she had her own reasons for not wishing 
to mix her enemy up in the matter. 

"Perhaps they will go away, "said she; "it 
is the only thing they can do. To see her at 
church on Sunday so bra/en and unconcerned, 1 
declare, it made me shudder. Why, if I had 
told a lib I should expect the roof to fall on me 
— but I never tell even the smallest, dear Duch- 
ess; truth is so beautiful." 

"You are a transparent well of veracity," 
cried the Idol. 

" I don't want to think about the creature," 
pursued the Angel; "a young girl's thoughts 
should be like white lilies." 

"Charming sentiment — true poetry!" ex- 
claimed the Idol. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



131 



" Was it ? Oh, I am very glad ; I am very, 
very shy, you know — often I keep back such 
fancies for fear of being thought unnatural — but 
I can talk freely to you." m 

"And I lovo to read that melodious soul, with 
iis gashes of unwritten music," said the good 
Idol, ready to worship her. 

"Sometimes after I have said my prayers at 
night," continued the Angel, almost in a whis- 
per, "I think of that woman and feel contami- 
nated. I can not understand — <i Dieu ne i>l<tisc 
that I should — but the first day Isaw her, some- 
thing in my soul shrank from her; for all she 
was so bland and smiling, I felt as if an evil in- 
fluence was near — had come like a shadow be- 
tween me and the sun." 

"You are so pure that your spirit intu — in- 
tuiated you, "cried the Idol, so much impress- 
ed by this information that she was more con- 
vinced Ruth must be vile and wicked. 

" Perhaps," said the Angel. "Oh, I do ab- 
hor wickedness! I have been so carefully shield- 
ed ; my darling papa was so loving — and now 
he is gone — O father, father !" 

" I5ut we all love you," exclaimed the Idol, 
ready to wee]) when the fair creature flung up 
her arms and gave vent to the little burst of 
melodrama; "we will shield you and treasure 
you, my white dove." 

" I know it, darling Duchess — you most of 
any," returned she, coining gracefully down from 
tragedy to pathos. " Often I think my father 
is near— I seem to catch the rustle of seraphic 
pinions — I grow calm, stilling my heart with 
(lie reflection that my guardian spirit is at hand." 
Then from pathos she glided into tenderness. 
"I love you so, my Duchess — no one can pet 
and help me as you do. What a heavenly tur- 
quoise that is," she continued, examining a 
wonderful ornament in the Idol's head-dress — a 
butterfly made of various shining stones with a 
large tunpioisc laid on his back as if to keep him 
from soaring off his perch. 

"Wear it for my sake," said the silly Idol, 
and disarranged her head decoration without 
scruple, to get at the butterfly. 

"Don't, don't!" cried the Angel, when the 
ornament was safe in her hand. " Don't disar- 
range your hair. Oh, you have taken it out — 
the darling beauty ! I can not accept it — I won't 
indeed — let me put it back; you overload me 
with treasures." 

"Though I piled Ossa on Pygmalion," cried 
the Idol, "and the mountains were solid mass- 
es of gems, they would be weak to express a tithe 
<>t' my affection." 

"Like Milton," sighed the Angel, "but 
a great deal smoother. I can not refuse the lit- 
tle love ! I adore the beautiful in every form, 
you know." 

"You are perfect," replied the Idol, and be- 
lieved it. 

"Let mc arrange your head-dress," said the 
Angel, adjusting it with her skillful fingers and 
resisting an Impulse to set it awry and run a pin 
in her friend's head. " Voila, bien — the butter- 



fly will not be missed ; you arc so grand you 
don't need ornaments." 

" Artless flatterer," smiled the Idol. 

" No, it is my heart, my foolish heart, that 
will speak. I love you — I must express it ! The 
influence you have over mc — why, often I catch 
and repeat your very phrases, don't I ?" 

It certainly was true, and thereby convulsed 
by-standers with an effort to hide their apprecia- 
tion of her satire, while the Idol was touched by 
such proofs of her love. 

" Now I must go and write a long letter to 
my sweet aunt," said the Angel, who usually 
found excuses for getting away, if condemned to 
much of the unrelieved society of her hostess. 

" Always thoughtful — always P-cu-rity's 
self," returned the Idol. "Rut forget not that 
we go to dine in festive halls." 

" Oh no, I'll be dressed in time. Good-bye, 
sweetest — I shall give you six kisses — I could 
devour you. I wish I was a butterfly to rest on 
your head-dress." 

"Rest in my heart, you Nymphalian blos- 
som," said the Idol with majestic tenderness, 
which was ridiculous in expression but thorough- 
ly sincere; "your place is ever there." 

The Angel flew away to her room along with 
her newly-acquired butterfly, laughing heartily 
at the Idol's absurdity. tShe lay clown on a 
pile of cushions, devoured chocolata and read 

Mademoiselle de , which she had procured 

as she did numerous books that must be read in 
secret, through the instrumentality of Juanita, 
and looked like some fairy princess indulging 
in Oriental indolence. She was an innocent 
little thing, protected by an unseen guardian, 
who wanted her thoughts to resemble white lil- 
ies, and so she read a great many queer books 
to keep them whiter by contrast. 

A fortnight passed ; a very long one it had 
been to Clivc, waking each morning with the 
fear that before the sun set he might sec the 
light die out of Ruth's eyes and know, however 
patiently she should bear, that she had been 
stabbed to the heart by somo cruel hand — see in 
every glance how she suffered more for him 
than herself. 

The Thorntons returned from their impromptu 
trip and the abominable! slander was brought to 
them. They were terribly at a loss how to act, 
as tho best people are in such circumstances; 
because to do any thing the step taken must 
be so unusual they are frightened to go to sea 
without the aid of the old corks and life-pre- 
servers, with the landmarks and buoys kept 
in full sight. Rosa could not help believing 
there was something amiss, but she could not 
think that pretty Ruth was a bad woman — she 
was inclined to lay the brunt of her censure upon 
Clivc. Neither she nor Tom would talk ; they 
would not listen ; but when left to themselves, 
tho Doves looked disconsolately at each other 
and were sorely perplexed. Tom wanted to 
rush off and tell the whole story to Clive, not 
having faith in any portion of the gossip him- 
self; but how to tell a man such things was the 



132 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



difficulty — nobody ever did tell the victims — 
there could be no old landmarks left in sight if 
he put out in that direction — but Rosa settled 
that part of the matter. 

"You shall not stir a step," said she; "a 
pretty thing to tell him. He'd go to shooting 
people right and left and ruin her outright — I 
know what duels do for women." 

"It's an infamous lie, the whole of it, I'll 
swear!'' shouted Tom. "There isn't a man 
believes the stuff. Oh, these carnivorous old 
women — they ought to be gibbeted in rows." 

" So they ought," said Rosa ; but she could 
not be entirely free from the influences which 
education and example force upon her sex. 
" But O, Tom, I don't know what to think — if 
there should be any thing wrong — the marriage 
was very odd." 

" Odd !" repeated Tom in wrath. " Because 
two people are sensible and don't choose to 
make a spectacle of themselves — because they 
consider marriage something too holy to have 
the ceremony performed in the midst of a crowd, 
she with her bosom as bare as if she was ready 
to go to bed instead of the altar — " 

" That'll do," interrupted Rosa. 

" It makes me furious," cried Tom. " I'd like 
to tell them what they are, those tabbies — I'd 
like to tell them the reason men give for their 
being virtuous." 

"Bless me," said Rosa; " do tell." 

"Do you think any fellow would try to tempt 
such a set of vicious, sour — " 

"There, you can stop again," interrupted 
Rosa. "Oh dear, oh dear, I don't know what 
to think." 

"Don't think!" vociferated Tom. "If I 
were a woman I'll be hanged if I'd take a ver- 
dict from my own sex. I tell you that little 
wife of Farnsworth's is sweet and pure and 
good." 

" Oh, you men ! Of course you want to up- 
hold a woman that is pretty, no matter if she is 
a fiend." 

"Sweeping; sounds like Piffit ; and isn't 
true," said Tom. 

"Don't laugh," returned Rosa; "I don't 
know what to do. How can I fly in the face 
of the whole neighborhood ? Besides, she'd be 
snubbed." 

"If you would let me tell Clive." 

" You lunatic !" shrieked Rosa. " He'd kill 
you and himself and every body ; and don't I 
tell you that would ruin her ? Probably, if he 
didn't fight, they'd say he was afraid, and if he 
did they'd say if the stories hadn't been true he 
would have paid no attention." 

"What will you do? You are afraid the 
gossip may be true, or you are afraid of your 
neighbors — " 

" I am not afraid of any body," interrupted 
Rosa, a little sharply, because there was justice 
in Tom's thrust. 

"Then what is it?" 

" People tell the stories as facts," said Rosa. 
" Now I don't wish to be deluded into receiv- 



ing a bad woman if she is Clive Farnsworth's 
wife." 

"Beautiful!" cried Tom. "My dear, you 
had better begin to weed out your acquaintance 
forthwith." 

"Don't be rude and wicked — I am troubled." 

" There arc no facts in the case," said Tom ; 
"it's all slander; there are too many different 
stories. That old hag, Jack Ralston's wife, and 
Mother Piffit have done the mischief." 

" I believe so," replied Rosa ; " and Tom — I 
don't know why — I suspect that cat at the Idol's 
— an Angel, indeed." 

" That girl is a born devil," said Tom. 

" So she is ; but you needn't swear." 

"Thank you; I've no respect for the Devil 
that I should hesitate to take his name in vain. 
That's another sweet humbug — women faint at 
your wickedness if you say hell, but the most 
pious of them will call on the Lord and his 
dwelling-place in any trivial conversation. Don't 
you be a darling little goose." 

" I wish 1 knew what to do," sighed Rosa. 

"Go and see Mrs. Farnsworth and be good 
to her." 

"But suppose — " 

" Hang supposes! My dear, if you can en- 
dure the female Ralstons, and the Angels, and 
the imps generally, poor little Ruth Farnsworth 
isn't going to contaminate you." 

"I am not afraid of being contaminated, 
Tom ; but people have stopped visiting her. 
The women all vow she shall not be forced on 
them." 

" The little dears ! Upon my word, it is 
enough to make a man sick to see how women 
like to pull another woman down." 

"I don't want to pull any body down," re- 
turned Rosa ; " but I'm not an Atlas — I can't 
hold up a mountain. I can't carry Clive Farns- 
worth's wife into society on my shoulders. If 
people won't receive her, they won't." 

"I'd like to bring the matter home to some- 
body," growled Tom. 

"Oh, you never can such things." 

"And when you can't, they are usually lies. 
I wish Elinor Grey would come. I'll be sun- 
burned if she wouldn't do something." 

"O, Tom, Tom! Elinor certainly told me 
she knew her. I had forgotten it — I'll write 
this very day." 

" Write and get her here ; it's time, anyway. 
Up in some unheard-of place near Vermont, 
isn't she?" 

"Yes; I have her address. Heaven knows 
what took her there ; I'll write this minute." 

" In the mean time, let me talk with Clive." 

"If you don't promise to stay at home and 
be quiet, I'll have a hysteric fit like the Angel," 
cried Rosa. 

She was in earnest and Tom had to promise. 

"I don't know," said Rosa, struck by a sud- 
den thought; "Tom, I don't know whether 
Elinor told me she knew the girl — " 

" Call her a creature, oh do," returned he in 
a parenthesis. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



"Don't put mo in a passion. Or did Ruth 
say so ? Now I think of it, the Idol said some- 
thing about her palming herself off as Elinor's 
friend — but there, she said so much that I am 
dizzy." 

"My duck, "counselled Tom, "you write to 
Queen Elinor. If she doesn't know Mrs. Farns- 
worth, the young woman- is a liar, and probably 
the rest is true about her. But let me tell you, 
Rosa, pet, if ' my daughter Elinor ' does know 
her and like her, she will light on these people 
like a hawk on so many June bugs — all of which 
is inelegant but most particular true." 

Rosa decided that the one thing to be done 
was to write to Elinor forthwith ; while awaiting 
an answer at least she would do nothing to help 
the scandal. 

"I'm going to bed with neuralgia, Tom," 
said she, "and I'll lie there till Elinor comes. 
She will help me out." 

" She will pull your hair, I'll bet a ducat. 
Elinor Grey is a trump. But what am I to do ? 
Clive will be expecting us over." 

" Meet him accidentally ; say I'm sick — dead. 
Good heavens ! I don't know what to say or 
do. I wish I was a baby or a rubber doll with 
a big scream in it — how I would deafen you." 

In her distress and bewilderment, Rosa sat 
down and cried so bitterly that Tom had to kiss 
her, and coax her, and make fun of her, and 
pity her, and be a dear old goose generally, till 
she could put the whole business out of her head 
for the time. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE QUESTION SETTLED. 

As the weeks had borne Elinor Grey toward 
summer, she longed more and more to get be- 
yond the confinement of brick walls and to en- 
joy the quiet and freedom of the country. She 
did not wish to goto the Thorntons at present ; 
she had promised Rosa a visit in July, but be- 
fore that she wanted some time wholly to her- 
self, for in July she was to make that decision 
which was of such importance in her life. Aft- 
er Miss Laidley's departure, Rossitur was a 
great deal at the house again, more gentle and 
devoted than ever, but careful to avoid the 
slightest action which could seem to show over- 
confidence on his part or any trace of mascu- 
line vanity like an assurance of success. 

But Elinor wanted to go away, and the de- 
sire grew stronger when June came and the 
period for doubt and hesitation grew so brief. 
She resolved to fulfill her promise to the old 
woman away up among the New England mount- 
ains. She would go and lodge there for a while 
and be left entirely to herself, and see what 
counsels her solitude and the influence of the 
pretty spot would bring forth. 

Mr. Grey thought it well for her to leave the 
Capital without further delay, and as it was 
meet that the annual visit to the old relative 
should be made, he decided to accompany her 



there ; after spending a few penitential days he 
would leave Elinor safe at Eastburn and return 
to his duties, which did not permit a long vaca- 
tion at present. 

Elinor told Rossitur where she was going, and 
he was not sorry. He reflected wisely that the 
quiet and the solitude would be favorable to his 
cause. It was arranged that when she went 
down to Alban Wood, Rossitur should appear 
in the neighborhood for a season. While that 
matter was being settled, he did not startle her 
by any words about the question which would 
have a right to be on his lips when they met — 
he was only her kind, knightly friend, anxious 
for her comfort and happiness. 

Elinor and her father started on their journey, 
and the purgatorial visit to the old relative was 
duly paid. When the necessary days had ex- 
pired, the Secretary betook himself again to 
Washington, stopping in New York long enough 
on the way to have a long interview with the 
Bull, who was rushing and bellowing as usual 
about Wall Street. 

Elinor took the train to pursue her morning's 
journey, having duly apprised Mrs. Olds of her 
arrival. She had dispensed with the services 
of Coralie, feeling that the elegant damsel 
would be out of place in the good woman's 
modest dwelling, and productive not only of 
ennui to herself but absolute grief to Aunty 
Olds, and a daily provocation to her mistress. 
She would not permit her father to be bored by 
accompanying her, assuring him that she was 
quite capable of making the journey alone, but 
he would not hear of that; so she resigned herself 
to Hungarian Henry's guidance as a compro- 
mise, and sent him back at the first stopping- 
place where they encountered a return train. 

The past year had worked a change in the 
little village she was seeking, and Eastburn in 
name had vanished from the face of the earth. 
Some enterprising man had started manufacto- 
ries of some sort in the neighborhood, and a 
new village was growing up which, as well as 
the old hamlet, must needs bear the euphoni- 
ous appellation of Plympton Mills, in order that 
the cognomen of the enterprising man might re- 
ceive its due meed of celebrity. A branch rail- 
way had been established, and Elinor was 
whirled off among the hills and in due course 
arrived at the busy station, disgusting in its 
newness, with the great factories stretching along 
the pretty river, and every thing so changed that 
she almost feared she had made some mistake in 
spite of Mrs. Olds's warning letter, written in 
intricate sentences and with many capitals. 
But once beyond the atmosphere of the factory 
and walking up the well-remembered path into 
the little village, she found every thing the same, 
and the sudden quiet, the sight of the old brown 
houses embowered in forest-trees, gave her a 
feeling of repose and content. 

Mrs. Olds was expecting her; she and her 
dwelling were prepared and in holiday attire to 
greet the guest. A happy woman was Aunty 
Olds as she shook Elinor's hand and chattered 



134 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



like an ancient blackbird, trying vainly to ex- 
press her delight. 

"I told you last summer I should come," said 
Elinor. 

"And you always keep you word; you al- 
ways did as a child," replied Aunty Olds. " I 
am so glad to see you. But, deary me, who 
knows if I can make you comfortable — a great 
lady like you, with your par at the top of the 
tree ! But I'll do my bestest. Sampson couldn't 
do no more you know, Miss Elinor." 

"Just don't bother about me," replied Miss 
Grey, " and I shall be as happy as the day is 
long. I am tired to death, Aunty Olds, and I 
want to rest and run wild in the woods." 

" Bless your heart, so you shall. Seems to 
me you look a little pale, and — not but what 
you're as harnsome as ever." 

" Oh, you wicked Aunty Olds, to flatter 
me." 

" Oh, law, I ain't one to flatter, and you 
must ha' got used to bein' told you're harn- 
some, Miss Elinor — I sort of take to that name, 
you know, but I'll say Miss Grey if you'd 
ruther." 

" But I wouldn't. How pretty the old house 
looks. What lovely flowers you have out there ; 
and oh, you naughty old woman, I believe you 
have scoured every nook and corner ten times 
over." 

The door into the great kitchen was open — a 
delightful, old-fashioned kitchen, with the yel- 
low-pine floor shining like amber and the tins 
like looking-glasses, and a general appearance 
of immacul.ite cleanliness, and, better still, a 
look suggestive of delicious country dinners. 

Aunty Olds followed Elinor as she went to 
look about, and she shook her head with a vain 
effort at humility. "'Tain't nothing to brag 
of," said she; "I try not to be at sixes and 
sevens, but that's about all." 

Elinor's praise delighted her, and she smiled 
till her face shone like one of her tin pans as 
she repeated — 

" ' Tain't nothing to brag of. But, deary me, 
let me show you your room, Miss Elinor, and 
you shall get your burnit off and I'll have one of 
the men go down after your trunks." 

Elinor assured her that she had attended to 
the luggage, and at that moment it appeared 
on a wheelbarrow, not of sufficient magnitude 
to frighten Aunty, for Elinor had sent her arks, 
which every woman nowadays must possess, 
straight on to Alban Wood. 

She went into the little sitting-room and sat 
down to rest while the boxes were carried up 
stairs, and after that Aunty Olds showed her 
the upper room prepared for her reception — the 
tidiest, homeliest old room, which charmed the 
eyes tired of splendor and luxury. A great 
square chamber, lighted by square windows, 
curtained on the outside with woodbine and 
fragrant honeysuckle and morning-glories in 
pretty confusion, and their white draperies with- 
in. A home-made carpet woven in green and 
white stripes covered the floor ; there was a 



lounge with soft feather pillows, and willow rock- 
ing-chairs, and shelves for her books, and a white 
toilet-tablo. When you stood in the middle of 
the chamber you perceived that it was no long- 
er square, but had an eccentric jog large enough 
to have made another room, and in that recess 
stood an old-fashioned bed, with high posts 
twjsted and carved sticking up in the air, which 
looked to one lying in it as if they were aston- 
ished arms that the bed was holding up. 

Elinor was pleased, and admired every thing 
from the carpet to the china bowls of June roses, 
which filled the chamber with their fragrance 
and delighted Aunty Olds's heart. 

" So here you be, Miss Elinor, "said she, "and 
glad I am to see you, if only you can put up 
with my doin's, and I won't bother you any 
more than I can help ; and I've got the neatest 
little gal to wait on ye too." 

She was as good as her word, and Elinor set- 
tled down in the quiet which was unusually 
welcome to her. The blessed woman feasted 
her upon viands so delicate and well prepared 
that they might have restored the palled appetite 
of an epicure. She slaughtered spring chickens 
without mercy ; she made the most marvellous 
pies and boiled puddings ; cream and maple 
sugar flowed as freely as if the old house had 
been an improved Canaan, and Mrs. Olds's one 
trouble was that Elinor did not devour from 
morning to night, and Elinor herself had a fear 
that she should be killed from over-abundance. • 

The weather was charming, the roads in good 
order, and Elinor procured a saddle-horse from 
some worthy who trained animals for the New 
York market, and galloped about among the hills 
or wandered in the woods, hunted wild flowers, 
rowed up and down the little river in a light 
skiff, and drank great draughts of sunshine and 
strength with every new day. The entire free- 
dom and seclusion were delightful to her ; no- 
body to trouble her with calls or attempts at ac- 
quaintance ; nothing to do but walk and ride 
and grow strong in body and mind. 

Aunty Olds, keen-sighted New England wom- 
an that she was, knew very well that Elinor had 
many grave thoughts to occupy her, and she nev- 
er wearied her with talk or intrusiveness. She 
was very happy if Elinor came into the kitchen 
or sat on the porch at the back of the house 
while she churned or picked over strawberries 
or found some work for her busy old fingers, but 
she was never troublesome. Of course she had 
to talk about Ruth Sothern as she called her 
still, and she wept tears of pleasure as she related 
the incidents of the marriage in the brown cot- 
tage. 

" Oh, my dear, I was very glad. He looked 
so good, so patient ; he never could have been 
bad — never. And she was like a bird — I can't 
tell you how she looked. And they went off, 
and it was so sudden the people here knew noth- 
ing about it, for the minister he held his tongue 
and I jest made it my business to make a lot of 
visits — I never do visit much, but I says to my- 
self this is the time — and everywhere I went 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



135 



I would manage Ruth's name should be spoken, 
and then I said kevless like— 'La, didn't you 
know she was married to that man ?' I didn't 
tell no fibs, not approachin' even, but they jest 
chose to think she'd been married all the while, 
and it was not my business to say she hadn't." 

She told that story many times, and always in 
one long sentence without pause or stopping to 
take breath, although in general she was not a 
rapid talker ; but that matter was too wonderful 
and a source of too much satisfaction to be treat- 
ed like ordinary affairs. 

Elinor listened and was glad, and oh, so soft- 
ened and thankful to know that she could be glad. 
The days went by without incident, without the 
slightest interruption to the quiet, and though 
they passed rapidly, it seemed to her, as she look- 
ed back, that she had been months there in the 
stillness. 

June was carrying her soft breezes, her pur- 
ple skies, her gorgeous moonlights into the full 
glory of summer, and Elinor remembered that 
her season of quiet was almost at an end. She 
was not frightened now when she looked for- 
ward, and she resolutely regarded the matter. 
She had promised herself that before she left 
Eastburn her decision should be made, so that 
when Leighton Rossitur came to her for an an- 
swer there should be no hesitation and no tri- 
fling. 

There was a little interval just here between 
his letters, and Elinor found herself missing 
them sorely — found herself wondering if he were 
ill, and perplexing herself about the delay. She 
■was not sorry to be anxious, she did not try to 
hide the feeling from her mind ; she believed 
that it was a sign her heart was softening more 
and more toward this man who had shown her 
every good impulse of his nature. At last the 
expected letter came — a long, long letter. He 
told her frankly that he had not written for sev- 
eral days because the love had been uppermost 
in his heart, and each time he began to write he 
could only give it utterance. Those unfinished 
letters lay in his desk — perhaps some day she 
would read them — but he dared not dwell upon 
that hope. He could write to her now — his last 
letter — because the period for her departure to 
Alban Wood was so near that no later epistle 
could reach her in her solitude, and at Alban 
Wood they should meet. Yes, he could write — 
he, her friend — and he begged her for the last 
time not to have any fears about making her 
lover happy. If she could trust herself to him, 
could be content in his affection, it was enough 
— bliss to the man whose after life would have 
no ray of sunlight if she left him. And in the 
midst of the sweet words of friendship a brief, 
passionate burst of love which would not be re- 
strained — left unfinished, and without comment 
or apology — and the letter continued. 

Elinor Grey received that letter as she was 
leaving the house for a morning's ramble. She 
laid it in the tiny luncheon basket Aunty Olds 
had provided and set out. She took a path that 
led through the fields back of the house and 



struck into the wood which crowned a height 
overlooking the river. It was Elinor's favorite , 
haunt, and she sought it that morning intending 
to read her letter there, and to remain while she 
reflected upon it, knowing that when she return- 
ed, her decision in one way or the other would 
be formed. She walked slowly among the leaf- 
strewn paths ; the trees murmured musically 
overhead, the thrushes sang their gladdest songs, 
and the whole grove was vocal with the melodi- 
ous notes of orioles, bobolinks, cat-birds, wrens, 
and the hosts of songsters which are formidable 
rivals to those of other" lands, in spite of the oft- 
repeated assertion that America can not produce 
such. The sunlight stole thrbugh the branches 
of the tall beech-trees and tinted the fern moss, 
lighted the white-birches into pearly purity, made 
the sycamores lift their quivering leaves to its 
rays and turned the pine tops into golden spires, 
for the wood was a collection of various species 
of trees, as the second-growth forests of our 
country usually are. 

Elinor came out on the summit of the hill — 
a smooth, grassy level, with great moss-covered 
rocks forming commodious seats, and a knot of 
pine-trees in the centre, standing up like senti- 
nels to guard the spot. In front the cliffs sta- 
tioned their precipitous rampart close from the 
water's edge, garlanded with vines and ferns, 
and a mountain brook dashed down them, laugh- 
ing and singing to the stream below. She seat- 
ed herself under the pine boughs and looked 
miles and miles over the beautiful landscape 
spread beneath ; lofty peaks rising here and 
there; miniature lakes peeping out between 
them ; the river appearing and disappearing 
among green fields until it was a silver streak 
in the distance ; the magic haze of summer 
beginning to soften every rugged feature into 
new loveliness, and overhead the clear, warm 
blue of the sky with fleecy white clouds sailing 
slowly about the horizon. 

Elinor drank in the full beauty of the scene, 
and at length, with every feeling elevated and 
quickened, she opened Leighton Rossitur's letter 
and read it. She read it very slowly, and sat 
holding it in her hand, gazing still across the 
landscape, but seeing its loveliness no longer. 
She read the letter a second time, dwelt upon 
.every sentence, noted every word, folded it up, 
and remained looking out into the instance. 

Repose became irksome in her earnest thought ; 
she rose and walked up and down the grassy 
level, thinking, thinking, but observing every tri- 
fle about her, as we so often do in moments of seri- 
ous reflection, in spite of the seeming paradox. 
She counted the white violets peeping from among 
the moss, in an unconscious way ; saw a spider 
spinning a fanciful web in ajuniper bush — a pe- 
culiar spider that had*a long, slender body dot- 
ted with silver specks, weaving a web which look- 
ed like a ladder of lace, and as earnest in his task 
as if it was to be admired by the whole world. 
She noticed a robin's nest in a hollow sycamore, 
and watched the busy owners feeding their sec- 
ond brood, which had just hatched and was 



13G 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



clamorous for nourishment. The pair looked 
at Elinor with their beautiful black heads on 
one side and their eyes full of wisdom, and 
talked a great deal about her, and at length 
half made up their minds to be friends, and hop- 
ped to and fro on the grass, devouring the 
crumbs which she threw to them. Finally the 
father of the family flung up his head and 
swelled out his red bosom and opened his gold- 
en bill, and sang a delicious aria ; in the midst 
of it a steel-colored cat-bird alighted on a sap- 
ling near and began to mimic him and to imi- 
tate every other bird which had sung in his 
neighborhood that summer, and made a whole 
opera of himself to the robin's disgust. 

Elinor walked up and down and remarked 
each trifle, and nothing so slight connected with 
that scene and that morning that it could ever 
fade from her mind. Many and many a time 
in after years she- would close her eyes and re- 
call that spot and see the white violets as plainly 
as she saw them then, and hear the songs of the 
birds and the solemn whispers of the pine-trees, 
which seemed quite conscious of her thoughts. 
See, hear and remember to her life's end. Eli- 
nor Grey had made her decision. 

She remained in that lonely spot and watch- 
ed the noontide hush which steals into a sum- 
mer day, as if all nature were dozing in the 
warmth. The robins slept, opening round eyes 
and uttering querulous murmurs at every stir in 
the branches ; the cat-bird flew off into a thick- 
et with a parting shriek of triumph, so unlike 
his previous melodious carols that it sounded 
as if some bird-demon had unexpectedly taken 
possession of him ; even the spider ceased his 
work for a time ; the breeze died away — every 
thing was still except the subdued laugh of the 
brook as it bounded over the rocks. She stayed 
and watched the calmness of the late afternoon 
deepen into the glories of sunset. A great lake 
of molten gold suddenly spread out in the west, 
broke into billows of crimson and white and 
purple, and streamed away into the blue of the 
upper sky, until the eyes ached and the senses 
grew tired from the very excess of gorgeous 
beauty. She waited and saw the first pearly 
tints soften the glowing waves, and then turn- 
ed into the wood paths which began to look dark 
and mysterious already. 

Elinor Grfcr had made her decision and there 
was no faltering in her mind. She would mar- 
ry Leighton Rossitur. She did not love him, but 
he was more to her than any man in the world 
now ; his love for her was so great that it would 
be cruel to close her heart; his generosity so 
noble that he was willing to be content with 
such feeling as she had to give, and it might be 
that time and his companionship and devotion 
would do the rest. She%id not deny to herself 
that she had once thought it would be danger- 
ous for he* to marry with no stronger regard, 
but every thing seemed very different now. 
With all her pride and self-reliance she needed 
and craved love — surely never again would any 
man love her as Leighton Rossitur did— and, 



! more than she knew, she was moved by the fear 
of giving him pain and the dread of not having 
been honest and generous. The compact had 
been that she was to consider herself entirely 
free, but now at the close she could not do so ; 
she could not bear the idea of his suffering or 
the torture of self-reproach lest she might have 
trifled and been acting wickedly all through. 
She thought more of his friendship than of any 
thing else — she could not dwell upon his love — 
she believed that he would continue her friend, 
patient, unwearying, and would help her more 
and more. 

She had made her decision, and there was a 
great stillness in her mind ; the contrast to these 
months of restless thought made her try to be- 
lieve that it was the new content in having 
yielded to his supplications. A great stillness ; 
but in the very midst of saying to herself that it 
was content, she surprised her composure by 
bursting into tears, and sitting down in the 
gloom of the wood she wept, not in the old, tem- 
pestuous fashion, but very sadly. She could not 
explain her feelings to herself; she was not un- 
happy — her mind was more composed than it 
had been for weeks — she was not thinking of 
Clive Farnsworth ; she came out and faced her 
soul boldly and asked that question— but no, 
there was not an emotion which would cause 
her a pang. Yet she wept ; quiet, silent tears, 
with a strange ache at her heart as if she had 
buried something beautiful and beloved under 
the shelter of the pine-trees, and was going away 
from the grave, never to return. She did not 
despise herself as being weak ; she sat there and 
cried till the tears ceased of themselves, then 
she rose up softly and went down through the 
shadows, still with that inexplicable feeling as 
if she were going further and further from the 
grave under the whispering pines, where she 
had buried something inexpressibly precious, 
that was to be lost and forgotten forever. 

Aunty Olds was standing in the front door 
as Elinor entered the yard, and she cried out — 
"Land's sake ; ef I hadn't begun to think you'd 
had a happening of some sort. I was gettin' 
real oneasy." 

"I am here safe," said Elinor, smiling pleas- 
antly at her ; but Aunty saw the signs of recent 
tears in her eyes, and her kind old heart was 
troubled to know what sorrow could come near 
Miss Grey in her grandeur. 

But with rare delicacy not a word did she 
utter, only was more anxious than usual to see 
Elinor eat, and quite in despair that she could 
not be persuaded to go beyond milk and bread. 
" Any how you shall have it with lots o' cream," 
said she. "Massy sakes ! 'twon't do to live 
like a sparrow." 

Elinor talked cheerfully to her, and the good 
soul was greatly relieved to hear her laugh. 

" Law sakes !" cried she suddenly. "I for- 
got your letter — my memory is gittin' so treach- 
erous. I'd forget my head if it wasn't fast to 
my shoulders, I guess." 

" I had my letter this morning." 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



137 



" Yes, I know ; but the postmaster he sent 
up another arter you'd gone out — said it got 
mislaid, and he's a feather-pate anyhow. I laid 
it away so it would be safe. Now let me see, 
where did I put it ? Oh forlorn, what a goose 
I be." 

She stood bewildered, pushing her cap this 
way and that as if she thought it might be hid- 
den in the crown. " Did I lay it in your room ? 
No, 'cause I remember I was too busy to go up." 
She began to search in every unlikely place 
for a letter to be put ; in books, under the pillows 
of the settee, in the corner cupboard, and ex- 
claimed and vituperated herself, and Elinor 
laughed at her trouble, being certain the letter 
could be of no great importance, as she had re- 
ceived one from her father on the preceding 
day. " I said to myself I'd lay it away safe," 
continued Aunty Olds, " and the dear knows I 
have." 

" The man is bringing in the milk," said Eli- 
nor, who sat where she could look into the kitch- 
en ; "go away, vou blessed old blunderer, and 
I'll find the letter." 

"I declare, I wonder you ain't real mad,'' 
cried Aunty. " Mebby it's dropped behind the 
table." 

Down she went on her knees, regardless of 
the creaking joints which did not approve of such 
treatment, but all she got for her pains was a 
bump on the head as she incautiously raised it. 
The knock seemed to quicken some organ into 
activity, for she exclaimed suddenly, "Law 
me, I knew all the while ; why couldn't I say 
so ? I put it on the top shelf in the pantry right 
in a big chany bowl — dear suz !" 

She flew off as nimbly as if she had been six- 
teen instead of nearly sixty and brought the let- 
ter, which Elinor at a. glance recognized as one 
of Rosa Thornton's rare epistles, for Rosa hated 
letter-writing. Mrs. Olds went away to attend 
to her milk pans and Elinor sat down in the 
door to have full advantage of the waning light. 

It was a more hurried and incoherent letter 
than usual, ordering Elinor to come on at once 
and leaving her in doubt whether some dreadful 
thing had happened. But there was a postscript 
and it said — 

"Tom declares I haven't told you what was 
the matter, and no wonder, for I have cried 
till I am sick. We have been away for a fort- 
night on a visit to his old dragon of an aunt, 
who would have come to us if we had not — but 
no matter, I can abuse her when you get here. 

"My darling Queen Elinor, the whole neigh- 
borhood is in a blaze about Clive Farnsworth's 
wife, and I want you to come. Did you know 
her? Oh, hurry, and tell me what to do — get a 
balloon — come by telegraph — I vow to goodness, 
I shall go mad if you delay. 

" I do believe that little cat Laidley is at the 
bottom of it. I have not the slightest reason 
for thinking so, but I do— it's borne in on me, 
as the ism people say, and when I'm most un- 
reasonable I am generally nearest the truth. 
"Come quick, before Clive hears the talk 



and murders every body — he may murder the An- 
gel, though, if he wishes — she's a nastier cat than 
ever. Do come ! I am holding Tom fast to keep 
him from telling Clive — he's just like a mad 
turkey — oh, do hurry — Tom says you can settle 
matters." 

Confused as the letter was, Elinor compre- 
hended that danger menaced the poor child that 
she loved. What was expected of her she did 
not know, but apparently she could render some 
assistance. She did not need time to think ; 
she did not hesitate about making the journey 
alone or allow any other absurd scruple to inter- 
fere. 

" Aunty Olds," she called, "what hour does 
the first train leave in the morning ?" 

" Four o'clock," shouted Aunty from the re- 
cesses of the pantry; "its a Repress, or what- 
ever they call the thing — stops to water, at the 
station." 

Elinor went into the kitchen and met the old 
dame coming from the pantry. " I must go 
away by it," said she abruptly. 

Aunty dropped two milk pails, which were 
fortunately empty, and sat down in the nearest 
chair. 

" Nothin' the matter ? Law, tell me quick !" 

" No, no ; but I must go a few days earlier 
to my friends than I expected. Don't be sorry, 
that's a dear soul — I am going on business — to do 
a little good if I can." 

" Then I hain't a word to say," replied Aunty, 
and picked up her pails. ' It's like losing my 
eyes to lose you, Miss Elinor ; but law, you know 
what's best, and you've ben good to the old 
woman." 

Elinor consoled her, promised future visits and 
hurried away to get her properties in readiness. 
Mrs. Olds did not cry over her, nor make loud 
lamentations, because she was a sensible New 
England woman, but Elinor knew how grieved 
the lonely soul was to lose her. She left any 
quantity of keepsakes and a golden reward that 
would please Auntj^'s New England heart when 
she had time to think about it, and wonder 
whether she ought to take so much more than 
her wildest fancy could have supposed would be 
offered. 

Elinor started on her journey and discovered 
that she could reach her destination sometime 
that evening or in the night. At a junction, 
she had leisure to telegraph to Tom to meet her, 
and, so pursued her travels without fear or an- 
noyance, as any woman may in this happy land, 
where the best places everywhere are given up 
to them and every attention shown, which truth 
compels me to admit they usually receive with 
a most annoying amount of indifference, and an 
air of "you-couldn't-do-less" — which makes one 
long to read them a little lecture. 

The dispatch reached Alban Wood in due 
course, and for the rest of the day Rosa and 
Tom were in a state of feverish excitement. 
They had the horses out in the middle of the 
afternoon, although they knew it was simply im- 
possible she should arrive by any such hour. 



138 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



From then till midnight they amused them- 
selves by driving to the station to meet about 
six trains, and the last one brought her, and 
they carried her home in triumph. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

TO THE RESCUE. 

The next morning they were up to an early 
breakfast — even lazy Tom, who had forbidden 
explanations or talk on the previous night be- 
cause Elinor was tired and Rosa ready to be 
hysterical between delight and the worry of the 
past days. The first thing was to tell the story 
or the stories, for there were three entirely dif- 
ferent, of which each had eager supporters ; aivd 
some people believed the whole number in their 
anxiety to be right, regardless that one tale 
flatly contradicted another. 

Elinor could safely and truly say, "There 
is not a word of truth in these reports. Ruth 
Sothern was my friend — I know every thing 
about her. She is as lovely and good a creat- 
ure as ever breathed, and the man or woman 
who declines to visit her can't visit Elinor 
Grey." She opened quietly, and was in one of 
her grand rages before she had half finished. 

' ' Bravo !" cried Tom. ' ' What did I tell you, 
my duck?" 

"Rosa Thornton!" exclaimed Elinor, and 
her great eyes began to flash and her face to 
grow pale, as it used when she was a young girl 
and some one had roused her to passion by an 
act of injustice. " Rosa Thornton ! You dare 
not tell me you have believed — " 

"Oh don't. I haven't said a word. Ask 
Tom. I went to bed to wait till you came. 
Now don't, Elinor — I don't mind other people 
— but don't look at me so. Tom, tell her I 
haven't done any thing, or she'll fly out of the 
house and never speak to us again." 

" No, no, Nelly," said Tom ; "she has only 
been in doubt and afraid of Mrs. Grundy." 

"I could not suspect her," replied Elinor. 
"But oh, Tom, this shall be stopped — I say it 
shall!" 

" Then it will," returned Tom ; " I told Rosa 
you would do it. Just women's talk, and all it 
needs is for a woman of influence to come out 
and turn the tide." 

They told her every thing, and Elinor sus- 
pected, with Rosa, that the Angel had a large 
share in the mischief, though she admitted that 
the idea was very ungenerous. 

"The Idol will say what you say," continued 
Tom, " and believe what you tell her, and we'll 
get a lot of the best people in the land here and 
make much of Ruth Farnsworth, and drag her 
chariot wheels over the gossips' heads." 

"I am so glad it is not true," cried Rosa. 

" She never was South till she went as Mrs. 
Farnsworth," said Elinor; "I know her whole 
history from her childhood ; there is not one 
word of truth in the whole matter." 



"You see I wanted to go to Clive," Tom be- 
gan, but Elinor nipped him as Rosa had done. 

"You see you had better mind your own 
business," said she, " and Mr. Farnsworth had 
better mind his. Ruth must never know there 
was any slander; he mustn't know it; and in a 
month people will forget they ever believed or 
heard it." 

" And Elinor," cried Rosa, " it's all very well 
to be Christian and forgiving, but if we can catcli 
that little serpent of a Laidley, we will so sit 
upon her and so mash her flounces and so show 
her up for what she is, that she'll be glad to go 
off to Jamaica and live among her fellow-ser- 
pents." 

And although Elinor would not assent, she 
could not say No to the proposal, for she feared 
that if she did find the young snake's trail at 
the bottom of the stories, she should be as ready 
to sit upon her as Rosa herself. 

" I saw her out driving with Mr. Rossitur 
yesterday," said Tom. 

" Oh yes, he's here," observed Rosa ; " I for- 
got to tell you — came three days ago. Was it 
because you were coming, you wicked thing ?" 

Elinor would not confess or be confused, al- 
though she was touched by this eagerness on 
his part. She suddenly remembered that the 
next day but one would exactly end the season 
of probation. 

"What is the order of the day?" inquired 
Tom, not caring about Leighton Rossitur, or 
rather doing the contrary, for he did not fancy 
the man, in spite of his agreeable manners. 
" What are you womenkind to do in the way of 
mischief this morning ?" 

"lam going to beg the carriage," said Elinor ; 
" I want to call on my friend Mrs. Farnsworth." 

"I'll drive you over," returned Rosa. " But 
I won't go in, for you will have oceans of things 
to talk about, not having seen her since her 
marriage. I will call on Mrs. Hamlyn and two 
or three women and tell them where you are ; a 
good beginning, is it not? " 

" My Rose will be your lieutenant, General," 
laughed Tom. 

"Then I'll go back for you and— What 
shall we do next, Elinor?" 

" You shall drive me to the Castle." 

" It is spoken !" exclaimed Rosa, tragically. 

"To hear is to obey," added Tom. 

" Mind you remember that always when I 
speak," said Rosa. 

" Yes ; but I didn't exactly mean that ; you 
were to hear and obey." 

"That will do, monster! You never know 
what you mean — you never mean any thing — " 

"And men are always mean — ugh!" sniffed 
Tom, a la Piffit, whereat they all laughed, it be- 
ing a habit of theirs to have a great deal of non- 
sense and fun when they were together, and to 
do and say things which would have shocked 
staid, proper people and sorely puzzled those 
who were not quick to understand badinage — 
and I use a French word because I don't know of 
an English one that answers as well — do you ? 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



139 



As soon as a respectable hour arrived for 
morning calls in the country, the gray ponies 
were brought round attached to the loveliest 
new basket carriage, and Elinor delighted Rosa 
with her praises and declared that the little 
loves were prettier and their tails longer than 
ever. Rosa loved and petted her ponies as she 
had done her kittens when a child, and indeed 
the pretty creatures were not much larger than 
the childish pets had been. Tom watched them 
off, and then made preparations to go to the 
trout-brook, which was being so diligently fished 
that it seemed probable this season would exter- 
minate the race of speckled beauties in those 
particular waters. 

Mrs. Thornton drove up the avenue and 
brought her ponies round the front of Farns- 
worth's house with a grand flourish and sweep ; 
and Elinor had no time to think, which was as 
well, considering whom she was to meet for the 
first time since these changes of the past twelve 
months. The tiny tiger sprang down with an 
alertness that might have excited the envy of 
his jungle namesake, and made the house echo 
with his thumps on the knocker, which he could 
only reach on tiptoe, nearly upsetting himself 
with every blow, to Rosa's infinite amusement. 
The servant who appeared in answer to the 
summons, though a large man, was quite appall- 
ed by the little tiger's ferocity, and replied 
meekly, in response to the cards thrust in his 
hands, that his mistress was at home, and solaced 
himself with a grin at the tiger's numerous but- 
tons, for buttons were the tiger's one weakness ; 
whereat the tiger trod on his left foot and caused 
him to execute an involuntary pirouette and 
twist his insolent British flunkey's face into a 
spasm of silent agony. Satisfied that he had done 
his duty thoroughly, the small tiger went back 
to the ladies and announced that Mrs. Farns- 
worth was to be seen, and stood hat in hand 
while Elinor emerged from the basket, and 
really believed himself of the utmost assistance 
as well as ornamental. 

Elinor ascended the steps, and the tame tiger 
attended her obsequiously and made a private 
grimace at the footman ; with two bounds was 
in his seat again, and Rosa lashed the ponies as 
women will at the most uncalled-for moments, 
and the little equipage dashed off like the char- 
iot of Venus — Cupid sitting behind, however. 

Elinor was not kept waiting long enough in 
the reception-room to have time to wonder if 
she should see the master of the house. A 
light step was heard — a glad voice — and Ruth 
was in the room, and Ruth's two arms were 
about her neck, and she was crying, "Miss 
Grey, my Miss Grey ! I am so glad, so glad !" 
There was a little interlude of embracing and 
half-finished sentences, according to female hab- 
it, after which they stood apart and Elinor said, 
" You are prettier than ever, Ruth." 

And Ruth, half weeping, half laughing, replied, 
' ' And you are beautiful as you always were — like 
a white angel to me — I told you that long ago." 
She took her visitor away to her special nook — a 



tiny room off the library fitted up by Farnsworth 
expressly for her — a little wilderness of beau- 
tiful ornaments and Indian furniture and flow- 
ers and birds, only an orderly wilderness, as any 
spot where Ruth reigned must always be. She 
seated Elinor in the softest of low chairs, and said 
how glad she was, and broke off to add — " Clive 
is out ; he will be too sorry. Oh, when did 
you come ?" 

"In the middle of the night. My first visit 
is to you," replied Elinor, unconsciously becom- 
ing much more at her ease since Ruth's last 
announcement. 

"It was very good of you to think of me at 
once, Miss Grey." 

" If you don't call me Elinor I will go away. 
Remember, everywhere and always, I am Elinor 
to you." 

Ruth could have no idea of her visitor's mean- 
ing ; she only thought it was another exhibition 
of Miss Grey's sweetness and friendliness ; but 
there was more than that in the request : Eli- 
nor wished in every way to impress upon people 
that she and Mrs. Farnsworth were on the most 
intimate terms. 

"Now sit down, you little bird," said she, 
" and tell me that you are as happy as the day 
is bright." 

" So happy — I couldn't make you believe — 
there are no words. Oh, Elinor, my husband 
is perfect, my home is fairy-land ; I am only 
afraid of dying of my happiness." 

There was an instant's paiig at Elinor's heart, 
but it was no sentiment for which she need blush ; 
she only had an impulse of vague envy at this 
girl's bliss. Straightway she called up Leigh- 
ton Rossitur's image and remembered that she 
too might be loved and petted and be the fairy 
princess of a knight noble as Sir Galahad. 

" That was what I wanted to hear — I am 
satisfied now," said Elinor. 

Ruth told her how each day passed ; showed 
her home ; told of her studies, her amusements ; 
and the constant recurrence of Clive's name, 
his connection with the slightest detail or pleas- 
ure, proved how completely he had fulfilled his 
vow. 

"For a few weeks, past," said Ruth, "we 
have been very quiet. Clive said the Thorn- 
tons were away and we would rest. Every 
body has been so kind — dear Elinor, I have not 
been a bit afraid of people." 

Clive had heard or felt the hideous reports 
which were abroad — Elinor knew that at once. 
" But Mrs. Thornton is the most delightful 
of any body after you," said Ruth. " She has 
been at home so little that I have not seen her 
much, but I like her." 

" She will come for me by and by," said El- 
inor ; " she is delighted with you." 

" I shall grow terribly vain," laughed Ruth. 
" Clive spoils me completely, and every body 
seems determined to help. I am so happy, oh so 
happy ! I want to say it to you over and over — 
the Heavenly Father has been so good to me, 
Elinor." There was no allusion to the past, no 



140 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



oppressive thought of it in Ruth's mind even at 
this meeting. Many women, knowing the 
whole story, though ready to pity and love Ruth, 
would have interpreted this as a sign of hard- 
ness or recklessness, but Elinor Grey perfectly 
understood that her husband's care was so en- 
tire and her trust in God so perfect that there 
was no space for remembrance, as there was no 
stain on her soul to be obliterated, no thought 
to be deplored. Elinor said to herself that the 
most overwhelming answer to the slanderers 
would be to show them Ruth as she looked at 
that moment sitting in her loveliness among 
her household gods ; no human being, however 
willfully perverse or blind, could believe evil of 
her after that. 

" I want to tell you every thing in a breath, 
and I finish nothing," laughed Ruth, after she 
had been pouring out her eager revelations. 

" I see you are happy," replied Elinor, " and 
we are too near each other in heart not to under- 
stand every word and look." 

" I have longed to see you. I asked Miss 
Laidley about you — oh, the poor thing, she lost 
herself in our wood, and Clive laughed — he was 
quite wicked — but we took her home and did 
every thing we could." Good grounds, Elinor 
thought, for the Angel to hate both husband 
and wife. " She is a pretty little thing," con- 
tinued Ruth ; "just like a child. We haven't 
seen much of her or Mrs. Ilackctt, but we shall 
now ; we can not stay shut up any longer, I 
suppose." 

" No," said Elinor ; " make up your minds to 
that. Mrs. Thornton is to invite a set of my 
friends to visit her for a week or two, and I shall 
have you crowned queen of the summer ; so be 
prepared." 

"If they don't frighten me," said Ruth. 
"But indeed I am afraid I must be a bold 
thing, when I thought I was shy. You see while 
I talk, or people talk to me, I look at Clive, 
and he looks back as if I was perfection and 
talking pearls and diamonds like the girl in the 
fairy story ; and I know if he is satisfied I can't 
be very silly, though all the while I know it's 
his love and goodness that makes him feel and 
look so." 

" Only every body that meets you shares 
the feeling," said Elinor; "so be ready to be 
petted and loved on all sides." 

"But I can't be stately and grand like you." 

" But you can be a lovely little May-queen ; 
and I am only an icicle, people say." 

"It is not true," cried Ruth indignantly; 
"you are the best, the dearest, thetenderest — " 

"Stop and get your breath," interrupted 
Elinor; "you need not flatter me, May-queen ; 
I am proud and conceited enough." 

Ruth denied that too, and grew prettier than 
ever in her mirthful vehemence. She looked 
the fit mistress of that charming haunt ; the 
morning sun stole in, brightening the tiny gems 
of pictures, making the flowers give out new 
fragrance, and rousing a cardinal-bird whose 
cage set in the open window into a burst of 



such passionate song that Ruth and Elinor 
could only be silent and listen. 

"lie sings all night," said Ruth, -when he 
ceased for an instant, drawing a deep breath in 
her sensitiveness to every thing beautiful. 
" Clive says his song is more like that of a 
nightingale than that of any other bird." 

"So it is; it has the same human ring at 
times," replied Elinor. "And what a beauty; 
what vivid, flame-like scarlet, with that bit of 
black on his head — the beauty." 

"We brought him from Florida with us," 
said Ruth. " Oh, Elinor, what a visit that was 
— those first weeks ! Only I am happier now be- 
cause I am not so bewildered and dizzy — oh, I 
can't explain." 

"But I can understand." 

"I thought then I could be no happier," con- 
tinued Ruth, in a voice which grew almost 
solemn with tenderness ; " but every day in- 
creases it. I go further and further into Eden, 
and every new path is more*beautiful — every 
new pleasure brighter." She paused, fearful 
that she had appeared foolish or romantic. "I 
forget, you see ; I talk to you as I do to Clive," 
she added, after an instant's hesitation. 

"You always must," replied Elinor, " as you 
do to Clive." She repeated the name involun- 
tarily — as it passed her lips she remembered — 
but straightway came the thought that with this 
pure creature for a bond between them she had 
no fear to call him thus, and that checked any 
tremor or pain. 

Ruth wanted her to go and see the flower-gar- 
den, and while they were wandering about she 
recklessly plundered the choicest rose-bushes 
for Elinor's benefit. " You must take them 
away to remember where you have been," said 
she, "and to remind you that you must come 
again before they wither." 

" I don't need them for that. Ruth, this 
white rose with a blush in it is like you." 

" That was what Clive said. I shall tell him 
— he will be so pleased. But look at these pan- 
sies ; I do think the common flowers arc the 
prettiest after all. — Oh, there comes a car- 
riage." 

It was Rose's equipage coming round the 
sweep with the importance of a triumphal pro- 
cession. They went to meet her. She alighted 
for a little and they all sat on the veranda 
and talked gayly, and Rosa rushed into one of 
her enthusiasms for Farnsworth's wife, and 
would have been ready to fly at and peek her 
slanderers' eyes like an enraged dove if she had 
encountered any of them. 

It was time to go, and they were half an hour 
at least in separating, as women who like each 
other usually are. Starting and coming back — 
off resolutely this effort, and stopped by another 
word from Ruth. After they were in the basket 
there was so much to be said, after the very last 
of the last words, that the long-tailed ponies 
grew impatient and the tiger from his perch 
swelled his chest till the buttons were more 
conspicious than ever, and thought sagely what 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



141 



very silly creatures women were, the best of 
them, with so much talkee, talkee ! 

"Oh, the lovely little thing !" cried Rosa, as 
they drove out of the gates. ' ' And where now, 
my Queen Elinor." 

" To the Castle ; I want to see Mrs. Hackett ; 
I can't wait for etiquette or any other nonsense," 
replied she. 

Recollecting that the wild animal near the 
back of their heads had ears even if his claws 
were hidden, and that he had been spoiled by 
Tom, who always called him Cupid, till nothing 
but the incessant promise of unlimited thrash- 
ings by the same good-natured master kept him 
in decent subjection, they began to talk French, 
and Cupid, having his auricular appendages wide 
open to no purpose, was intensely disgusted, and 
wondered "what the dickens they mean by 
that sort o' gibberish." Rosa related the inci- 
dents of her visit to Mrs. Hamlyn, and described 
that virtuous great lady as much impressed by 
hearing that Miss Grey had gone to spend the 
morning with her darling friend Mrs. Farns- 
worth — so much that she dropped the subject 
and never hinted at the scandal till she should 
have time to see what turn affairs were about to 
take. 

They reached the Castle and found that the 
Idol was in presence, ready to receive chance 
guests at the foot of her pedestal. She was so 
charmed and excited when she saw lier visitors 
that she burst into long phrases of delight and 
broken sentences full of capitals, and seemed 
ready to explode like some sort of gorgeous fire- 
works. "Miss Grey! Our princess — oh, the 
pleasure ! Darling Mrs. Thornton to bring her 
— welcome always, doubly welcome with this 
sister rose ! I would have flown to you had 
I known you were here ! When did you ar- 
rive ? Summer has come indeed !" 

"We were out driving and called on the 
way," said Elinor. 

"A boon — a relic!" cried the Idol. "And 
my dear Angel is out — breathing freshness and 
freedom in the seclusion of the park. I will 
dispatch Mercurris — I will — " 

"No, no," interrupted Elinor; "I dare say 
she will be in ; besides, I want to see you." 

" I shall be selfish and restrain you to my- 
self," said the Idol. "But whence came you 
so delightfully matinally?" 

"From Mrs. Farnsworth's," said Elinor ; "I 
had to rush off and see her the moment I finish- 
ed breakfast, for she is one of my real friends ; 
I rank her with Rosa here." 

The Idol looked aghast and bewildered, and 
seemed to totter on her pedestal. 

"Yes, indeed, and I am horribly jealous," 
said Rosa, "only Mrs. Farnsworth is so sweet 
that I can't help loving her too." 

" She — did you tell— old friend — such tales," 
gasped the Idol. 

"What is it?" asked Elinor sweetly, while 
Rosa leaned back in her chair and refused to 
help the poor Idol, who had not been in the 
least to blame. 



" Has not Mrs. Thornton informed you ?" 
questioned the Idol. " Such horrible reports — 
the whole neighborhood aroused — I am blind, 
stupefied. I was so grieved. I adore our Apol- 
loite ; I was prepared to pour oceans of love 
and admiration at the feet of his Dryad." 

"Nor could you bestow them on a more 
lovely woman," said Elinor quietly. "I knew 
Ruth Farnsworth when we were young girls — I 
was the elder considerably. She has lived all 
her life near an old lady with whom I have just 
been staying. She is a dear friend of mine 
whom I wish you to like as much as you do 
me." 

Elinor delivered her effective little speech in 
the most composed manner, and the Idol look- 
ed as if a thunder-storm had jarred her pedestal 
and made her temple shake to its lowest founda- 
tions. " Thank heaven, I have been cautious !" 
she exclaimed. "But you know — Mrs. Thorn- 
ton has told you?" 

"She has told me that very absurd, very 
impossible, and very wicked stories are in cir- 
culation, Mrs. Hackett," said Elinor. "But 
Rosa has been absent, so I want you to tell me 
from whence they spring, because I know you 
have a good, kind heart, and could not sit by to 
see an innocent woman injured." 

"Never! I am not a Tartarus," gasped the 
Idol. "The vile wretches! Your friend? — 
heaven, that I did not shield her on my 
heart." 

" The harm done can easily be counteracted," 
said Elinor, " if a few women like you, Mrs. 
Hackett, will be firm." 

" Immutable as the cliffs that guard our val- 
ley," answered the Idol. " One word from you, 
idolizable Miss Grey, crushes the foul calumnies 
at my feet." 

"Let us see if we can not discover from 
whence these reports have proceeded," said 
Elinor. 

"My dear lady, every body has talked — in- 
deed, I can not hold myself guiltless," said the 
honest Idol, full of remorse. 

"I am sure you have not been unkind," re- 
plied Elinor. 

" Indeed my heart was lacerated — I told Mrs. 
Thornton so." 

"We all know you are goodness itself," said 
Rosa; "but let us find out who started the 
stories." 

"It is so difficult to trace slanders to their 
source," said the Idol, meditatively. "There 
was gossip at first — only enough to make that 
fair flower more interesting — but of late — " 

"Nevermind the stories themselves," Mrs. 
Hackett," interrupted Elinor, not having the 
pleasure that so many good women even appear 
to find in dwelling on the details of disgusting 
reports ; '' who first told you ?" 

The Idol hesitated. "I would not recrimi- 
nate any one willingly, dear Miss Grey," said 
she, sorely perplexed. 

Rosa looked at Elinor : she saw the sensitive 
nostrils begin to dilate, and t'le overpowering 



142 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



light come into the great eyes; she really want- j 
ed to save the Idol from an explosion. " Dear 
Mrs. Haekett," she said hurriedly, "in a case 
like this it would be wrong to hesitate." 

Elinor Grey lifted her head, and her voice 
took the clear ring Rosa knew so well and knew 
too what it portended. 

" A pure, good woman is vilely slandered," 
said she, " and that woman is my friend. 
Mrs. Haekett, I can only say to you what I 
said to Rosa Thornton here, what I would say 
to my own sister if I had one — the person who 
can help to set this slandered lady right in the 
world's eyes and refuses, shall never touch my 
hand or meet so much as one glance of recog- 
nition." 

The Idol fluttered, and appealed, and agreed 
with her, and said, "I honor and love you 
more than ever." And so she did, for she was 
a good old Idol, in spite of her follies. " I do 
believe, Miss Grey, the worst stories have come 
from the Lake House and from that Mrs. Piffit. 
She told me." 

"And Jack Ralston 's wife has helped her," 
said Rosa. 

"But who told Mrs. Piffit?" demanded Eli- 
nor. 

" Ah, who can tell ?" sighed the Idol. "Per- 
chance she invented the tales out of Tartarean 
wickedness." 

Rosa was going to say something bitter about 
Miss Laidley, but Elinor checked her with a 
sign ; she did not wisli to bring her name into 
the matter if it could possibly be avoided. 

" At all events, Mrs. Haekett," said Elinor, 
" I may be assured that you take my word 
these stories are false?" 

" You may indeed ! I will go to that lovely 
creature to-morrow — I will honor her in every 
way," cried the Idol. 

"We must be very careful that neither she 
nor her husband ever know there has been any 
gossip," said Elinor. " If you, the wealthiest 
woman in the county, and women like Mrs. 
Thornton and Mrs. Hamlyn, only say that you 
will not hear such stories — that Mrs. Earns- 
worth is your friend — the slanders will die 
speedily." 

" Always thoughtful, always Palladian !" ex- 
claimed the Idol. "I will perform my part, 
nor shrink though seas should fail and suns 
should fall." 

The occasion was one of tragic magnitude, 
and the phrase sounded so well that the Idol 
thought she must be quoting blank verse grand 
enough to meet the exigency of the case. "I 
must dispatch messengers for my Angel," she 
said, coming gracefully down from her height. 
" She will be desolated else." 

She was saved the trouble, for at that in- 
stant the Angel flew into the room on snowy 
pinions with blue decorations. At sight of Eli- 
nor she paused, threw up her arms, cooed with 
delight, and did a lovely tableau of astonish- 
ment, old Juanita having told her who was 
there. 



Miss Grey waited till the tableau was over ; 
then the Angel cried — " Elinor! Elinor!" and 
as Miss Grey rose she flung herself upon her 
and enveloped her in voluminous draperies, 
and could only repeat — " Elinor, darling Eli- 
nor ! You have come back to your poor Evan- 
gel at last ! " 

Rosa Thornton sat with a look of intense 
disgust on her face, and a huge desire in her 
soul to sit upon the Angel then and there, and 
smash her puffs and her frills and her furbelows 
and her floating ribbons, beyond the possibility 
of restoration. But the Idol was greatdy affected 
and exclaimed — " The lovely floweret ! Such 
tenderness ! Such seraphic sweetness !" 

The Angel retreated from Elinor and looked 
at her to be certain that she was there, then 
clasped her hands and did another tableau, 
while Miss Grey said several cordial and proper 
things. The Angel saw that her scenic effects 
were wasted, except on the Idol, and as she 
could get them up for her benefit at any time, 
she subsided upon an ottoman and usurped the 
conversation as she always did. 

" You darling Elinor ! How could you be 
wicked enough to stay away so long ? And you 
have scarcely written to me — I would be vexed 
if I could." 

" Sweet Angel," sighed the Idol. 

" I thought I wrote quite often," said Elinor. 

" Oh, I am exacting, I suppose. But the 
dear guardian has written — such sweet letters !" 

She hoped that would annoy her guardian's 
daughter, but it did not in the least ; she being 
certain the Angel would never again deceive 
him in any manner. 

" Our Blossom will always be a child, loving 
and artless," said the Idol, and straightway 
Rosa Thornton looked absent, to repudiate any 
claim of having a share in the Blossom, and 
Miss Laidley saw it. 

" My dear Duchess," said she, "every body is 
not so affectionate as you. Plenty of people 
can see I am only a foolish little girl, though 
you like to call me Evangel." 

" What a pretty name," said Mrs. Thornton 
with an innocence quite equal to the Angel's 
best efforts ; "I thought your name was Jenny, 
Miss Laidley." 

She looked so sullen on the instant and pout- 
ed so very unbecomingly that Rosa was perfect- 
ly charmed with her own success. " My name 
is Genevieve," said she shortly, and not at all in 
a seraphic tone. 

" My love, my dove, my peeress Genevieve," 
broke in the Idol. " Whose sweet poem is it — 
Mrs. Hemans?" 

" Oh, the Duchess calls you Evangel, because 
— because — why does she?" pursued Rosa, beat- 
ing the Laidley all hollow at her own game. 

"I am sure I don't know why," returned the 
damsel, no longer an angel, but a commonplace, 
ill-tempered-looking girl, as she was the mo- 
ment any body found the spell to disperse her 
airs and graces. 

"But she must know why," persisted cruel 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



143 



Rosa, doing the Angel's most mellifluous voice to 
perfection, anxious that the Angel, turned into a 
pouting girl, should recognize it, and longing to 
be as insolent as she could and be lady-like — 
"she must know why, and I want to know why ; 
so ask her, please, because I'm such a curious lit- 
tle thing and always want to know why people 
are called names." 

The Idol never could perceive raillery, there- 
fore she said honestly — "I call her Evangel be- 
cause she is so lovely, so earnest, so truthful." 

Whereto Rosa Thornton responded by one 
word, pronounced in an entirely different voice ; 
she only said — " Oh !" but the little monosylla- 
ble spoke volumes, of which Miss Laidley un- 
derstood every page and line. 

Elinor did not feel in the least sorry for her, 
still she did not choose to assist Rosa in torment- 
ing her, so she said, " We must go, I think ; 
we are forgetting the time." 

"Not till after a slight repast," pleaded the 
Idol ; "grace our midday board with your pres- 
ence; a frail meal such as my Angel loves — flow- 
ers — fruits of the vine — oh stay." 

"Fruits of the vine ?" repeated Rosa. "Good 
jxracious, Miss Laidley, the Duchess is slander- 
ing you — she means you have a weakness for 
champagne." 

"No, she didn't!" snapped the Laidley, giv- 
ing way to her ill-temper till she was rude and 
ready to cry from wrath. 

" Mrs. Thornton does but jest, my precious," 
said the Idol. 

"There are some jests scarcely civil," retort- 
ed the Laidley. 

"I beg ten thousand pardons," exclaimed 
Rosa; "I had no idea of offending you, Miss 
Laidley. I retract — I don't believe you have any 
weaknesses at all. Come and see me soon and 
let me learn to consider you a lovely, artless, 
truthful Evangel." 

If it had lasted much longer the Laidley 
would inevitably have flown at Rosa and scratch- 
ed, and that abominable Rosa would willingly 
have borne the pain for the satisfaction of expos- 
ing her to the Idol and showing the marks to 
the whole neighborhood. But the Idol, taking 
Mrs. Thornton's words au serieux, said with pon- 
derous gayety — 

"You see, my Angel, she did but dally in 
sportive phrase. She loves you as we all do — 
she appreciates you." 

One more thrust — Rosa could not help it, al- 
though Elinor was begging her to stop as plain- 
ly as eyes could speak. " Mrs. Hackett is right, 
sweetest Miss Laidley ; I do appreciate you — oh 
believe it — appreciate you thoroughly." She 
made one of the Angel-gestures and the Idol was 
charmed, and the Laidley nearly bit her tongue 
off to keep from calling her mischievous assailant 
had names. 

"Flee not," cried the Idol, as the two callers 
rose. "Tarry, I pray, and share our meridian 
draughts." 

"It is long after noon now," said Rosa, "and 
my husband will be expecting us. Come soon, 



dear Mrs. Hackett, and bring our sweet Evangel 
with you." 

" Oh yes — briefly, briefly. I long to com- 
mune with you and Miss Grey — we shall come 
briefly, briefly." 

"Good-bye, Genevieve," said Elinor. 

"Oh, good bye," replied she crossly, quite 
forgetting her late tenderness. 

"I don't think you are well, Miss Laidley," 
said Rosa, with an appearance of the kindest in- 
terest. "You look pale; don't, please — it is 
not your style at all." 

"I am not in the habit of studying effects," 
replied Miss Laidley. 

"No?" returned Rosa, in a tone beautifully 
modulated between an interrogation and an ex- 
clamation. 

"Artless pet," said the Idol. "She is all 
heart — all soul." 

"Why, then she is two people." cried Rosa. 

The Idol looked a little confused. 

"Come, Rosa," said Elinor; "the ponies will 
be so wicked from standing that you can't man- 
age them." 

"Oh yes, I can," replied she, with the sweet- 
est laugh and a glance at Miss Laidley which the 
young woman understood ; "I can manage any 
thing wicked — I like to — and I always conquer." 

" Such spirits!" exclaimed the Idol. " Dear 
Mrs. Thornton drinks surely from the fount of 
Helicon." 

The Laidley breathed an inward prayer that 
the ponies might run away and send her to a 
fount expressed by the first syllable of the Idol's 
word with another liquid letter added. 

"I am so happy that you came," contin- 
ued the Idol. " So blest that we spoke of sweet 
Mrs. Farnsworth ; my mind is clear from doubt 
as a Peairan spring." 

Rosa Thornton, looking covertly at Miss 
Laidley, saw her start as the Idol pronounced 
Mrs. Farnsworth's name. Having seen that 
sign of confusion she was ready to go, and follow- 
ed Elinor out while the Idol sent a volley of 
farewell explosives after them. 

"Adieu! We meet to part — life is so — val! 
val ! We shall meet briefly, briefly. Remem- 
ber us — love us — oh, val, val !" 

The instant the ponies dashed off at a reck- 
less pace, Rosa began to laugh. " I think I 
plucked a few of the Angel's best feathers," 
cried she. " The little serpent! Elinor, I saw 
her start when the Idol mentioned Mrs. Farns- 
worth's name." 

"Really she is not worth minding," replied 
Elinor. 

" Oh, isn't she ? I don't agree with you. I 
want something to do — I shall take up a mis- 
sion. I mean to worry that Angel and turn her 
into a spiteful little cat and make her show her 
true nature every time I meet her." 

" Let her alone, do, I beg. I was afraid she 
would cry." 

"Bah! She would have liked to scratch. 
What fun it was, and how well I did it. I 
caught her voice exactly. And to see that dear, 



144 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



blind old Idol so unconscious ! — How Tom will 
laugh." 

She exulted greatly, and declared that it was 
delightful to have an opportunity to be wicked 
after the worry of the past days. 

" And now where, Elinor?" she asked, as the 
basket turned into the high-road. 

"I am going to see Mrs. Piffit." 

"Upon my word, you do mean to kill the hy- 
dra outright. I declare, Elinor, you are a good 
girl, andyou are the bravest creature, and — " 

"And in praising me you will let those vi- 
cious ponies run away and break my precious 
neck," said Elinor. 

"Not I; my ponies know me. I wish I 
could quote poetry — but no matter, the mean- 
ing is, they know I would give it them if they 
didn't behave with decorum." 

" Do stop using Tom's phrases. That wretch- 
ed man will teach you a whole vocabulary of 
dreadful expressions." 

" Slang, you mean, only you can't bring your 
royal lips to say it. But, my princess, it is so 
jolly, as Tom says." 

She was in immense spirits, and said the wit- 
tiest things all the way down to the village, and 
Elinor had to laugh until she almost forgot her 
errand. But it was a bootless one, for when 
they drove up to the private entrance of the Lake 
House and sent the tiger in to learn if Mrs. Pif- 
fit were visible, he came back and said that she 
was not — she had gone out. 

"Another time, Elinor," said Rosa; "you 
can think about it all night, and you will be pre- 
pared to give her a more horrible — there, don't 
frown, I'll change the word — lecture, to-mor- 
row." 

*' Wait an instant, Rosa," said Elinor, who 
had not been listening. She remembered that 
it was due to Mr. Rossitur that he should have 
some sign of her presence and some sort of mes- 
sage, and here was an opportunity to send it with- 
out trouble. 

"What now?" questioned Rosa. 

"I should like to let Mr. Rossitur know that I 
have come to your house," said Elinor unhesi- 
tatingly. 

"Nonsense! He'll find it out soon enough. 
It's none of his affairs any way," cried Rosa 
rapidly, not having changed in her feelings to- 
ward that gentleman. " Besides it isn't proper 
to leave messages for young men. I am aston- 
ished at you — setting up for a statue of proprie- 
ty as you do. I couldn't permit it. Tom 
wouldn't approve — Tom's very particular, and I 
always obey Tom — I promised at the altar." 

She said it all as fast as possible and in a 
voice like Mrs. Piffit's, and Elinor could not in- 
terrupt for laughing. 

"You absurd goose, you are quite- mad to- 
day," she said. "But nonsense aside, Rosa, 
Mr. Rossitur is one of my best friends — " 

"I hate people's best friends," interrupted 
Rosa. 

"And he has come from Washington and 
probably brings letters for me from papa." 



" Say no more — Elinor victrix — which is all 
' the Latin I ever knew, and I thought for a great 
while that meant victuals — Le Rossitur shall be 
informed of your arrival — it shall be done in a 
proper manner — my matronly card shall loom 
upon his astonished vision. Cupid, hold the 
ponies steady." 

She gave Elinor the reins, pulled out her card- 
case and pencil, and said — "Now what shall I 
write ?" 

"I thought you had decided on something 
proper." 

"Yes, dear, in theory — somehow I can't re- 
duce it to practice. That's always my trouble 
— my theories are perfect. Let me see ! Shall 
I write under Mrs. Thomas Thornton — Elinor 
Grey her pa — " 

"Give me a card," cried Elinor, cutting her 
short. 

She took the case out of Rosa's hand and for- 
tunately found one of Tom's own pasteboards. 
"This will do exactly," srid she, and wrote a 
single word under the name in her peculiar chi- 
rography that nobody could mistake who had 
ever seen a page thereof. 

Rosa looked over and read aloud — "July!" 
She stared at Elinor with her eyes like saucers 
and repeated — "July!" 

" So you have read once, said a second time," 
returned Elinor calmly. 

" Then perhaps I'd better sing it now," cried 
Rosa. " But what on earth does that mean— 
Ju-ly ?" 

' ' Send Cupid in with the card and let him give 
it to the man in the office," continued Elinor. 

"Cupid, indeed!" retorted Rosa. "My Cu- • 
pid shan't help where that man is concerned. 
July ! Tell me this instant what it means, Eli- 
nor Grey, or I'll have hysterics and shriek till 
the ponies run away and the whole village rush- 
es out." 

" It means that Mr. Rossitur knew I would 
be here in July — it shows him that I have come 
— it is better than writing notes or being fool- 
ish. Now are you satisfied?" 

" No, I am not ; but I suppose you must have 
your way. Here, Cupid, carry this card and 
tell the book-keeper to send it at once to Mr. 
Rossitur's room." 

While the tiger was gone, Rosa sat playing 
with her whip and Elinor Grey looked uncon- 
scious. When the ponies were off again Rosa 
was greatly occupied with them, and her tac- 
iturnity was in such contrast to her recent high 
spirits, that Elinor said, "There you go, from 
one extreme to another, as Tom says." 

"I am not thinking about Tom," replied 
Rosa curtly. 

" What "then ? what is the matter ?" 

"Ju-ly!" cried Rosa, lengthening the word 
as if it contained a dozen syllables. "July! 
That is the matter." 

"Oh, July!" replied Elinor in her turn. 
" Yes, dear, but don't take it to heart." 

" Don't tease— I won't have it. Oh, Elinor, 
are you in earnest ?" 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



H5 



" Now, Rosa, don't be a goose. I have said 
nothing — done nothing." 

"I don't know," shivered Rosa. "I feel 
something in the air. Well, I shall say nothing 
myself; warn me in time — do it gradually — that 
is all I ask." 

Elinor laughed at her a little and changed 
the conversation, and Rosa soon recovered her 
spirits and discoursed volubly till they reach- 
ed home. She gave Tom a glowing account 
of the morning's work, and he was particu- 
larly delighted that she had so routed Miss 
Laidley. 

"It will all be right," cried he. "Just let 
the Queen get at Piffit. I saw Clive this morn- 
ing ; he looks worried. Never mind, it will all 
be right now." 

Rosa had left him and Elinor at the lunch- 
eon-table and was standing by the window and 
saying to herself — "July ! July !" She did not 
like it at all ; but she would hold her peace 
even to Tom for the present ; and may be there 
was no danger to be feared — Elinor was odd. 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

MORE HISTRIONICS. 

The door had no sooner closed upon the de- 
parting visitors than Miss Laidley burst into 
floods of tears and flung herself on a sofa, call- 
ing dismally for her disembodied parent to fly 
down and take her away from a world where 
she was not appreciated. "0 father, father! 
come and take your Evangel — your lonely child 
— father, father !" Her piteous cry did not bring 
a seraph, but it roused the Idol, who had been 
kissing her hand to Elinor from the window ; 
and the Idol, startled by this unexpected out- 
burst, hastened toward her, exclaiming, "My 
sweetest, what is it ? Are you ill ? Tell me — 
speak!" 

The Laidley, who had been only a com- 
monplace, sulky girl under the transforming 
spell of Rosa Thornton, now turned into an 
angel again with drooping pinions and a wail. 
" father, father!" she moaned, clutching at 
invisible shapes in the air, shaking her wavy 
hair about her face, and making various hasty 
preparations for a scene ; " Father, come !" 

" Oh, my Blossom, not that appeal," said the 
Idol, who was always so touched by the pathos 
of that special adjuration that she was completely 
at the Angel's mercy. "You are not alone — I 
am here. Sweet, tell me what it is?" 

The Angel moaned morepiteousty; at length 
between her sobs she gasped, " Mrs. Thornton 
was cruel to me — cruel !" 

"She did but jest, love; it is her way. I 
was fearful she might wound your sensitive nat- 
ure," returned the Idol. "She does not know 
you as I do ; she does not understand how frail 
a breeze will chill your soul. But weep not ; 
smile, only smile, my Angel." 



But the Angel could not smile yet ; she had 
a good deal more sobbing and sighing to do. 
She had made a strong effort to keep from giving 
way to her temper under Rosa Thornton's perse- 
cutions to a degree that might have astonished 
the Idol ; now she must cry, as she always must 
after a fit of rage. Moreover, she had been 
rendered nervous by the few words spoken in 
regard to Mrs. Farnsworth ; into the bargain 
she had not indulged in a scene for several days, 
and she must perform. She went through her 
best act and did not omit a single point, and 
each successive one "brought down" the Idol 
till her eyes were swollen from weeping sympa- 
thetic tears, and she looked a damp and miser- 
able Idol generally, and was very absurd in her 
distress, but honest and patient as ever. 

The Angel shrieked for her parent to appear 
and save her until he must have come unless 
absent in some very distant sphere on important 
business, or a very hard-hearted seraph indeed. 
Finding no response from that quarter, she ap- 
pealed to her aunt to rush from the orange groves 
of her southern island and carry her little Evan- 
gel back to their fragrant shades. She called 
herself several scores of pretty names expressive 
of desolation, she assumed numberless attitudes, 
and the effect of her histrionics upon the Idol 
stimulated her to new efforts. " Bid that cruel 
woman come back !" she cried at length. "Let 
her come back and look at her work — I am dy- 
ing — dying !" 

She fell upon the cushions, rigid and still, 
and the Idol fluttered about her, first on one 
side, then on the other, pitying, soothing, try- 
ing so many things in such rapid succession 
that she seemed, as she always did at such 
times, not a solitary Idol but a dozen, bobbing 
about, running against each other, and occa- 
sionally, when she was quiet for a second, melt- 
ing again into one huge Idol with her draper- 
ies wide enough for the whole twelve. " I am 
dying," moaned the Angel. "Let me die! Let 
me die!" 

But the Idol would not permit that on any 
account, and she was so distressed that if there 
had been any observer of the scene he certain- 
ly would have pitied her while he laughed at 
her absurdity. " Die not, my Angel ! Live — 
live for your friend who loves you so ! Sweet 
Blossom, discolate not my heart with such fren- 
zied words — Promethean pangs in the vulture's 
breast!" she cried, getting the comparisons 
twisted as usual and pouring out the great words 
from force of habit. " Look up — one smile — I 
shall die with you!" She blubbered outright « 
and made a noise like a sea-calf, and sat flat 
down on the floor and pulled the Angel into 
her lap, and was really beside herself. 

The Angel was appeased — she had distressed 
somebody. She lay quiet for a few seconds, then 
slowly opened her eyes and gave the Idol one of 
her heavenly smiles. "I will live," she whis- 
pered ; " I can not leave you — my one friend. 
I am better now. Oh, how grieved I am to 
have distressed you — I am so weak, so foolish." 



146 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



" You arc all soul, all ethereal nerves," re- 
turned the Idol. "But my sweet pet is bet- 
ter?" 

"Much better — you soothe me. She was so 
cruel — how could she treat me as she did ?" 

" Dear child, forget it ; Mrs. Thornton would 
not have pained you for the world. She is so 
full of life and vigor that she disremembers how 
fragile your spirit is." 

"I forgive her," sighed the Angel, in a voice 
like that of an early Christian martyr heaving 
her last -breath — "I forgive her. She is cold 
and hard ; but you love me — you understand 
me?" 

"You arc fettered in mv heart," vowed the 
Idol. 

" I know it — ah, it gives me new life ! I am 
so nervous, so excitable. The unexpected meet- 
ing witli Elinor was too much for me — I thought 
she seemed cold — and I love her so fondly." 

"She reciprocates your affection," asserted 
the Idol. " She was anxious to see you, but 
you know she is always Palladian in her mien." 

"Yes, yes — cold — ice. Oh, darling Duchess, 
nobody loves me truly and understands me, ex- 
cept you." 

"Sweet Angel, you console me by those 
words. Be calm, my sweet. Oh, what can I 
perform to make you happy ?— I would dare 
Titanish feats! Listen, sweet — you remember 
my emerald necklace ? Will you accept it and 
wear it for my sake?" 

The Angel's heart gave a great bound. Here 
was consolation beyond her wildest expectations. 
Why, that emerald necklace had made her mi- 
serly soul sick for its possession — it was worth 
countless shekels of silver and shekels of gold. 

" I can not take it," she sighed ; "no, no! I 
only need your love — I a*m content with that. 
Feel my heart beat ; 1 appreciate your goodness 
so." 

" You shall wear the necklace — it must be 
yours," persisted the Idol, who would have given 
all the emeralds and diamonds she possessed — 
and she had as many as if she had been a modern 
queen of Sheba — to restore her favorite to hap- 
piness. 

"I can not, I can not! There, I am better 
now." 

"And you will accept the poor gift? — Give 
your fond Duchess that pleasure, my loveliest." 

" Since you insist — you are so good," return- 
ed the other with the voice of an angel and the 
instinct of a Jew pawnbroker. " I can not re- 
fuse — you shall not be pained." 

She sat up and dried her eyes, and looked 
very lovely with her hair straying over her 
shoulders, and smiled at the Idol, who was in 
ccstacies at seeing her willing to live a little 
longer. Although the Laid ley was well ac- 
quainted with the Idol's generosity, she could 
not be easy in mind until the emerald necklace 
was absolutely in her possession. She often 
promised people things herself and forgot to give 
them ; the Idol never did hesitate to fulfill her 
offers, but she might where a necklace, which 



would have made an empress cry with envy, 
was concerned. So the Angel said — 

"If some one. should come in ! We will go 
up to your dressing-room, darling Duchess, till 
we are both more composed." 

The Idol supported her up stairs, and after 
they had arranged their disordered plumage be- 
fore the mirror, she cooed — "I am happy now. 
Dearest Duchess, do me a favor — don't ask me 
to take the necklace." 

The Idol flew at once to her jewel-casket and 
upset things recklessly, snatched the gorgeous 
decoration and fastened it about the Angel's 
neck. "Wear it," she cried; "never even 
speak of it or you will pain me." 

The Angel looked in the glass and saw the 
stones gleam and burn. She had done a good 
morning's work — she wished she could engage 
Rosa Thornton to come every day and hurt her 
feelings. 

" You make me dumb witli delight," said she, 
and nearly strangled the. Idol with embraces. 
"But see how you have scattered rings and 
bracelets and every tiling else. Oh, you careless 
Duchess — sowing the floor with diamonds !" 

"What arc gems compared to seeing you 
smile again," returned the Idol. " I would fling 
the whole worthless store into the lake yonder, 
if it could soothe my Angel." 

The careful Angel collected the ornaments 
and arranged them in t heir places — the only 
task that was always pleasant to her — and she 
managed so well that the Idol put several costly 
rings on her fingers and made quite a pyramid 
of pins and ear-rings in her lap, and the Angel 
cooed and expostulated and took them all, as she 
usually did. 

"But what had they been saying about that 
Mrs. Farnsworth?" she asked suddenly. 

"Oh, love, so glad you reminded me. It is 
all an error — a black Tartarean ! She is Miss 
Grey's friend. We must visit her — love her." 

The Angel went into an inward fury at once. 
"But the stories must be true," she asserted; 
"every body repeats them." 

"They will have to cease," said the Idol. 
"No, dearest, I am quite convinced — so will all 
our circle be — Miss Grey is her warrant — her 
Medusian shield. Let us think of it no more." 

"Did they mention me? You said I never 
had believed the stories ?" demanded the Angel. 

"Oh ves ; but they dreamed not of blaming 
you." 

Miss Laidley breathed a sigh of relief. 

"You were mistaken in thinking Miss Grey 
did not know her," continued the Idol. 

" I never said so !" cried the Angel in dis- 
may. "Sotno body else told you ! Oh, dearest 
Duchess, you never told Elinor I said that?" 

" No, no ; we said nothing of you." 

" But it was not I — just remember." 

" It could not have been," said the Idol, con- 
vinced that she must be in error. "Who did 
say it?" 

*" Oh, Mrs. Piffit or Jack Ralston's wife— they 
arc so wicked." 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOIl. 



147 



"Yes, wicked indeed. Of course it was one 
of them." 

"And we'll go and see Mrs. Farnsworth and 
pet her and love her — we both liked her," said 
the Angel enthusiastically. 

"We did, we did," cried the Idol, forgetting 
that the liking had been confined to herself. 
" You are so good, so pure — you will be glad to 
aid in dispersing these evil reports, will you not, 
my dear Angel?" 

" It will make me happy. Dear Duchess, I 
have cried myself to sleep night after night 
thinking and grieving about her ; Juanita can 
tell you — Juanita knows." 

" I am certain you have — sweet soul." 

' ' And if that Piffi t woman should try to blame 
me — 

" My love, she would not dare." 

" Oh, she is so wicked. It would be just like 
her to try and throw it all on a lonely, helpless 
thing like me." 

" I am your guerdion," cried the Idol, swell- 
ing into dignity ; "I am your Athenian palla- 
dium," for only a jumble of the hugest words 
could express her resolve. "I know that you 
have scarcely seen Mrs. Piffit except in my pres- 
ence. No, love, you are innocent ; no one 
could dream of blaming you." 

The Angel was satisfied ; if the lies must 
come out, let Piffit be crushed ;- she would float 
airily aside and be among the warmest of Mrs. 
Farnsworth's supporters and wound her in some 
other way. It was long after the luncheon 
hour ; and her feelings soothed, the emerald 
necklace in her possession, to say nothing of the 
lesser treasures, the fear of exposure having been 
removed, the Angel commenced to undergo cer- 
tain earthly needs, ethereal as she was. " The 
selfish monster that I am!" she cried; "you 
have had no lunch ; you will be ill with one of 
your headaches. Oh, my dearest Duchess, let 
me order something sent up." 

"Yes, yes ; and vou must take sustenance 
too." 

"I am not hungry ; I never am ; but I can't 
let you be made ill by my selfishness," said the 
ADgel. 

She rang the bell and ordered a quantity of 
good things, ostensibly to please the Idol, and 
when the tray was brought up she vowed she 
would not touch a morsel, and ended by de- 
vouring brandy peaches, fresh strawberries and 
cream, a rich pate, stomach-destroying pickles, 
and various similar delicacies, which pink-and- 
white seraphs with peculiar organizations are 
wont to crave. The repast over, she insisted on 
the Idol's lying down ; she would go and rest 
too. They both needed repose after the morn- 
ing's excitement, and toward sunset they would 
go out for a drive. 

She kissed the Idol, left her safely deposited 
on her gorgeous couch, and flew away to her 
own apartments intent upon her private affairs. 
Old Juanita was there, chewing brown bark, 
squatted by the open window and nodding lazi- 
ly. " Get up, get up you brown bete," cried the 



Angel, and Juanita rose submissive. "I've got 
the necklace at last !" 

Juanita surveyed the treasures with delight, 
and the Angel locked them carefully up. " Get 
out that lavender dress," said she ; "be quick." 

' ' My, bress her ! Tear labendcr all to pieces 
'mong de,trees," cried Juanita. 

"I don't care — the old Idol gave it to me. 
Get it quick ! I will look pretty — you'd better 
hurry !" And Juanita knew she had. 

The Angel made a charming toilette, and 
grew good-natured and frolicked with Juanita, 
who was jubilant at command, for her young 
mistress had a witch-like control over her, bodv 
and soul. While she dressed, Miss Laidley told 
Juanita what was to be said and done if Piffit 
betrayed the source of her information ; prom- 
ised her a silk gown if all went well, and Juani- 
ta was prepared to lie to any extent. 

The Angel was too lovely and fairy-like for a 
creature of common earth when her toilette was 
complete. She arranged a black-lace shawl over 
her head as a finishing touch, and surveyed her- 
self in the mirror with gratified eyes. "Sit 
here," said she ; " I am in bed and asleep — you 
couldn't disturb me for the world, because I 
have been crying about poor papa." 

Juanita nodded intelligently and squatted 
down in the window again, solacing herself with 
a fresh bit of brown bark. 

Owing to the luckiest chance in the world, 
there was a private staircase which led from 
Miss Laidley 's room into a passage never used, 
and from the passage she could step at once 
into the thickest of the shrubberies. She often 
made use of it when she wanted to meet the 
Prince of Como or a troubadour and to indulge 
in a little romance. She departed and sped 
through the wood, saving her draperies in a mi- 
raculous way. She had told Leighton Eossitur 
she was going to walk there that afternoon, and 
she felt certain that unless he had heard of Eli- 
nor's arrival he would be somewhere near. She 
was not mistaken in her hope ; when she reach- 
ed a lonely summer-house, there he sat. 

In the height of his love, with the decisive 
moment so close, Rossitur, like nine people out 
of ten, men or women, could see no reason 
why he should not shorten the lonely moments 
by an hour's flirtation with Miss Laidley instead 
of moping in his room. 

The Angel did a little astonishment, but not 
too much, then said — "You had no right to 
come here. I did not think, when I mentioned 
my walks, you would join me." 

"Please let me stay; I am tired and lone- 
ly," said he, not in the least deceived by her 
artlessness, but quite willing to utter pretty 
speeches to any female creature so lovely. 

He made himself as charming as ever he did 
to Elinor Grey, because' he was a born flirt and 
trifler, and in one respect he resembled Miss 
Laidley — he was in earnest for the time, which 
is the great success of success in flirtation, as in 
every thing else He had a volume of Owen 
Meredith in his pocket and he read to her out 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



148 

of the passionate songs— he quoted the Queen 
of the Serpents and applied it to her— he utter- 
ed half-earnest, half-playful speeches, and made 
his features and voice wholly earnest — he 
pleased himself with her smiles and her witcher- 
ies and she could be very bewitching. They had 
a long talk, and Miss Laidley's romajice grew 
a more serious matter as far as her feelings 
were concerned. 

He had been jestingly reproaching her with 
her numberless coquetries, and said abruptly— 
" You have heard who came last night?" 

The Angel thought he meant Miss Grey, 
whose name she had been careful not to men- 
tion ; she was deceived by his question into 
supposing that he was aware of Elinor's arrival 
and had come to the summer-house instead of 

visiting her. 

«Oh yes— Elinor?" she answered. Sue 
came to see me this morning." 

Rossitur gave a start and allowed Owen 
Meredith to fall on the grass and stain hisblue- 
and-gold dress. "Miss Grey here?" he ex- 
claimed. 

The Angel felt something rise within her as 
if seven devils had taken possession of her soul. 
"I thought you meant her," she faltered. 

"No; poor Walters— your victim," he re- 
plied, making a grasp at self-control and Owen 
at the same time. "When did Miss Grey 
come?" 

"Oh, last night," said the Angel. "Now 
I suppose you will go and flirt with her. Dear 
me, you won't stand much chance here, I warn 

you.'" 

Rossitur was a furiously jealous man, like all 
people who are capable of great latitude in their 
own actions ; Miss Laidley's words kindled his 
mind at once. "What do you mean?" he 
asked. 

" I won't tell. Oh, you will find out ! Yes, 
I will, because I like to tease you. No, I don't 
like to— I did not mean that— I am too much 
your friend, Mr. Rossitur." 

" There is no reason why I should be teased, 
he answered unconcernedly. ' ' I think, like 
you, that Miss Grey is an icicle." 

"At all events, she did love Clive Farns- 
worth," cried the Angel. " People here know 
that ; they were engaged last summer." 

Rossitur had never heard a whisper of this— 
he felt his blood turn to fire. "But Mr. Farns- 
worth is married," said he, resolutely controlling 
voice and features. 

" He was not then. They quarrelled, and he 
went off in a rage and brought this girl— such 
horrible stories as they tell of her." 

Rossitur had too recently arrived for the gos- 
sip to reach his ears, and he avowed his igno- 
rance. 

In her rage at the emotion he had displayed 
at Elinor's name, the added provocation of hav- 
ing herself given the news, the Angel poured 
out the whole story. Of course she did not 
say a wrong word or appear conscious of what 
she was telling. She told it as pink-and-white 



creatures do tell such things ; and if the man 
who listens can read character, he knows that 
the narrator, in spite of her childishness, is a 
little devil or a sort of mermaid, according as 
her veins are filled with blood or water. 

Now Rossitur understood Miss Laidley. _ He 
knew that she was of the mermaid species- 
sensuous in thought,, but never to be guilty of 
going beyond romance and respectable mischief; 
because in spite of her warm fancies she was 
physically weak, and the mermaid chilliness in 
her veins counteracted the other instincts. He 
listened and he was filled with fierce rage. El- 
inor Grey had loved Clive Farnsworth ! His 
first impulse was to find the man and murder 
him ; then he remembered that it was a thing 
gone by ; he had almost conquered— he would 
wholly. He put aside his anger and was only 
anxious to get away from the mermaid, who 
looked an angel, and rush off to meet Elinor. 
But he did not wish to offend Miss Laidley, so 
he had to pass over the stories and flatter her, 
and finally plead an engagement. She was 
obliged to let him go, but she looked charming 
in her sudden pallor, which was not affected 
this time, and had great difficulty in not being 
absurd. She irritated him with a last taunt, 
and when he had gone she sat there in the sum- 
mer-house and had three minds to make a trag- 
ical end to her romance— strangle herself with 
her lace shawl, or do something poetical and 
desperate. But strangulation would leave her 
black in the face, and there was no other mode 
of death convenient ; so she sat and bewailed 
herself, and was very wretched, and sobbed in 
miserable earnest. 

Rossitur made the best of his way to Alban 
Wood, and reached the house only to be inform- 
ed that every body was out and might never re- 
turn, for any thing the stupid new servant could 
tell. But Miss Grey had arrived— the stupid 
new man could assert so much, and Rossitur 
scribbled a hasty pencil note to say that he 
would call in the morning. It was all he could 
do. He did not know the Thorntons well 
enough to venture on a second effort that even- 
ing, and besides he thought from the abomina- 
ble man's confused explanations that they had 
gone out to dine or commit some other fiendish 
absurdity to annoy him. He went away after 
charging Stupid to be sure and give the note to 
Miss Grey as soon as she returned. Stupid 
meant to do so— he had been engaged to fill a 
vacancy, and was so anxious to please and be 
retained that he committed numberless blun- 
ders, and naturally could not lose the opportuni- 
ty at present offered of making a crowning one. 
He kept the note in order to have the satisfac- 
tion of handing it to the young lady herself, and 
the consequence was that, being dispatched on 
an errand by Tom as soon as the party returned 
from their walk, he forgot the scrap of paper 
and every thing connected with Mr. Rossitur, 
and hastened off to fulfill his mission and fall 
into new mistakes and heap added condemna- 
tion on his devoted head. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



149 



The evening passed quietly and pleasantly 
enough. In secret Elinor decided that Rossitur 
had not reached the hotel or obtained her mes- 
sage in time to come up to Alban Wood. She 
went to her room early that night, and shut 
Rosa out, because she was tired and wanted to 
make up for last night's broken sleep. She 
thought that she intended to go to bed, but after 
Rosa's maid had departed she sat in her white 
dressing-gown by the window and looked out 
across the moonlit shrubberies, as she had so 
often done during the preceding summer. She 
sat there until the associations of the place 
brought back restless fancies, and she shut out 
the clear radiance with a guilty sensation, re- 
lighted her lamp and brought herself down to 
the present. She thought of Leighton Rossitur — 
she remembered her decision, and she did not 
falter. She would be safest sheltered by his 
love. She recalled every kind thing he had 
ever done, dwelt on every noble word, and tried 
to believe him the real King Arthur. She 
would not heed the sorrowful feeling like that 
she had wept over in the woods on the day when 
she made her resolve. She was frightened by 
the nameless pang which had wrung her heart 
as she sat in the moonlight ; she wanted to feel 
that her life was arranged — that some final step 
was taken, in order to have a prop whereon to 
steady her soul. She had done right ; he loved 
her ; she could not draw back , his affection 
would warm her heart at length — surely it must. 
Yet once more, at the thought of his love, the 
cold dread returned ; she seemed to feel the 
clasp of his hand on hers, holding her fast, re- 
straining her freedom. She called that fancy — 
an absurd whim to which she would pay no at- 
tention. She recollected that she had given 
him a new encouragement. By writing that 
one word on the card she had implied that she 
remembered what July was to bring and was 
not afraid. At the time she had not thought 
about the matter ; it seemed of importance now. 
She had taken a final step. Well, she was 
glad — she could not hesitate if she would. She 
kept telling herself that she was glad until the 
night appeared to have turned chill and she 
wrapped a warm shawl about her and shivered. 
Yes, it was all settled — she should become Leigh- 
ton Rossitur' s wife. Only, just yet she could 
not have any love-making. She would write a 
letter: when he came for his answer she would 
put it in his hands and ask him to be generous 
and patient still; to be her friend and let her 
grow accustomed to this new aspect of life. 

She sat down at the table and wrote her letter, 
and by the time it was finished she felt so tired 
that she was glad to creep into bed, and kept 
assuring herself that the sensation of relief came 
because she was at rest, at peace ; it was all set- 
tled now. As she woke the next morning that 
letter was the first sight which met her eyes, and 
it reminded her that every thing had been ar- 
ranged. She had nothing more to do — she 
would not even think. 

Breakfast was late, but, late as it was, Rosa 



had not come down. " She is threatened with one 
of her dreadful sick headaches," Tom said ; " she 
thinks if she lies still awhile she will be able to 
drive with vou. Do you mean to go and see Mrs. 
Piffit?" 

" Yes," Elinor replied, glad to be reminded 
of the business in hand and to have some en- 
grossing occupation. " Tom, I feel savage. I 
am confident that I can frighten that dumpy 
little woman directly out of the village ; but 
Mrs. Hackett says that Mrs. Ralston is quite as 
much to blame, and nobody could frighten her." 

" Couldn't there ?" queried Tom pensively. 

" I never speak to her, any way. Somebody 
introduced her, but I never will do more than 
bow. She talks horribly about all women ; 
and how she is to be silenced, goodness only 
knows." 

" Queen Elinor," said Tom, growing sudden- 
ly grave, "you believe me honorable — you know 
I never talk about any woman ?" 

" You are perfect as far as that goes," return- 
ed Elinor. 

"Then I will give you a charm that shall 
even subdue the Ralston, if j - ou have an oppor- 
tunitv to employ it." 

"What, Tom?" 

" Look in her face and say these words — ' A 
cottage at Vevay — a summer of roses — ten 
years ago — and Tom Thornton's compliments,' " 
said he slowly. 

Elinor looked at him in utter bewilderment. 

"Ask no questions," said Tom ; " but I know 
you won't, nor will Rose. I have never said a 
word; there is no secret of mine, nor will my 
Rosa ever think so ; but if the Ralston shows her 
fangs, do you mutter that spell, and I'll swear 
that you'll take yourself for a witch from its suc- 
cess. 

Elinor repeated the words. "You are not 
laughing at me, Tom ?" 

" I am not. Do as you like ; I am going to 
tell Rose just what I have you. I shall never 
open my lips again." 

" Tom turned oracle," said Elinor ; "I'll try 
it." 

Tom made no answer ; he rose from the ta- 
ble and went up to see how Rosa was, and Eli- 
nor soon followed. 

Poor Rosa lay pale and miserable among 
the pillows. " I can't get up," said she piteous- 
ly. ' ' Elinor, Tom shall drive you down to the 
village." 

"Can't, "said Tom ; "I am going trouting, 
and I've an engagement with Farnsworth. 
Elinor would not be so fiendish as to trouble 
these last days of fishing. Take the ponies and 
Cupid, my queen, and pass on 'in maiden med- 
itation, fancy free.' " 

"What does he mean about the Ralston?" 
asked Rosa. " He repeated the most absurd 
message and says he is done forever." 

" Yes ; he's mad, I think." 

" No matter; use it if you meet her," said 
Rosa. " We know it isn't Tom's secret, that is 
enough." 



iso 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



Tom never opened his lips while they discuss- 
ed the message, and looked perfectly blank. 

" Oh, my wretched head," sighed Rosa. " I 
must lie here, Elinor, but it is a shame to let 
you go alone." 

'^Lie still, like a good girl ; you can get up 
before I come back." 

"Oh yes," said Tom, "I shall cure her be- 
cause I want to go trouting." 

"Indeed, you arc not to wait," said Rosa; 
"just be off." 

" Indeed I shan't, Miss Goosey." 

Rosa began to declare that her head was bet- 
ter ; but Tom, who was as anxious if her finger 
ached as though he were a bridegroom instead 
of a husband of ten years' standing, had no in- 
tention of leaving her. 

" I shall drive the ponies in great state," said 
Elinor. 

"Oh, they'll behave like lambs," replied 
Rosa. " Honestly, Tom, go and smoke a cigar, 
and if my head is not better I'll tell you ; but 
if it is, I'll go to sleep and you may be off to 
Clive and the trout." 

"A bargain,'' said Tom; "but if you fib to me 
you shall repent. There — one — two — no, that 
kiss was on your nose, so it doesn't count — two 
— three — aren't you better ?" 

Tom's kisses had not lost their potency al- 
though they were so frequent, and Rosa cried 
out — " Now isn't he good, Nelly ? When I am 
sick I always say nice things to him because he 
is so kind ; but oh, don't I pay him off when I 
get well!" 

"You are a pair of spoiled children and twin 
geese," said Elinor. 

"Jealousy — downright envy," vowed Tom. 
" You'd like to be a turtle-dove, you wretched 
creature, only you're a species by yourself — your 
mate was lost in the ark." 

He sauntered oft' to smoke in peace, and Eli- 
nor sat by Rosa till she dropped into a slumber, 
then went to tell Tom that he was ordered out 
of the house, and prepared herself for her drive. 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

A LITTLE MISTAKE. 

Elinor had driven off on her errand, Tom 
had satisfied himself that Rosa slept and set out 
to find Farnsworth, after giving orders that no 
soul was to disturb the mistress of the mansion 
though it should get on fire, when Leighton 
Rossitur appeared, having ridden up from the 
hotel at the earliest possible hour. 

As Stupid opened the door and beheld him 
he for the first time remembered the note, and 
straightway prepared a lie*, which even Stupids 
can do with rapidity. Miss Grey was not in — 
Mr. Tliornton was not in — nobody was in. 
Rossitur imperiously demanded if his message 
had reached the young lady. Stupid said there 
could be no doubt of that, for he had given it to 
Mrs. Thornton's maid. 



" Go and sec if there is a message for Mr. 
RosStur," said Leighton, walking into the house 
in so determined a way that Stupid >vas glad to 
put wings to his flight. In searching for the 
maid he managed to upset several chairs and 
break a china vase, but those were trilling mis- 
fortunes. The woman had nothing for Mr. 
Rossitur. Of course Stupid did not betray his 
own lack of faithfulness : back he came to the 
impatient gentleman and said on his own re- 
sponsibility that Miss Grey had gone somewhere, 
he thought with Mr. Thornton, and there was no 
message for any body. 

Rossitur left the house in a furious passion. 
He forgot the really good, manly resolutions he 
had formed during the past months, forgot Eli- 
nor Grey's nobility of soul, and swore inwardly 
that she had been trilling with him and wanted 
to drive him mad. He was as insane as a jeal- 
ous man jn love alone can be. Rossitur's life 
and Rossitur's own nature made him think 
lightly of women in general, and now in his an- 
ger he remembered the venom which the mer- 
maid, Avho looked an angel, had breathed in his 
cars, cursed her for the telling, and included 
Elinor in his animadversions against tlfe sex. 
There certainly was cause for a hasty man to be 
filled with resentment. The book-keeper had 
forgotten to send the card to his room, so that 
he did not know of Elinor's message ; she had 
disregarded his note — gone out without leaving 
any excuse for conduct that would have been 
discourteous toward the commonest acquaint- 
ance. Rossitur never believed in excuses either, 
ami never, when he was angry, could put a fa- 
vorable construction upon actions that appeared 
singular and wait until his friends might ex- 
plain. 

He could only think now that she had pur- 
posely insulted him, and for any thing he knew 
might have gone somewhere to meet that man 
Farnsworth. There was nothing he hesitated 
to think of any body when he was in one of his 
cold rages, during which he would never ac- 
knowledge himself in a passion at all. At 
such times a very fiend seemed to take posses- 
sion of him, forcing him to indulge the most out- 
rageous suspicions in regard to persons whom he 
really loved and honored, and making him utter 
bittcr, horrible speeches which it was almost 
impossible for the most forgiving nature to over- 
look, as more than one woman linked with his 
past could have certified. When the devil left 
him he could scarcely be convinced that he had 
said or done such things, but while the fury was 
at its height he had a horrible pleasure in hurt- 
ing himself by overwhelming his friends with 
abuse and insult. If at that moment he had 
met Elinor Grey, he would have forgotten what 
he risked and given her an exhibition of his 
temper which would have ended their acquaint- 
ance summarily, so it was fortunate that his 
course did not lead him near her. 

lie mounted his horse and rode away, neither 
thinking nor caring which road he took, making 
a tciwpest with his fancies which hid the bright- 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



151 



ness of the morning. The very sky looked 
black — he was cursing himself and Elinor Grey, 
and, more than either, Clive Farnsworth, whom 
at that moment he would have heen willing to 
punish at the expense of every future hope. It 
chanced that as he spurred by Judge Ilamlyn's 
gates the worthy old gentleman was emerging 
therefrom, and called out — 

"Hallo, Rossitur ! Arc you turned into 
the Wild Horseman ? Where are you going ? 
Don't ride me down." 

Rossitur checked his horse, and it being a 
peculiarity of his to be very pleasant to every 
body except the special objects of his rage, he 
returned the Judge's greeting with urbanity. 

"Riding nowhere," said he ; " running away 
from myself. How are you this morning?" 

" I am asyolly as a crow," said the old Judge, 
who was the most charming man of near si^ty 
that can be imagined ; a lion in the court-room 
and the mildest, merriest companion out. "I'm 
going fishing. You must go with me. I want 
company because I'm a witty man and need 
somebody to laugh at my jokes." 

Rossitur was willing ; as well that as any 
thing. 

"Turn up the avenue," said the Judge; 
"we'll leave your horse in my stables and find 
you a rod. I've my lunch in my basket, and 
there's enough for two, and here's a friend like- 
wise," holding up a good-sized wicker flask that 
would have shocked a Son of Temperance or any 
other over-scrupulous individual. 

Rossitur dismounted without more entreaty 
and walked along the carriage-road leading his 
horse, while the Judge trudged beside him in 
great spirits at having secured an agreeable com- 
panion. They disposed of Bucephalus, Rossi- 
tur was provided with the necessary implements 
of slaughter, and they retraced their steps. 
They crossed the road, struck down among the 
fields and made their way toward the brook, 
talking gayly, and,\:arly as it was, Rossitur took 
a pull at the Judge's flask to sec, as he said, if 
it proved worthy of the Judge's encomium. 
Strolling about the brook they met other fisher- 
men, for that stream and its occupants were 
dreadfully tormented by people who ought to 
have had the sense to go off to the Adirondac 
mountains in search of great two-pounders, so 
that the poor trout in Alban Brook could have 
had a little good of their lives instead of perish- 
ing immature dwarfs. 

They fished and they dawdled, they smoked 
and drank, ate and told stories, and about two 
o'clock the impromptu party was increased by 
the arrival of Farnsworth and Tom Thornton, 
attracted by the noise and jollity which had 
driven every trout with a grain of common sense 
in its head into the darkest shelter possible. 
The new-comers were greeted with acclama- 
tions ; Tom Thornton was a favorite with every 
body, and there being no wives or maiden aunts 
near to frown, they were glad to assume the 
old terms of friendliness with Farnsworth. 

" This is a pretty spectacle," exclaimed Tom. 



] " Here's a sight for virtue and morality ! One 
judge, two counsellors, a fat bachelor, and a fu- 
ture president, sitting on the grass smoking, 
drinking, a pack of cards near, so much tobac- 
co-smoke Lthought the woods were on fire, and 
such improper talk going on that the very black- 
birds have got their wings before their faces. 

"Wings be hanged — virtue and morality be 
hanged too," cried the Judge. "Come and sit 
down and take a sip of this, and tell me if it 
wouldn't make an Irishman think it had been 
distilled in Elysium by the hands of St. Pat- 
rick himself." 

Tom sipped and thought it would, and Clive 
took the assertion on credit, not favoring the 
national habit of early sipping. Salutations 
were exchanged ; Farnsworth having seen Ros- 
situr on the preceding day, and having known 
him of old in Washington, spoke cordially and 
did not notice the curt greeting which he re- 
ceived. Baskets were opened and successes 
compared, and Tom had the largest trout any 
basket could produce, whereat the Judge vowed 
he would sue him for trespass because the trout 
was caught in the part of the brook that ran 
through his land. Finally they agreed to try 
which of them could win the prize, and drew 
cards from the pack — first ace to take it. 

" Spade!" shouted the Judge, at the second 
trial. " Ha, ha, Tom Thornton, lay that beauty 
in my basket." 

There was a great deal of laughing and undig- 
nified merriment, then they sat on the grass and 
smoked and told remarkable stories, and Tom and 
the Judge kept the party in convulsions, as they 
usually did when they met. It was lazy weather 
— the shady spot was pleasant — there was no 
further hope of trout that day, so they took kind- 
ly to the dolce far niente style of business, and 
pretty much finished the portly flasks before 
they decided to break up the meeting. 

Clive had been talkative and agreeable too ; 
he was glad to forget the worry and suspicions 
of the past weeks in the genial companionship, 
and was half inclined to think that he might 
have been distressing himself about nothing, 
since the manner of his neighbors was so entire- 
ly unchanged. 

Leighton Rossitur was moody one instant and 
almost boisterously gay the next. He had not 
drank enough to affect him — at least it would 
not have done so at another time — but perhaps 
in the excited state he was, it helped to make 
him more reckless than before and more desirous 
to give vent to the passion seething within. He 
laughed louder than any body at the Judge's 
stories, without having been able to follow them 
enough to catch the point ; he said witty, ab- 
surd things, and was so brilliant that no one re- 
marked his growing more contradictory and 
changeable. 

It chanced that Clive had not actually ad- 
dressed him many times — mere chance, for he 
liked Rossitur ; but the talk was so general and 
fragmentary that it happened without his being 
conscious. Rossitur observed it, and he grew 



153 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



more furious ns ho watched Clive with his si- 
Inil, secretive eyes. This man was jealous of 
him— ho dared to he jealous of Klinor Crey 
ho with a wife, if sho were his wile, whom he 
had picked ii]' among tin- dregs of joeiety, and 
perhaps was as eager for an occasion to betray 
his animosity as Rossitur himself. At a cooler 

moment Rossitur would not have insulted the 

woman he loved by a supposition like that, hut 

the devil had a lino gripe of him and there was 
nothing tOO black for him to believe of the very 

mother that bore him. lie purposely looked at 
Clive while asking some indifferent question; 
(Hive, being at a little distance, did not, observe 

I hat i lie remark was specially addressed to him, 

imi sai playing with the handle of his rod and left 

some one else to answer. Kossitur could have 
taken his oath that it was an intentional slight; 
he had to pass his arm about the sapling against 

which he. leaned and hug it linn and (dose to 

keep himself from making a spring at his ene- 
my's throat, and astonishing the parly by a scene 
from a Corsican drama. He hurst into a dis- 
cordant laugh at some absurd speech Tom 
Thornton made, and began to tell an amusing 
story not in the slightest degree relevant. 

Clive had not noticed that lie was Speaking) 
and broke in upon the first sentence by calling 
after the fat bachelor, who had risen and was 
prying about the trunk of an old hickory-tree 
and thrusting a Stick into the den of some luck- 
less squirrel. Rossitur stopped short. 

'• (Jo mi with your story," said the Judge. 

" 1 shall interrupt Mr. Farnsworth," returned 
Rossitur with elaborate politeness. 

"I he", pardon," said Clive, roused to what 
was being said ; " 1 did not notice that I inter- 
rupted you." 

lie spoke carelessly, hut with pood nature, 

supposing that Kossitur was only momentarily 

annoyed, as the most civil man may he when 
any body breaks the current of a good story. 
As he. said the words, however, he caught Ros- 
situr's glance and was at a loss to account for 
the steely glitter ill his eyes. 

"Come and sit down, you fat bachelor," 
called Tom Thornton. " How would you like 
a bigger animal than you to go prying about 
your deu with a sharp stick P" 

"A bigger animal?" quoth the Judge. 
"Then it would have to he a mogalonyx or 
some exploded creature of that sort." 

" Slop calling me nicknames," cried the fat 
bachelor plaintively. " I'm young and innocent, 
and 1 won't he contaminated by the immorality 
of you married men." 

"Are married men ever immoral?" asked 
Kossitur. 

Again Clivo caught a look which pointed the 
words, hut he, forced himself to think that it 
was his own sensitiveness that made him do so. 

" Prod that bachelor with a cane, somebody," 

said the Judge ; " he is always in the way." 
" He's so huge, poor fellow, he can't help 

it," returned Tom. 

"Oh don't," sighed the fat man, wdio was the 



soul of good-humor; "I haven't my corset on 
to-day, that's wdiat makes me look so." 

They laughed, ami said moro absurd things, 
and the fat bachelor resumed his seat and tried 
to look injured. 

"Now, Rossitur, tell your story," said the 
.Judge. 

"I have forgotten it, "returned he; "you 
shall go unenlightened to your graves. It was 
a good one too." 

"He hadn't any to tell," laughed Tom ; " no 
man ever forgets a good story." 

"You don't yours, Tom," squeaked the fat 
bachelor, " because you have just six, and you'vo 
told them till you know the whole lot by heart, 
and so does every body else." 

" Prod that fat bachelor with a. cane, some- 
body," ordered the Judge once more. 

"(live him a drink," said Tom; " he means 
to he funny — take the will for the deed." 

" Don't you he funny," added the Judge se- 
riously, "or you'll have a fit or something." 

"I won't be prodded with a cane," said the 
fat bachelor, " and I will have a drink ; and you 
shan't abuse me, because I haven't my corset 
on." 

"Talking of stories," said Rossitur, " did you 
read about that French chap who introduced a 
woman as his wife among all the great ladies at 
Rome, and they potted her immensely till some- 
body came on from Paris and recognized her as 
an opera figurante f" 

The speech might have been accidental — Ros- 
situr had lately arrived and might he ignorant 
of the scandal which made his words so unfor- 
tunate in that presence. Tom Thornton and 
the Judge hoth spoke at once and changed the 
conversation. Again Clive tried to make up 
his mind whether Kossitur meant to insult him 
or whether it was a careless remark which in his 
morbidness he felt might he thought applicable 
to himself; for ho knew that if there had been 
gossip there was no story too absurd for repeti- 
tion and belief. 

" 1 suppose we. ought to be getting under 
weigh," said Tom, after he and the Judge had 
effectually led the talk from dangerous ground. 
The Jmlgo acceded, for ho wanted an oppor- 
tunity to warn Rossitur of wdiat was being said 
in the neighborhood. He liked ('live, had heen 
charmed with Ruth, and had kept his stately 
wife from open outbreaks by his disbelief of the 
slanders, lie did not dream that Kossitur knew 
of them and had it in his mind to insult Farns- 
worth, si) he was uneasy until he could put him 

beyond the risk of saying any thing disagreea- 
ble. Rods and baskets were picked up and the 
party sauntered lazily toward the road, worrying 
the fat bachelor, who never heeded it, and dis- 
cussing a variety of trilling matters. They 
came out into the field ami had reached the 
fence and stood talking, when Clive chanced to 
dissent from some political assertion one of tho 
Counsellors made. 

"Ho happens to bo right, however," said Ros- 
situr quickly. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



153 



/ 



"No," returned Clive, without an idea of 
giving offense, "he is entirely in the wrong; I 
have a volume of old state papers in my library 
which will prove it." 
# "Nevertheless, I must venture to persist in 
spite of Mr. Farnsworth's opinion, supported by 
state papers,' 7 said Rossitur in a bitterly ironical 
tone. 

This was the third occasion on which by look 
or word Mr. Rossitur had almost insulted him ; 
beginning to feel certain that it could not be 
wholly accidental, Clive's own temper rose. 
"Your persistence will not change facts, Mr. 
Rrs.situr," said he politely enough, but in atone 
which showed that he did not mean to draw 
b ick from the ground he had taken. 
< "Nor will your assertion move them," said 
/lossitur. 

"That is possible ; but as I can show the proof, 
/why I repeat that the counsellor and yourself 
are mistaken." 

" I dare say I am," said the counsellor hasti- 
ly, made a little restless, as were the rest of the 
party, by the tone Avhich the conversation was 
assuming. 

" Easiest thing in the world to be mistaken," 
cried the Judge. 

"Don't I know that ?" added the fat bachelor, 
executing a pirouette ; willing to be ridiculous 
if that would restore the general good nature. 
"I am always mistaken, and I am always positive 
—I like to be." 

Every body laughed ; Clive recovered his 
equanimity and thought lie had been to blame, 
and wished to avoid further discussion. Rut 
before any one could turn the topic Rossitur said 
with dogged quiet — 

" I am never mistaken when I am positive, 
and in this case I am so. Mr. Farnsworth, 
you will have to admit that I am right." 

" I shall admit no such thing," exclaimed 
Clive hotly. "We can easily settle which is 
right." 

"Assertion is not argument," returned Ros- 
situr. 

"It must necessarily be a matter of opin- 
ion with each until we can get at proof," said 
Clive. " Now my opinion is not changed by your 
assertion, which, as you said, is not argument." 
" Probably your opinion is valuable to your- 
self," returned Rossitur in a civil tone, with an 
insolent smile which belied his voice. 

" Every man's is to himself, I suppose," said 
Clive. 

" And some men's to no one else," retorted 
Rossitur, the inward fury growing hotter till he 
saw sparks dance before his eyes. 

" Fortunately neither you nor I believe that of 
ourselves," replied Clive. 

" Who does?" exclaimed Tom, like the 
others ready to break in and end the silly al- 
tercation. " I eay, Judge, how will your hay 
look this season ?" 

The Judge entered into an elaborate reply, 
but before he was half through he discovered 
that the two men were still talking. Rossitur had 



given vent to more bitter irony and Farnsworth 
had answered. There were several hot speeches 
on either side, then Clive, recollecting himself 
and the absurdity of allowing a quarrel to grow 
out of a trifle like that, said courteously — 

" After all, Mr. Rossitur, it is too warm weath- 
er for discussions ; I move that we adjourn this." 
" The better plan," said the Judge. " Quito 
too warm to have an opinion on any subject." 

" Mr. Farnsworth insults me and then says 
wo have talked enough," exclaimed Rossitur, 
not making any further attempt to restrain his 
passion. 

" I certainly had no intention of insulting 
you," replied Clive, " and I am at a loss to see 
how I have." 

"What did you mean by the known tend- 
encies of Washington officials ?" 

"Just what I said — you could not possibly 
apply it to yourself." 

" Come, come, young men," cried the Judge, 
secretly uneasy but affecting to laugh, " not an- 
other word. You are probably both right and 
both wrong." 

" And the matter is of no consequence either 
way," added Tom. 

" If I was hasty I beg to apologize, Mr. Ros- 
situr," said Clive. 

Now under ordinary circumstances Rossitur 
was a man of polished manners, but, as I said, 
kwhen he got into one of his cold rages he went 
insane, and he was so now. "I regard Mr. 
Farnsworth's apology as little as I do his opin- 
ion," he exclaimed. " Nor can the opinion of 
a man be very valuable who has been trying to 
imitate the French dancer's affair of which I 
spoke." 

The words fell like a bomb-shell among the 
party — the Judge looked pale with horror — 
Tom Thornton grasped his rod tight in his hand 
— none of the spectators knew what to say. 

It was well that Clive Farnsworth had re- 
flected and was prepared for an emergency. His 
first impulse was to knock the speaker down, but 
quick as lightning came the thought that any 
act of violence would ruin Ruth. He said 
quietly — 

" I do not understand how that can apply to 
me." 

"The rest of us do, at all events," retorted 
Rossitur, "and I say it makes your opinion of 
no worth." 

" A little explanation is necessary to make 
me understand," said Clive, keeping firm hold 
of his composure, recollecting that if he could 
pass this crisis without giving way to anger, he 
might crush at once whatever slander was 
abroad. 

"There's no explanation wanted," cried Tom 
Thornton ; ' ' Mr. Rossitur must have kissed the 
whisky-flask too often." 

Rossitur paid no attention ; he had no objec- 
tion to quarrelling with Tom Thornton, but he 
would finish this matter first. " I can make it 
clear," said he ; "I mean that is what you have 
been doing." 



1M 



MY DAIMJII II.1C KLINOK. 



Farnsworth did in bound toward him, 

momentarily forgetful of every thing but the 
desire to punish die insuli, but the Judge step- 
ped between and pushed him resolutely back. 
" Don't be a fool I" ho exclaimed. "Rossitur, 
are 3 ou mad ?" 

" Let Mr. Farnsworth alone," cried Rossitur ; 
" l am (|uiie ready to Bupport my assertion in 

any Way necessary." 

The Judge's e nun-sense proceeding re- 
stored Olive's reason. "The assertion is not 
applicable," said ho, "therefore 1 have nothing 
to resent." 

"It is a pity your neighbors could not l>o 
made to think so," .sneered Rossitur. "They 
won't visit your house, and they give that as die 

reason." 

" My house contains no inmate except my 
wife," said Clivo, forcing himself to speak culm 
'y. 

" Who isn't your wife I" 

Glive was master of the situation. He could 
afford to be calm there could no imputation 
of cowardice or guill attach to him now. "So 

people have hcen Baying Such things, have they, 
■ I mice I lainh II ?" he asked. 

"Oh, there's been gossip," said the Judge in 
confusion. "There is aboul every body." 
"And women will talk," said Thornton. 

"And they have talked of niv wife? Yes, I 



do know what gossips' tongues are. Gentlemen, < the nectar too early this morning. 



there is no woman, your wife 01' mine, who es 
Capes. Let mo say only that I have one; that, 
there is no cause for slander unless what I may 
have given by leaving her alone lor a time, and 

she "as noble enough to pardon my dishonor- 
able treatment." 

Rossitur's brain cleared he saw what he had 

done in his passion. Now it was ten to one he 
was on the high-road to a duel; the loss of 

Elinor Grej and irremediable harm to half his 

future hopes would follow. lie stood irresolute, 

longing to Bpring at Olive's throat, trying to re- 
strain his rage. 

"Those few words settle and explain everv 

thin;'., Farnsworth," exclaimed the Judge. " 1 
am glad you have spoken." 

"The women are already ashamed of their 
nonsense," said Tom, "so lei, it die a natural 

death." 

"Let. it,'' relumed ( 'live ; "I mil not, at all 
afraid of being called a coward, and I have no 
intention of giving Stability to the slanders by 
acting as if they were true." 



the gossip— which never was of any conse- 
quence is killed already. Miss (irey heard of 
it, and as Mrs. Karnsworth was an old friend of 
hers she was aide lo set, the female minds at, 

rest." 

" And no woman, if she were u queen, could 
have a higher title to respect than the friend- 
ship of Miss (irey," said the Judge, lifting' his 
hat. like a gallant old knight, as lie was. 

The Counsellors agreed, the fat, bachelor who 

hated to see people quarrel agreed, and they 

made a chorus of praise. 

" Why was no man among my old neighbors 
enough my friend to conic and tell mo?" de- 
manded ( 'live. 

" ( >h, it's so difficult to tell such things," re- 
turned Thornton. "It's all over, ('live. My 
wile just, sent for Miss (irey, knowing that, she 
could tell the WOinen the rights of the matter." 

"Not, worth another thought," added the 

Judge; "nothing is so dolefully dead as re- 
futed gossip." 

Rossitur had stood silent- uncertain how to 
act. " Mr. Rossitur," said ( Hive, " in your an- 
ger you tried to insult moj it is impossible that, 
I should insult my wife even by replying to 
your coarse speech — " 

" Which he didn't, mean," interrupted tlio 

Judge. " Rossitur is a gentleman so are we 

all, I hope. 1 dare say he and I hoth tested 



"Then he can say so," cried Thornlon. 

Rossitur glared; he wanted to quarrel with 
liim now ; hut, he was in a position which would 
make the Maine recoil upon himself. " I don't 
need any man to teach me," he said haughtily. 
" If Mr. farnsworth chooses to resent my words 
he knows his remedy if he chooses to he con- 
tent, with my saying that I am satisfied, like 
these other gentlemen, ami am glad my words 
need an apology, well and good." 

" I do not choose lo resent them," said ('live, 
"mid I have given my reason. 1 ' 

" Which is enough," said Tom. 

" Perfectly satisfactory," said the Judge, ami 

they all repeated it. "Come, you two young- 
fellows, just, think no more ahout. the mailer. 
As for any talk of duels, 1 have only to say that 

if you were idiots enough to contemplate one, I 

and the whole neighborhood would manage to 
pul a Btop to it: don't Intend to lose two good 
men for a little absurdity." 

" And Mr. liossitur's apology renders horse- 
whipping out of the question," said Thornton, 



•■ ii onlj remains for Mr. Rossitur to apolo- unable to keep back that thrust. 



' said Thornlon 
"One word, gentlemen," continued (dive. 
" YOU are my friends: I have to say that your 
wives and the wives of ail of my neighbors must 
slop now and forever, or you must he responsi 
ble. I have denied the slanders and am ready 
to prove their falsily." 

"As for my wife," cried the Judge, going 



" I don't think I am the sort of man that 

ever stands iii danger of such punishment, Mr. 

Thornton," returned he. " Do you propose to 

transfer Mr. Karnsworth's quarrel to \ ourself ?'" 

" Farnsworth is my friend ami his quarreln 

are mine," returned hot-headed Tom. 

" Thank you," said dive, shaking liis hand ; 
" luit 1 believe no one ever accused me v( shrink- 



back to his Constantia's first opinion, " she eon- ing from my part." 

siders yours an angel." " Hold your tongues, the whole lot of yon," 

"And so does miue," said Thornton, "Hut shouted the Judge. "Von are three of the 



MY DAUGHTER ELLNOIi. 



155 



oonfoinulcdcst idiots I ever saw in my life. 
The mutter is ended. Come, I'm old enough 
to be umpire." 

"No going back from your decision," cried 
the counsellors. 

"Then, young men, shake hands and thereby 
own the mutter is over and forgotten." 

("live held out his hand— Kossitnr took it. 

•'That's all right," said the .Judge. 

"And now that it is over," added Tom, "I 
am Kind it happened— it settled every thing." 

Kossitnr could huve beaten his own head 
against the stone wall. It was the first time in 
his life he had done a really contemptible thing, 
and he had not been able to carry it oil' by mak- 
ing the consequences serious. 

"It is getting late," said the Judge. "I 
move we go home. I say, Clive, my wife and 
I will be over to-morrow ; she wants to sec your 
new shrubs." 

"Always happy to sec you both," returned 

Clive. 

"Any body going to invite me anywhere?" 
demanded the fat bachelor plaintively, to raise 
a laugh. 

"I'll give you a dinner out of pity, you fat 
monster," said Tom. 

" And I another," added the Judge. 

"And Farnsworth, will you promise lunch- 
eons innumerable?" asked the bachelor. " I'm 
lone and little and—" They were all laughing, 
but bis nonsense and their merriment were 
checked by a sudden clatter, rattle and bang. 

(Hive farnsworth was close to the wall and 
first saw what occasioned the tumult. Aclose car- 
riage drawn by two frightened horses which the 
coachman was unable to control in the least, some 
break in the harness having left the reins useless 
in his hands, was dashing at a fearful pace down 
the little hill. The speed of thcanimals increased 
with every baund, threatening imminent dan- 
ger, perhaps death, to any occupant the vehicle 
might have. Quick as a Hash Clive leaped over 
the wall and sprang before the terrified creatures 
brandishing his rod ; they swerved and plunged 
aside— he caught the bits in a firm grasp, not 
stopping the astonished brutes by main force as 
people do in novels and nowhere else, but with 
happy presence of mind backing them till one 
of the fore-wheels caught between two friendly 
young trees which held horses and carriage 
fast. As he did this, a face appeared at the 
window— a woman's face, pale and tearless. It 
was Elinor Grey's. 

The other men hurried to his aid ; the driver, 
with his powers of action restored, sprang down 
from his box ; the horses were quieted enough 
to be content with expressing their fears by a 
few snorts and kicks, and Miss Grey was helped 
out of the carriage. 



CHAPTER XXX. 

now in i: ADVENTURE HAPPENED, 

Elinob Gkky drove down to the Lake House 
according to her intention; the long-tailed po- 
nies submitting to her guidance' with exemplary 
amiability and the tiger resting in stale, behind, 
with his buttons more prominent than ever. 
She went into the hotel, and while waiting in 
one of the great, glaring, uncomfortable parlors 
for Mrs. Pifflt's appearance, she heard a weeping 
and wailing and great gnashing of teeth in the 
hall. 

It was Eugenia Honora Arabella Dunlavy, 

the maiden who bad subdued Mrs. I'il'lit on her 
arrival, that caused the tumult, for she bad fall- 
en upon another evil hour in a life replete with 
vicissitudes and misfortunes. Honora had been 

accused of theft by somebody not capable of ap- 
preciating her virtues or position, and had at 
first loudly asserted her innocence and threaten- 
ed to take the law of the land against the person 
who had wronged a pure-minded young creature ; 
but when the landlord was (idled up and the 
choice given her of restoring the stolen articles 
or being sent to jail, she concluded to produce 
them. At present she was prepared to leave the 
house : she had brought her trunk into the hall 
and was waiting for a porter to carry it out. 
She sat upon it with her feet on her bandbox 
and a small mountain of bundles in her lap, and 
having solaced herself with a private potation, 
was overcome by a sense of her afflictions, and 
to the amusement of the black waiters began 
keening as loudly and dolefully as if the trunk 
and tin- budgets were the coflins that held her 
entire family and she keeping a private wake over 
their loss. " Och, me charaktcr — bring mc 
back mc charaktcr! I'm a poor, lone gurl, and 
its a burnnin' shame to trate mc so. Oh, that 
iver I've lived to be suspicted — och hone ! <Jh, 
the wicked wurled !" Then she waxed indignant 
and shrieked — " I'll be down upon 'em. Is it 
mc they'd accuse ;\ born in the County Clare of a 
high family that ought to be at the queen's coort 
av me mother had had her rights ! Projuce the 
slantherers and I'll crush them— oh dear, oh 
murthcr ! oh the dirrty Yankees!" 

Somebody at that, juncture seemed to be for- 
cibly ejecting her from the hall, and her shrieks 
and her language were appalling, but as she was 
carried down stairs her voice rose in a last en- 
treaty— "Mc cha-raktcr— give back me chn-rak- 
ter! A poor lone crayture, bom in County 
Clare of a high family that ought to be a t the 
queen's coort av me mother bad her rights." 

Elinor walked away to the inner room in hopes 
to get beyond the sound of the painful yet lu- 
dicrous scene. 

In the mean time Mrs. Prffit was in a state of 
intense excitement and delight at this unexpect- 
ed visit. She rushed into Mrs. Ralston's parlor 
to tell her that— "MissCirey— hmf! hmf I— Sec 
retary's daughter— come to call on me— dear 
friend of mine— hmf! hint'! How do I look?" 

Now the Ralston would have given shekels 



15G 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



and gems to be on speaking terms with Miss 
Grey, and she told Piffit to make use of that par- 
lor as if it was her own, because she was going 
out — meaning to come back and have an oppor- 
tunity to meet the visitor. 

Piffit was delighted, and could not wait to 
send a servant down to find Miss Grey. Away 
she hopped, sniffing and spluttering and begin- 
ning her salutations, according to her habit, long 
before she reached the person for whom they 
were intended, so that by the time her short-sight 
had discovered Elinor, she was panting and puff- 
ing in the most breathless manner. 

"Miss Grey! How do you do? So glad! 
Heard you'd come — meant to call — very kind of 
you to hunt me up. Sit down — do sit down — 
oh no, don't ! Come up stairs — got a private 
parlor — always like to be comfortable — never 
mind expense. How do you do? This way." 

She sniffed and hissed till Elinor expected her 
to suffocate and was obliged to follow without 
having been able to open her mouth. 

The private parlor reached, Mrs. Piffit was so 
anxious to make her comfortable and do her hon- 
or that she pulled three arm-chairs toward her at 
once, and danced about like a magpie with a 
game leg, still shouting out broken words of wel- 
come. 

"So gla>l — dear Miss Grey — Secretary's 
daughter — such pleasure ! Take this chair — no, 
this is better — private parlor — always do — never 
mind expense. Sit down — sit down — hmf ! hmf ! 
Chair easy — take another? Hmf! hmf!'" 

"Thank you, I am quite comfortable," said 
Elinor, finding an opportunity to speak as Piffit's 
voice at length sank into a series of sniffs from 
lack of breath. "I called to see you about a 
matter which I have very much at heart and — " 

" So glad to help," broke in Piffit. "Any 
thing I can do to oblige you, Miss Grey — notices 
— letters — you know me. Always ready to help. 
Tell me what you want — take some notes now so 
I won't forget." She pulled a stumpy pencil and 
a slip of brownish-white paper from her pocket. 

" There ,is nothing to be written," said Eli- 
nor; " yon may put up your writing materials, 
Mrs. Piffit." 

Something in her tone startled Piffit, but she ; 
did not connect its import with herself. " What ! 
is it ? What is it ?" she sniffed. " So glad if 
I can do the least thing for you, Miss Grey; ; 
so much respect — not blind worshiper of posi- : 
tion — got position myself, he ! he ! But Secre- 
tary's daughter — young lady of such celebrity ! 
Oh, what is it?" 

" If you will listen a moment I will tell you," 
said Elinor. 

' ' Listening now — dying to hear. Any wom- 
an you want helped ? Always stand by my sex 
— I'm a Presbyterian." 

"You are right in part," continued Elinor. 
"I came to speak to you in regard to a lady." 

" Husband been abusing her? . Always do — 
nasty things — men, ugh ! I'll expose him — 
tell me all about it — expose him as sure as my 
name is Piffit! Tell him I'm on hand — say 



[I'm after him — Mrs. Piffit, the writer — every 
body knows me — hmf! hmf!" 

Elinor saw that decided words alone would 
stem the torrent of ejaculations and inquiries. 
"It is not her husband who has done the 
wrong," said she. 

"Who is it? Tell me quick! I'll help- 
Mrs. Piffit, the writer — who's abused her?" 

"You for one, Madam," returned Elinor in 
her iciest voice and with a level glance from the 
gray eyes which one needed to be very frank 
and honest to encounter. 

Mrs. Piffit sank back in her chair aghast, and 
comparison fails — there is no possibility of de- 
scribing what her sniffs and puffs and strangled 
breathings were like. " Never abuse any body," 
she squealed ; " I'm a Presbyterian." 

"Then I hope you will remember the virtue 
of charity," said Elinor. 

" So I do — give lots — not a bit stingy — hmf! 
hmf!" 

" I did not mean that ; I meant charity in 
regard to believing and uttering slanderous re- 
ports about other women." 

"Always do — always am," sniffed Piffit. 
" Somebody's been telling lies about me. Don't 
believe 'em, Miss Grey ; — writers are always 
lied about. Never slander any body — why, I'm 
a—" 

"I want you to listen," interrupted Elinor 
frigidly. 

" So I will — so I do — Presbyterian!" gasped 
Piffit, determined to finish her sentence if she 
choked in the effort. 

"There have been injurious reports abroad 
in regard to a friend of mine and — " 

" The wretches ! Friend of yours ? Ought 
to be burnt. Such a wicked world ! I'll ex- 
pose 'em — depend on me, Miss Grey. I'm Mrs. 
Piffit, the writer— I'll be after them." 

Elinor perceived that she was losing her tem- 
per, and the only way to deal with the creature 
was to be outwardly self-possessed. "If you 
will be careful how you help such reports, I 
shall be satisfied, Mrs. Piffit," said she. 

"Never said a word about one of your friends 
— never, Miss Grey! Somebody's been telling 
lies— I'll be after them." 

Elinor went on, heedless of her interruption. 
"You have invented, or at least repeated, the 
most atrocious slanders in regard to Mrs. Farns- 
worth. I have come to tell you that she is my 
friend and to ask your proofs.'' 

Mrs. Piffit did not attempt to interrupt; she 
gave one snort and fell back in her chair limp 
and terrified. 

" You who are a writer, who talk so much 
about helping your sister-women, know better 
than any one what a serious affair a suit for 
slander and defamation of character is, Mrs. 
Piffit," pursued Elinor, taking advantage of her 
breathless fright and perceiving at once that the 
woman's cowardice would make the victory 
easy. 

" I want your proofs — your sources of infor- 
mation — perhaps you will find it easier to give 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



157 



them to me here privately than in a court-room 
with newspaper people to take down every 
word." 

"Oh, oh! Hmf! hmf!" squealed Piffit. 
" Never said a word— don't know Mrs. Farns- 
worth. Somebody's told stories— oh, oh ! I'm 
a Presbyterian." 

" Then the more shame for you to have been 
guiltv of such wickedness,'' continued her judge. 
" It "is useless to take refuge in denial, Mrs. 
Pimt ; I warn you of that." 

"Never said a word — oh, where's a Bible? 
Who said I had ?" groaned Piffit, looking about 
with a vague idea of attempting her escape at 
least beyond the overpowering light of those 

eyes. 

* " Mrs. Hackett told me for one," said Elinor, 
"and is quite ready to persist in her assertion." 
" Oh, oh ! Never said any more than other 
people any way. Now do believe me, Miss Grey. 
I heard the stories ; maybe I've talked, but I 
didn't mean to— oh, do believe me." 

"I will when you prove that you did not in- 
vent the tales yourself," said Elinor. 

"I never invent. Mean to be careful. Oh 
dear me, don't let any body sue me. I've got 
no money— oh, oh, oh !" Piffit fairly gave way 
at last, and cried like a dumpy wooden doll 
with a squeal in it, and sniffed and spluttered 
till any body outside would have thought a 
shower-bath was in active operation in the room. 
She was reduced to the precise state of distress 
and terror in which Elinor desired to see her 
plunged— the threat of a suit wherein she might 
lose money, moved Piffit's inmost soul. "Oh, 
Miss Grey, don't let 'em ! Tell Mrs. Farns- 
worth I never did — didn't mean to, anyhow. 
I'm a sister-writer, like her husband. Oh, I'll 
go away — I ain't going to bear the blame. 
They've all talked— the whole of them— all the 
women in the neighborhood — " 

"But unfortunately you have been very active, 
Mrs. Piffit," interrupted Elinor, "and the most 
venomous of the stories have been traced direct- 
ly to you." 

' ' Oh, what can I do ? I won't be sued— I've 
no money— I'd go to jail first. I'm a writer— I 
can't bear such things. I'm a widow woman and 
a Presbyterian." 

"If you did not invent these stories, from 
whom did you hear them ?" demanded Elinor. 
" I've said no more than the rest — I won't 
be browbeaten. Oh, it's a shame, when I'm a 
widow and a writer and a — " % 

" Woman who calls herself a Christian, and 
does work at which a fiend might shudder, un- 
der that holy name," said Elinor Grey, again 
interrupting and making Mrs. Piffit feel as if 
the voice was raining a slow shower of hail- 
stones upon her. 

"Oh, oh! Mf! mf! Sniff! sniff! Ugh! ugh!" 
Only these interjections can give the faintest 
idea of the noise which she made in her dis- 
tress. 

" Tears will be of no avail, Mrs. Piffit, at 
present," said Elinor; "when you have con- 



fessed you may weep. I hope they will be 
tears of repentance at your wickedness." 

"I didnt mean to be wicked ; do believe me, 
Miss Grey. I never made the stories up — she 
told me. — Oh Lord, now she'll sue me too — she 
said she would — oh, oh !»" 

Piffit was so near a fit by this time that El- 
inor thought a little relief might be offered 
and the desired information more quickly ob- 
tained. " Who threatened ? Mrs. Piffit, if you 
will give me your authority for these slanders I 
promise to stand between you and harm." 

' ' Honest ? And I needn't pay ? I shan't be 
sued?" 

" I give you my word of honor." 
"There, then! It was Miss Laidley — any 
way, the old yellow woman — and Miss Laidley 
made her tell. Call her an angel — angel of 
darkness — getting me into trouble — oh, oh!" 
And Piffit wept more quietly. 

The Angel was at the bottom of the matter 
after all ! 

"Tell me exactly what she said, Mrs. Piffit," 
pursued Elinor. " The only way to clear your- 
self is to repeat word for word as you heard the 
stories." 

" It was the yellow woman — Miss Laidley 
made her tell — said she was so innocent herself 
— don't let her sue me ! Couldn't make out 
how the old brown thing knew — don't let that 
go against me ! She mixed every thing up so — 
seemed to be a letter from somebody or she 
overheard something." 

"Try and recollect what they said, Mrs. Pif- 
fit. Don't cry any more just now, if you 
please," continued Elinor with inquisitorial 
calmness, and Piffit was growing so much afraid 
of her that she dried her eyes and tried to check 
her sniffs while she told her story. 

When she had finished she began to howl — 
" Don't let her sue me — you promised — I've no 
mon ey — I'm a writer and a widow woman and 
a — " From force of habit she was going to add 
the claim to piety, but the inappropriateness of 
the word under the present circumstances struck 
even her, and she paused. 

"You shall not be troubled, Mrs. Piffit," 
said Elinor. "But I warn you that you must 
tell no more stories, and you must inform your 
acquaintance here in the hotel that you were 
mistaken." 

" I will, I will ! I'm going away anyhow. 
Oh, Miss Grey, I never would have said a word ; 
never do talk about people — that's my rule- 
been for years—" 

"Be careful and not break it again," said 
Miss Grey. 

" So glad it isn't true ! What a wretch that 
girl is!" 

"You will not mention Miss Laidley's name, 
remember that," said Elinor. "If you do, I 
retract my promise." 

"Oh, good. Lord!" groaned Piffit, falling 
back in the chair from which she had partially 
risen. "I'll be deaf and dumb— I won't men- 
tion any body's name— don't want to speak again 



158 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



for a month. I'm going away — it's a nasty 
place and I won't stay. I've my duties ; I'm a 
writer— I'm a Fashion Editor— Mr. Holly knows 
me— every body knows me— ugh, ugh, oh !" 

She was sobbing bitterly again when the door 
opened and Jack Ralston's wife sailed into the 
room, determined to try if she could not estab- 
lish a speaking acquaintance with Miss Grey. 
" Why, Mrs. Piffit !" she exclaimed in astonish- 
ment. " What is the matter ? Oh, you have a 
visitor ? Dear me, it is Miss Grey ! I am happy 
to see you. " She had not been young for the last 
seven years ; perhaps in her girlhood she had 
been handsome, but now she was a bony, bold- 
eyed woman, who rouged beyond all decency. 

Miss Grey rose to go, and gave Mrs. Ralston 
the coldest and most annihilating of bows; she 
would not speak— she had an unconquerable 
aversion to tlie woman— the bold eyes and the 
false mouth with its ghastly smiles filled her 
with loathing. 

But Piffit shook herself and cried between 
her sobs— "You've talked too— you, Mrs. Ral- 
ston ! Here, now, it isn't true ! You're not to 
say a word more about Mrs. Farnsworth. We'll 
all be sued, and you'll have to sell your dia- 
monds to pay." 

Elinor had begun to move toward the door as 
Mrs. Ralston advanced, perfectly unconscious 
of her presence after that slight salutation. 

The woman Avas filled with wrath at this 
treatment, and when Mrs. Piffit spoke, her 
crafty wit understood at once that the visitor 
had been trying to take the Farnsworth side; 
and since she could not conciliate Miss Grey 
she would show her that she was not to be in- 
timidated or silenced. "What do you mean, 
Mrs. Piffit?" called she. "Are you speaking 
of that creature up at Clive Farnsworth's house ? 
Then please not to name such people in my 
presence ; I am a married woman, and no 
longer a girl, but I've some modesty left yet." 
Elinor moved on toward the door. 
"You'll be sued! You'll be sued— you'll 
have to pay!" howled Piffit, whose mind was 
most impressed by the loss which might happen 
to their pockets. 

" I am quite'able," said Mrs. Ralston. " I 
am not to be frightened or bought off. I 
shall say what I like. It is a shame for a creat- 
ure like that to be tolerated in the neighbor- 
hood." 

Still on her way to the door, Elinor reflected 
— this adder would be more venomous than 
ever if she were not crushed. Even to help 
Ruth, Elinor could not be on speaking terms. 
"A bad, vile woman," pursued Mrs. Ralston. 
" Don't, don't !" moaned Piffit. " You'll be 
sued — we'll all be sued— and I've no monev, 
and I'm a widow." 

" I shall speak my mind freely, here and ev- 
erywhere," returned Mrs. Ralston ; « I am not 
afraid, whoever may try to uphold the guilty 
wretch." 

Elinor had reached the door— her hand was 
on the knob— Mrs. Ralston was in the middle 



of the room glaring at her. As she uttered 
those words Elinor ran back — it was so quicklv 
done that it seemed to her after she had no will 
in the matter — she stood before the woman and 
repeated in a low, rapid voice — "A cottage at 

Vevay — a summer of roses — ten years ago 

and Tom Thornton's compliments." She had 
not looked at the woman while she spoke ; as 
she paused she heard a scream. The Ralston 
dropped on an ottoman, from there to the 
hearth-rug, and went off in hysterics, drumming 
her feet against the fender and groaning, while 
Mrs. Piffit howled a chorus in the easy-chair. 

Elinor took one glance at the absurd tableau 
and ran away, fairly frightened at her own work. 
She had not had much hope in Tom's oracular 
words, and the overwhelming effect they pro- 
duced was startling. She went down stairs and 
was met by the tiger, who told her that one of 
the ponies had cast a shoe and he had taken 
him to the blacksmith's for repairs. Elinor 
could not wait, and she sent him off to procure 
a carriage in which she might return without 
further delay. 

As soon as she was on the road back, she 
forgot the closing scene of the tragical farce in 
thinking of Miss Laidley. The instant that 
Mrs. Piffit mentioned her complicity in the mat- 
ter, and, indeed, showed that she was in reality 
the author of the slanders, a sudden light broke 
on Elinor's mind. Genevieve Laidley had read 
the letter from Ruth which lay in Elinor's 
writing-desk. That morning when she kindly 
sought for it in Coralie's absence she had taken 
the opportunity to examine the contents, having 
in some way discovered the secret spring which 
opened it. She had read that letter— had per- 
ceived there was some mystery — had been una- 
ble to penetrate it thoroughly, or had made her 
account purposely vague that in case of discov- 
ery the means by which she obtained her infor- 
mation might remain concealed. 

Elinor thought of her with more pity than 
indignation ; it was painful to be forcedto be- 
lieve any girl so false and contemptible. She 
tried to forget all about the miserable business 
and all the miserable people connected with it. 
She was tired after that subjugation of the en- 
emy and wanted to get away even from herself, 
with the feeling of contamination which a pure 
woman must have when brought into actual 
contact with that which is mean and vile. She 
remembered the letter which she had written 
on the preceding night— she recollected that on 
the morrow Leighton Rossitur would come for 
his answer. She began to tremble a little and 
to feel her hands grow cold, but she assured 
herself that was ridiculous nervousness and she 
must effectually stop such folly or she should be 
taking to spasms and hysterical weaknesses be- 
fore she knew where she was. 

Yes, on the morrow he would come for his an- 
swer, and she was glad that the season of indecis. 
ion was over — very glad. She repeated the 
words aloud as though her mind had been an 
unbelieving stranger whom she was determined 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



159 



to convince by her firmness and persistency. 
She thought how it would all come about. She 
should put the letter in his hands and go away ; j 
after reading it he would understand how shy 
she felt in the unfamiliar position, and with his 
usual generosity would spare her any exhibition 
of triumph— any love-making for a time — till 
she became accustomed to the new life, habitu- 
ated to the idea that she was no longer queen of 
her soul, that with her own hand she had set a 
seal upon her freedom. But that last reflection 
was unfortunate ; it made her head whirl and 
the absurd tremor come back, and she wanted to 
get on to the house to be relieved from her own 
society. 

At that instant the carriage gave a lurch from 
a sudden bound the horses made ; she heard a 
clatter among the harness — a shout from the 
coachman trying to control the animals by his 
voice, through which pierced a sharp fear and 
dismay— then a spring— a dash ; she knew that 
the frightened creatures were rushing on at the 
top of their speed, and her mind quickly took 
in the full danger. She did not shriek or weep ; 
she settled herself firmly in her seat and tried to 
be calm. At each instant the horses bounded 
more rapidly along. Through the open win- 
dows she could catch glimpses of familiar turns 
in the road, and the feeling came over her which 
is said to possess the minds of* drowning persons. 
Like a landscape made plain to its slightest de- 
tail, her whole life swept before her, and, most 
vividly of all, she saw the group of maple-trees 
on the hill, where during the bright days of the 
past summer she had sat while Clive Farnsworth 
read his tragedy to her. She thought of Rosa 
and Tom— of Ruth— of those who would grieve 
for her— and then forgot every body else in the 
recollection of her father and the frightful agony 
in store for him. There had been broken pray- 
ers for relief mingling half unconsciously with 
those whirling fancies which seemed so long in 
their duration, but now Elinor only remembered 
her father— she only prayed that he might be 
helped to bear this blow. 

A new rush and dash— the cry of many voices 
as it sounded to her — a sudden swaying of the 
carriage which she believed the commencement 
of its destruction— then she became conscious 
that the motion of the vehicle was checked, only 
the struggles of the horses shook it in their ef- 
forts to free themselves. She looked out of the 
window and saw Clive Farnsworth and fell back 
in her seat, for the first time faint and strength- 
less, yet with an undefined sense of safety and 
protection in his presence. She saw the group 
of men jump over the wall and hurry up ; some- 
body opened the door— she heard Tom Thorn- 
ton's voice cry, "Great heaven, Elinor, is it 
you?" She tried to rise, to speak, to put out 
"her hand — she was not weak from fear or the 
reaction, she was only thinking of Clive Farns- 
worth's face as it met hers. 

" Elinor, are you hurt?" Tom repeated. 
Another face appeared at the door and Leigh- 
ton Rossitur was uttering her name. She 



roused herself as if that voice had brought her 
out of a strange dream, brought her back to the 
real life. "lam not hurt," she said, somewhat 
faintly; "help me out, Tom." 

Rossitur made an effort to be first, but Tom 
thrust him quickly aside, lifted Elinor from the 
carriage and seated her on a log with her back 
against the stone wall, almost beside himself 
with horror, and calling dismally, "Are you 
sure you're not hurt ? Oh, Elinor, Elinor !" 

The great strong fellow was tender-hearted as 
a woman, and he was very near crying, hanging 
over her, ordering the rest to bring a medley of 
impossible things, and vituperating the coach- 
man and horses in broken sentences at which he 
would be the first to laugh when the excitement 
was over. 

" I'm not hurt, Tom, I'm not hurt," Elinor 
said, but her head was still dizzy and she leaned 
against the wall, holding Tom's hand fast. 

The Judge and the two counsellors and Leigh- 
ton Rossitur and the fat bachelor were all about 
her, all suggesting remedies at once and being as 
helpless and absurd as men generally are in the 
presence of a woman who is faint or ill, but 
Clive Farnsworth was busy helping the coach- 
man unhitch the horses from the carriage and 
did not approach. 

Rossitur saw a little spring in the field — he 
ran to it— filled the cup of a brandy-flask with 
water and brought it to her. ' ' Drink this, Miss 
Grey, "he said, in a tremulous voice. 

Shp opened her eyes and saw him bending 
over her ; he was pale and agitated ; she felt in- 
stinctively how he suffered, but the cold tremor 
came back and took away the faintness. She 
accepted the cup, drank the water and prepared 
to be sensible. She was not in dream-land— she 
was not killed — she was in the world, the dull, 
actual world, and this man who was to be the 
most prominent feature in her future life stood 
beside her. "I am quite well now," she said, 
looking about at the frightened group and man- 
aging a smile for their benefit. ' ' I am not 
going to faint or make a scene. How do you do, 
Judge Hamlyn?" 

The old knight caught her hand and kissed it 
and exclaimed, and they all exclaimed divers 
absurd things. 

Elinor wanted to get away, to have a good cry, 
as the strongest woman would after such danger 
and excitement, but she was determined not to 
be a goose, so she braced herself against the 
wall and held Tom's hand close and tried to re- 
assure them by her seeming composure. " You 
foolish old Tom," said she, with a poor little 
smile ; "I am quite safe." 

" I'd have dashed my brains out against the 
wall if any thing had happened," exclaimed 
Tom, with' a suspicious gurgle in his throat. 
"What could I have said to Rosa and Mr. 
Grey ?" 

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Rossitur," con- 
tinued Elinor, holding outlier hand as he stood 
by her, while Tom gasped at the bare possibili- 
ty of what he might have had to communicate 



1(50 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



to the friend and parent till he was more alarm- 
ed still. 

Rossitur took her hand and tried to speak, but 
could only say, "I can't believe you are safe yet." 

Some way, the chill which grew more per- 
ceptible and seemed creeping about her very 
heart, made Elinor calm and self-possessed. 
"Let me forget it," she said. " Don't you all 
look at me as if I was a heroine." 

"But where are the ponies — how came you 
in this old trap?" demanded Tom. 

Elinor attempted to explain, but he inter- 
rupted her. "Clive Farnsworth saved your 
life," he shouted. " We should have stood like 
a set of hounds and seen you killed. Clive, 
Clive, come and be thanked, you old hero!" 

Elinor's lingers twisted themselves closer in 
his; she shut her eyes for a second, but opened 
them as Farnsworth approached and gave him 
her other hand. " I do not need to thank you," 
she said. 

"You are safe, Miss Grey, that is enough," 
he answered. 

Lcighton Rossitur stepped back and leaned 
against the wall — he was shaking from head to 
foot. 

"And you have saved my life," returned 
Elinor. " Thank him, Tom ; gentlemen — tell 
him — " She broke off and turned her face 
away ; she was less strong than she had thought. 

" God bless you, Clive," cried Tom, fairly 
giving way to the suspicious gurgle in his throat. 

" A man in ten thousand," added the Judge, 
" lie has his wits always about him to help his 
courage." 

The counsellors and the fat bachelor joined in 
the chorus. 

"Don't make a marvel of me," said Clive, 
trying to laugh; "I was only nearer than the 
others — those trees caught the wheel and did 
the business." 

Rossitur wished that their contention had 
ended in mortal strife, that they had rolled over 
and over on the grass, tugging at each others' 
throats, lie would rather that Elinor Grey 
had been dashed to pieces — any tiling would be 
better than that she should have been saved by 
this man and he forced to stand by and hear 
him thanked and applauded. 

" The first thing now," said Clive, " is to get 
Miss Grey on to Alban Wood. The Judge's 
house is near — we can find a carriage there." 
He spoke quietly and brought back the other 
men's wits by his practical suggestion. He 
wanted to end the scene, and it was with great 
difficulty he restrained himself from rushing 
away, no matter how odd the proceeding might 
appear. 

This first meeting under such circumstances 
was doubly hard ; to have saved her life and yet 
remember that she was as much lost to him as 
ever ; that there was a whole world between 
them — and then he could have struck himself 
for the reflection, and kept his mind quiet by re- 
peating inwardly — " Ruth, my wife, Ruth. I 
must go back to my wife." 



The others seized on the suggestion he had 
offered — they could act if only somebody had 
head enough left to say what must be done. 
The fat bachelor and one counsellor started on 
a run down the hill with their coat-tails float- 
ing out behind — the old Judge was mingling 
congratulations to Elinor and praise of Clive — 
Tom had turned to the coachman and was re- 
lieving his mind by abusing him, and Lcighton 
Rossitur leaned over Elinor, whispering — "Are 
you better? J am almost mad." 

Elinor saw Farnsworth move toward Tom ; 
she recollected that he was her preserver now ; 
she wished, even while reproaching herself for 
her selfishness — she wished that Rossitur had 
been the man to save her, that it might have 
made a new bond between them. " 1 am well 
again," she answered. "Do not think about 
it." 

" If I could have saved you !" he whispered. 

" Yes, I should have been glad," she answer- 
ed. 

Rossitur caught the words — the color came 
back to his face. He should conquer — she was 
his — Clive Farnsworth might go his way for the 
present — he was victor after all. 

"I couldn't help it!" they heard the coach- 
man moaning in response to Tom's animadver- 
sions. " They got frightened at a dog — they 
bounced up like painters and them rotten lines 
broke. Why, 1 was jest as nigh killed as the 
lady — ye don't seem to think o' that." 

"Don't blame the poor fellow," said Clive, 
" you unreasonable creature.'' 

"Tom, let him alone," called Elinor; "he 
has been in as much danger as I, and lie was a 
good, brave man not to jump from his scat and 
leave me." 

" There !" cried the coachman, brightening up 
and rubbing his shoulder, which had received a 
bruise, "the lady understands — and thank you, 
ma'am, and I ain't one to shirk nohow." 

"Tom," called Elinor again. When Tom 
came up she whispered a brief command, and 
Tom returned to the coachman, who was still 
holding the horses — transformed to lambs and 
ashamed of their late indecorum — with one hand 
and rubbing his shoulder with the other. 

"The lady sends you this," said Torn. 

The coachman forgot his hurt and grasped 
the reward. If he had been an Irishman he 
would have let the horses run away again while 
he went into ecstacies and invoked the saints 
upon her head, but being English by descent 
and New England by birth and breeding, he 
was able to preserve his equanimity. " And 
thank you," said he ; " and the Lord knows I 
wouldn't hev minded being killed to save the 
lady — I wouldn't, gentlemen. I've driv horses 
all my life, and never had no mishap afore ; but 
gosh darn it, who'd hev thought of them old 
sheep a runnin' away ? Why, I've often driv 
'em with my eyes shut." 

"Keep them open hereafter," said Tom; 
"that's all." 

" Ketch me a trustin' of 'cm ! Whoa, you did 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



1G1 



catamounts ! Wal, I guess the old rattle-trap 
ain't bruk. Ef you gentlemen'll jest help, we'll 
hist that hind-wheel out and I'll git on." 

Tom and Clive aided him, but the wheel saw 
fit to part company from a carriage that got 
into such scrapes, so the old vehicle had to be 
left staring and yawning foolishly by the side 
of the road, while the coachman mounted one 
of the horses and road off leading the other. 

" I think we had better walk on," said Eli- 
nor, longing to make some change. 

But they vetoed that, so she sat still. 

Clive was examining the carriage as if there 
was something very mysterious about it which 
engrossed his entire attention, and Tom and the 
Judge hovered between him and Elinor and be- 
gan sentences to each whicli they never finished, 
and the remaining counsellor was reduced to a 
state of silent imbecility, so that Rossitur had 
again an opportunity to speak unheard by the 
rest of the party. 

"I have been twice to call," he said ; " I was 
wretched at finding you had left no message." 

" I had not heard of your visits," replied Eli- 
nor. " Mrs. Thornton and I left a card for you 
at the hotel yesterday — didn't you get it?" 

"No," Rossitur said. 

If he only had ! — Now he thought if he could 
have spared himself that scene with Farnsworth, 
and he remembered with sudden shame his own 
part therein. Not that he was sorry — his shame 
gave him a fresh desire to spring on Clive and 
grind his face clown in the dust — but Miss Grey 
would hear of what had passed and it might 
make him trouble. What was he to say — how 
convince her that he had been provoked to mad- 
ness — that he had not been mean and base? 
But there was no time to say any thing, for 
at that instant the long-tailed ponies and the 
basket-carriage appeared with Cupid enthroned 
on the cushions and handling the reins with 
dignified ease. 

"Here's our basket, Elinor," called Tom; 
" avc are all right now." 

He ordered Cupid to stop and alight, and 
Cupid obeyed, his dignity lost in amazement 
at the sight of the group, with Miss Grey seat- 
ed on a log and the cup of a brandy-flask at her 
feet. But nobody paid a due regard to Cupid's 
feelings by explaining the mystery, and he held 
the long-tailed ponies in wondering silence 
while Rossitur helped Miss Grey into the basket, 
and then he felt the tiger in his soul get ascend- 
ency over Cupid at an order from Tom. For 
Tom had lost his meerschaum pipe, and as he 
had been devoting his energies to its coloration 
during the past twelve months, and it was a 
present from his Rosa, he had no mind to lose 
it. Cupid was ruthlessly ordered to search 
every inch of ground between the road and the 
trout-brook and to bring back the pipe if he had 
any desire to breathe vital air longer, and was 
ignominiously banished down the path. 

Tom took his seat. Rossitur kept his station 
to the last moment by Elinor, while the Judge 
uttered farewells, and the counsellor, grown im- 



becile under excitement, tried to smile. But 
Rossitur need not have feared that Clive would 
attempt to rob him of that last moment ; he 
stood aloof, contenting himself with lifting his 
hat to Miss Grey and speaking from a little 
distance. As soon as the carriage drove off, 
he said — "I must say good-day, gentlemen — I 
am late." 

He jumped over the wall on the upper side 
of the road, and took a hill-path which led into 
his own grounds, and the rest sat down to wait 
till the departed counsellor and fat bachelor 
should return, to be discomfited and enraged by 
discovering that they had had their pains for 
the satisfaction of giving their male friends an 
easy drive home. 

Cupid, swelling with indignation and a sense of 
injury that might have moved Venus to sympa- 
thy for her son's namesake, took his way toward 
the trout-brook, and well-disposed as he was in 
general to his master, it was fortunate that no- 
body heard his remarks and opinions on that 
occasion. While he was searching about the 
bank, up came the ubiquitous Tad Tilman, the 
bad boy, who had been out on a trouting ex- 
pedition of his own and had met with better 
success than the gentlemen, as was proved by 
the long row of speckled beauties that he had 
confined by their gills to a forked twig which he 
swung easily to and fro as he came up the path. 
"Hallo, what you at?" he called. "Why, if 
it ain't Buttons ! What the dickens are you 
squatting and cavoorting round that way, like a 
lame rabbit, for?" 

Cupid was in no mood to endure patiently 
that taunting name, which the ribald youth of 
the village had bestowed upon him, and he re- 
torted — "Mind your business and I'll mind 
mine, scarecrow." 

"I've finished my business," replied Tad 
good - naturedly ; "so I'll help you about 
yourn." 

"I don't want your help," said Buttons. 
" Just you cut your stick and let me alone ; you 
ain't fit company." 

"For Mr. Thornton's buttoned boy," said 
Tad. "You see I want to improve by your ex- 
ample, you young highflyer. My, Buttons", how 
red you be in the face ! — how fat you do grow, 
Buttons ! It's my belief you drink too much 
beer, Buttons — it's very swelling ; you'll be get- 
ting the apoplex some day. Reclly now, Buttons, 
I shall have to speak to yourmarster — your mars- 
ter " — here a whistle as if calling an invisible 
dog — "and have him provide you with a little 
sour wine to thin you out here and there. You're 
too fat, Buttons, and you're fat in the wrong 
places ; you're lumpy. Reelly now, Buttons, 
ain't you ever afeered of bursing something?" 

Buttons had not been silent during that ha- 
rangue ; he assailed the lean boy in violent lan- 
guage, and ended by calling him a sneak and a 
bully and a coward. Now it was only the week 
before that Tad had soundly thrashed two larger 
boys on Cupid's account, for Cupid was not 
courageous though he bristled well, and Tad felt 



1G2 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



this conduct to be ungrateful ; moreover, the in- 
stant he caught sight of Cupid groping about in 
the grass lie had known what lie sought for and 
meant to put him out of pain. 

" You're a sneak and a coward and a thief," 
said Cupid wildly. 

" Wal," said Tad slowly, " I never stole any 
of your buttons at least. Maybe I'm a sneak, 
but all tilings considered, I wouldn't be the one 
to say it if I was you." 

" Cock-a-doodle-doo I" squeaked Cupid. 
" Do you think I'm afraid of you ? Why you've 
been stealing fish out of Mr. Thornton's brook 
now." 

" That's your marster you mean. My pooty 
Buttons, brooks is free in this land ; every thing 
is free axcept fat boys that button themselves to 
marstcrs. You're a gitting very red, Buttons, 
very red — take a fool's advice and don't bust 
nothing." 

"I'll bust your head!" exclaimed the en- 
raged Cupid. 

"I wouldn't," said Tad; "you might want 
me agin to keep the butcher's boy off. You 
must learn to look round two corners, Buttons." 

Cupid responded with such violent threats 
and gestures that Tad, though preserving his 
equable demeanor, laid his string of trout on the 
grass and said — 

" Buttons, you've got a convenient spot about 
you that I axpect 1 shall kick in a minute. 
Buttons, wages and high living and fat is get- 
ting too much for you ; reely, I shall have to 
speak to your marster about the sour wine; — 
he's ben a good marster to you — here Csesar, 
Cajsar, good dog!" followed up by a prolonged 
whistle. 

Cupid's rage overcame his cowardice ; he 
dashed at Tad, who quietly stepped aside and 
Cupid, hitting his foot against a log, rolled over 
upon the ground. 

" Why, Buttons," said Tad, " hain't you no 
more regard for marster's clothes than that ? 
I'm astonished at you ; I am indeed." 

Cupid began to gather himself up, but Tad 
gave a warning shake of his fist that made him 
roll back. 

"Lie still and rest, Buttons," said Tad, 
" and reflect — the tracts always tells us to re- 
flect. I'm going to sing you a little song I 
composed about a boy with buttons, and at the 
end of each verse there's a chorias that you must 
sing." 

" I won't— I don't know it." 

"It's only 'Spare my buttons,' that's all. 
Now liere goes — when I lift my hand so, you 
jine in — 'Spare my buttons.' If you do it, wc 
shan't fall out, but if you don't, I axpect there'll 
be a coolness between our families that'll be bad 
for the buttons. Now then !" 

He actually sang several verses of a tuneful 
melody illustrative of the career of a fat boy 
who wore many buttons, and at the end of each 
couplet, by a shake of the fist, compelled Cupid 
to utter the chorus, which he did in a wail of 
mingled rage and fear. 



"You're improving," said Tad, stopping at 
length ; " your voice is too much under your ribs, 
but by the time we've sung the whole two hun- 
dred and twenty verses, you'll come out as fresh 
as a cat-bird." 

"Let me up — I want to go home," sobbed 
Cupid. 

"You ain't rested yet; lie still, my pretty 
Buttons. Now I'm going to do a bit of con- 
jurin' — I'm a dabster at it. Buttons, you was 
sent for marster's mecrsham pipe — you lost your 
temper instead of finding the mecrsham — when 
I come up you fell foul o'me, O Buttons. I'm 
going to smoke you now — it's the only way to save 
you. I wish I had a little saltpetre, but nev- 
er mind. No, don't you stir, Buttons — I feel 
the spcrit move me to do you a little good. I'll 
smoke, and if you're very quiet maybe I'll sing 
a little more." He pulled out of his pocket the 
pipe Tom had lost and a bag of tobacco, and 
made preparations to smoke. 

" I'll tell Mr. Thornton you stole his pipe and 
was smoking it," cried Cupid. 

"I'm free, Buttons ; marster wouldn't mind a 
fcllar-voter smoking his mecrsham. It's only 
them that's had liberty buttoned out on 'em as 
mustn't." 

He lighted the pipe and smoked tranquilly 
for some time, making a sign with his fist when- 
ever Cupid moved, which caused the luckless 
youth to crouch back on the ground, more sub- 
dued and crest-fallen than he had ever been in 
his life. 

"It's gitting pooty late," Tad said at last. 
" Buttons, you take this pipe and this bag and 
carry 'em to your marster — you can give Mr. Til- 
man's compliments ; and Buttons, I axpect he'll 
lick you for being gone so long. I shall in- 
quire, and if he hain't, why then, Buttons, on 
next Sunday afternoon I shall be leisuresoinc, 
and I'll give you the dod-dcrndest, all-firedcst 
licking that ever a fat Buttons took if you show 
your face in the village." 

Tad picked up his string of fish and walked 
away whistling Yankee Doodle, and Cupid 
brushed the stains off his plumage and made 
the best time possible home without Stopping 
to look behind, registering a secret vow never to 
offend the bad bov again. 



CHAPTER XXXI. 

A TIMELY DISCOVERY. 

By the time the long-tailed ponies had car- 
ried Elinor and Tom out of sight of the party, 
Elinor began to reproach herself with not hav- 
ing thanked Farnsworth, with having shown a 
coldness that must look like base ingratitude. 
" Oh, Tom," she said, "do you thank him. 
Tell him how grateful I am — tell him how 
papa — " 

" Yes, yes, clear. Clive, you mean ? What 
a trump he is! I tell you, Elinor, there's no- 
body like him. But you're sure you are not 
hurt?" 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



163 



"Quite sure. I don't think I was much 
frightened until it was all over," she replied. 

" Clive saw the horses and was in the road 
and had stopped them before the rest of us had 
sense enough to know what was the matter," 
pursued Tom. " He's as brave as a lion. Any 
other man would have hesitated half a min- 
ute, and O Elinor, that would have been — Lord 
bless me, I daren't think !" 

Elinor could not be sorry to get away from 
the subject; she wanted to forget Clive Farns- 
worth for the time. 

"And to see his dignity during that quarrel," 
continued Tom, forgetting that he talked Sans- 
crit to her. "I tell you we all felt that he had 
true courage and respected him — " 
"What quarrel?" interrupted Elinor. 
" Oh, you don't know. I say, Elinor, that 
Mr. Rossitur of yours is an infernal villain — I 
always believed it — Rose too. I say he is — 
there!" fairly shouted Tom, giving way to one 
of his excitements. 

" You must be crazy. What do you mean ?" 
cried Elinor. 

" I'd three minds to mash his insolent face my- 
self," pursued he. " Clive would have murder- 
ed him like a dog only he has such good sense ; 
and O Elinor, he has settled every thing — there'll 
be no more talk." 

"Tom," she exclaimed, "if you don't want 
to drive me mad explain what you mean." She 
was shaking violently and deathly pale ; Tom 
began to waste more time in self-reproaches. 

"What an ass I am when you are so excited. 
There— I—" 

" Tell me the whole story," said Elinor, in 
the old imperious tone. 

" I will — that's better. You ought to know 
it. I won't keep that young devil's secrets for 
one — I say he is a villain." 

"Do you mean Mr. Rossitur, Tom?" asked 
Elinor, in a voice slow and weak with sudden ter- 
ror. " Did he quarrel with Mr. Farnsworth ?" 

"Yes, the rascal! Out with that slander 
point-blank ! I tell you what, Elinor, if you 
ever had it in your mind, as Rosa feared — " 

"Tom, if you don't tell me the whole story 
plainly, I'll jump out of the carriage and find 
somebody that will," cried Elinor. 

" I'll tell you ; sit still," exclaimed Tom. 
" Wait — let me see how it was. I needn't ex- 
aggerate — he behaved bad enough, the hound !" 
Tom was frightened still by the recollection 
of Elinor's danger, he was full of wrath, and he 
had been made irritable beforehand. In the 
silent watches of the night, while he was sleep- 
ing the sleep of tiie just and dreaming that he was 
catching trout of fabulous dimensions out of a 
river of thick cream, Rosa poked him in the 
side with her forefinger and brought him away 
from his sport. She could not sleep, and she 
could not keep her fears to herself any longer ; she 
had to tell Tom about the word Elinor had writ- 
ten on the card and pour forth her groundless 
aversion to Rossitur, which was the stronger be- 
cause it had no foundation ; and she would not 



permit Tom to go back in search of the trout 
until she had infected him with her dread. 

Tom told the whole story, and did not spare 
Rossitur, although he tried hard to make his 
account scrupulously correct. "Now what do 
you think?" he cried. "Isn't the man a vil- 
lain ? Mustn't he, in spite of his graces and his 
pleasant ways, be a — well, I won't swear — a 
tremendous villain with a big blank before it, 
to speak of any woman like that — to give mouth 
to such suspicions?" 

Elinor could not speak. The excitement, 
the danger, this new horror upset her complete- 
ly, and she began to cry. 

" Great heavens !" cried Tom. "You didn't 
care for him, Elinor?" 

She shook her head and sobbed. " No ; but, 
Tom — I was going to marry him !" 

Tom nearly upset the basket with^he bound 
he made, and the ponies started as if they 
thought Old Nick was driving them. " Marry 
him!" he faltered. 

" I oughtn't to have said it. I'm not mean 
enough to tell when men make love to me. 
But I am so surprised and bewildered, and you are 
like a good brother to me, Tom ; only you must 
never repeat this evert to Rose," sobbed Elinor, 
disproving her claims to being a resolute and 
strong-minded young female by weeping bit- 
terly. 

"Don't cry, dear," pleaded Tom; "you 
know I can't see a woman cry. There, just tell 
me — it will do you good, and even Rosa shall 
never know." 

"He was so kind, Tom, and I was so lone- 
some ; for I am a poor, weak idiot after all, 
Tom. He would wait — I was to give him an 
answer to-morrow — and O Tom ! the letter is 
actually written." 

"But it is not too late. You don't love 
him ?" 

"I see how wicked it would have been. I 
am so glad to be free ! Oh, I'm a bad woman !" 
Tom soothed her as if it had been his baby 
of a Rose instead of the stately Elinor who 
showed so unreservedly what a womanly creat- 
ure she was under her pride. "You are saved 
any way," said he. "O Elinor, we may bless 
that quarrel. No wonder you believed in him 
— so smooth and specious — but he is not to be 
trusted." 

"O Tom, Tom!" she cried, "is there no 
honor left among men ? I am sick of every 
thing. Why, the whole Avorld turns out false 
and black." 

"No wonder you feel like that," replied 
Tom, " after these women's work and this 
added." 

"But Ruth is safe now, that is one comfort," 
said Elinor. "With us and Mrs. Hamlyn to 
take her side, nobody will talk any more." 

"They can't, you see. Clive owned there 
had been some blame — his, you know. I sup- 
pose he must have left her for a while or kept 
his marriage secret ; but it is no matter what — 
they are all right now." 



104 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



Elinor dried her eyes and was able to be quiet 
again, and as the keen pang of suffering at find- 
ing a friend whom she had trusted gave place to 
indignation, any hope for forgiveness to Leigh- 
ton Rossitur passed away forever. "I am so 
glad, so glad," she repeated. "Tom, if I had 
married him and found too late that he was ca- 
llable of a mean action, what should I have 
done?" 

"Why, you'd have gone desperate. You 
couldn't have borne it as some women would. I 
tell you what, Elinor, I haven't brains to boast of, 
but I can read character a little, and I warn 
you that if you can't love somebody you had 
better live an old maid till you are a female 
Metluisaleh." 

"And so I will," said Elinor. "I am past 
danger now." 

By this*time they had reached the avenue 
leading to Tom's house, and there was no more 
conversation. Rosa was sitting on the piazza 
as they drove up and quite forgot the remains 
of her headache in the account of Elinor's acci- 
dent and Olive's bravery, which Tom related at 
length. She hugged Elinor and praised Olive 
— she hugged Tom, and she was ready to scream 
at the bare idea of Elinor having been in such 
peril, and ran back to put her arms about her 
again and be certain that she had her there. 

As Elinor would not go to bed they drank 
cups of tea, and Elinor lay on a sofa and the 
Doves rejoiced over her and talked, and Elinor 
had to tell how successful her ell'orts.had been, 
and Rosa and Tom shrieked at the description 
of the final tableau. Then Tom must relate 
how well Olive had behaved in the affair with 
Rossitur, and Rosa belabored the culprit to her 
heart's content, and was in raptures when Eli- 
nor assented to her condemnation. While they 
sat there, the Idol's carriage drove up and the 
Idol and the Angel appeared, full of spirits, 
having decided to stop an instant on their way 
home from an airing. 

Rosa told of Elinor's accident, and the Idol 
fired sesquipedalian words of horror, and the 
Angel did theatricals, and it was all as well 
done as possible. 

Elinor had kept back the facts she had learn- 
ed in regard to Miss Laidlcy ; she never would 
reveal them except to the creature herself, and 
the whole thing had better be ended that day. 
After a little she said — "Genevieve, I want you 
to go up stairs with me, please— if Mrs. Ilack- 
ett can wait." 

She spoke so pleasantly that the Angel did 
not take alarm, and the Idol cried out — " If 
my time were Golcondas it should be at your 
disposal, dear Miss Grey. You are a heroine 
now ; and oh, to think that our Apolloite should 
have been your preserver — your Atlasian shield 
— he has added new wreaths to his bays." 

"And I want to show Mrs. Hackett the al- 
terations we have been making in the green- 
houses," said Tom ; "so you young ladies can 
gossip as long as you like." 

"Indeed we never gossip, Mr. Thornton," 



saidthc Angel. ' ' Dear Elinor is too grand, and 
I am too much a child." 

" The most artless blossom," cried the Idol 
as the Laidley followed Elinor out of the room. 
" It is beautiful to see them together; Miss 
Grey so peeress and our Angel so child-like — 
sweet comparison of lovelinesses. Oh, for a 
poet's lyre 1" 

" There's a liar in the case at all events," 
said Tom, and the Idol, as usual missing the 
point, assented rapturously. 

Elinor led the way up to her dressing-room, 
and the Angel said — "I wanted to sec you. 
It was so good of you to bring me here. Dar- 
ling Elinor, I have such hosts of things to tell 
you.'* 

" And I have something to say to you," re- 
plied Elinor very seriously; "I want you to 
listen with patience." 

" Oh, dear me, is it any thing doleful?" cried 
the Angel, a little startled by Elinor's tone. 
"Don't tell me if it is — I can't bear doleful 
things. I'm a baby, you know. Besides, I'm 
nervous yet about your accident — sec how my 
hand shakes. And Mr. Earnsworth saved you 
— isn't it romantic ? Oh, I wish I could be run 
away with and have somebody save me." 

" You must ljstcn to me," said Elinor more 
firmly. " I have something very serious to say." 

" I'll go off — oh, I won't hear serious things. 
^Now don't look so severe. You're going to 
scold — I know you're going to scold." 

"No-, Genevieve," she answered sadly ; "I 
am afraid scolding would be thrown away." 

"Oh, I know it would! I should cry and 
forget all about it — I'm such a baby. There, 
darling Elinor, never mind the serious things. I 
want to tell you about — " 

" I am in earnest, Genevieve," she interrupted. 
"I advise you to listen to me. You can be 
something besides a baby when you wish." 

" I'm going to run away — I will !" cried Miss 
Laidlcy, inwardly frightened, but persevering 
in the infantile line. " I shall go down and 
tell them you wanted to scold me." 

She rose from her chair, but Elinor laid a 
hand on her dress. " If you do go," she said, 
"you will force me to say these things before 
them all, and 1 have no wish to expose you, 
Miss Laidlcy." 

"Expose me? What do you mean?" ex- 
claimed the girl, forgetting her childishness and 
flushing into anger. " Let me tell you, Miss 
Grey, I won't hear such words from any body! 
You think because I am lonely and childish that 
you can trample on me, but I won't endure 
it." 

Elinor waited patiently till she got through, 
then she said — •" 1 have always been kind to you, 
Miss Laidley, but in this matter — " 

" I shan't listen ! Let go my dress ! — Oh, bo 
good ! There, dearest, I was cross," she cried, 
going back to the old tricks. "Please don't 
scold — I haven't been in mischief. Indeed I'm 
a good little thing ; and I love you so much, and 
I pray for you every night. " 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



16B 



"Oli, Genevieve, slop," Implored Elinor, 
sickened by the hypocrisy of these last words. 
" l have seen Mrs. l'illit to-day Bhe has told 

me every thing." 

Miss Laidley sat down in her chair— she 
scented the full danger, but her wit was quick 
and her craft almost inexhaustible. She felt 
hor heart thump violently against her ride, but 
she controlled her face perfectly and said with a 

prettj Wonder, " I don't know what you mean, 

Elinor." 
Elinor was sick of dissimulation ; she seemed 

to meet, it at every 1 urn, and it was impossible to 
endure any thing more (hat, day. " Miss Laid 

ley," she said quickly, feeling her own cheeks 

glow with shame for the girl who sat unmoved, 

"you may as well put aside these artifices. This 

is a painful conversation to me, but I shall gO 

through with it." 
"Quite in the dark am I," interrupted the 

Angel withucoo; "a babe in tHe wood, and 
yOM looking at me as fierce as if you were, the 

wicked ancle in disguise." 

"To enlighten your mind, let me tell you 
that Mrs. Pifflt has confessed her share in the 
slanders about Mrs. Parnsworth, and has told 
me that they came from you." 

"Then she. is a, false, wicked woman! I 
never told her n thing." 

" Hut you made Juanita. Oh, don't prevari- 
cate, [f yOU COuld knOW hOW weary I am of 

deceit- how ready to believa you have not been 
deliberately malignant—] am sure you would he 
honest," 

" DO yOU choose tO believe Mrs. I'idit instead 
of me. V" exclaimed Miss Laidley, doing virtu- 
ous indignation and injured innocence com- 
bined, in a way that would have, been very ef- 
fective under other circumstances. " I scorn 

to defend myself! I have. lo\<d you, Elinor 

Grey. I am your father's ward a helpless, 

unprotected orphan. Insult me, if you will 

injure me if you choose. I am alone in the 
WOTld." She buried her face in her hands and 

sobbed convulsively, while, she, caBt about for 

Some loop hole of escape, out of the, dilemma. 

"Thatvery fact should havemadejou charita- 
ble toward other women," said Elinor; " your 

loneliness might have made, you gentle to them." 
" Father, father'!" moaned MissLaidley from 

behind her sheltering hands, "come and pro- 
tect your poor Evangel- father, come!" 

Elinor's hesitation to let, the. girl know how 

fully her baseness was discovered vanished be- 
fore this last hit of acting, which did seem dis- 
gUSting ns well as wicked. " I ft hat father can 

- you, Genevieve," she, ..aid, "think how he 
ics to know you persist in this useless false- 
hood." 

" insult me — outrage me — I have no pro- 

tectorl" SObbed Miss Laidley. "Stall me to 

the, soul ! Oh, kill me, you cruel woman ! A 

Sagger in my heart, would not hurt us your 

wicked words do." 

" It is folly to prolong this scene," said I'.li- 

nor. "Yon must understand that the utter 



falsity of those stories has been proved you will 

disgrace yourself completely if you ever say 

another word." 

Miss Laidley ceased sobbing and showed her 

f aC e — the blue eyes were giving out, their yellow 

sparks. " 'The stories were true !" she. exclaim- 
ed. " Bah, Elinor Grey, you may hoodwink 

the whole world except me ! They are true and 
you know it, and for some purpose of your own 
you want to uphold the, vile wretch! Perhaps 

because you can't have ('live, Farnsworth visit 

you unless you visit her." 

Elinor was not angry — tin: girl was beneath 

contempt at that moment. " I am not :;ui 
prised at such ideas Suggesting themselves to 
your mind, Miss Laidley," she said, "and noth- 
ing COUld punish you so much as the fact of 
knowing, as you do, that they are, miserahly 
late." 

"Perhaps!" sneered Miss Laidley. "Oh, 

Elinor Grey, 1 am childish and silly, hut I am 
not, blind." 
" Younglady," said Elinor, " stop whereyou 

are. Not a word more not, a syllable of inso- 
lence further, or I will expose, you unhesitating- 

ly." 

" What will you expose, pray ?" cried Miss 
Laidley, still hoping that hravado would carry 

her through. 

"You opened my writing-desk you read u 
letter from Mrs. Pamsworth, mi: construed its 
Contents, and made up this falsehood." Miss 

Laidley gasped and was silent; she had not <■■. 

peeled this crowning hlow, and her craft failed 
for an instant, " Wlmt your motive was I do 

I,,, i, eare to know," pursued Elinor; " whether 
to revenge yourself on me for some fancied 

wrong, or from pure wickedness, is no matter 

now." Miss Laidley bad taken refuge in sobs. 
" Remember, I am not threatening idly, [fyon 

will he silent I shall not Interfere with you, hut, 
if yOU persist you must hear the, shame." 

Diil you ever see a, rat in a corner? It flies 

about like lightning till it has tried every hope 

Of escape, and failing, it makes a vicious dash 
lit the assailant. There was no trace of the 

Angel left in the creature^ she looked and acted 
e actly like the cornered rat. "Any way you 
would ruin that woman, "she exclaimed; "if 

you told about the letter, every body would know 
the, stories wen- true." 

" I said you had misconstrued the. letter. 
Mrs. farnsworth alluded vaguely to some past, 

trouble- her husband has to dayexplained that, 

to the satisfaction of the hest men in the neigh" 
borhood I you are powerless, Miss Laidley." 

Miss Laidley went into spasms without fur- 
ther remark. She. tore the CTOCheted thinfl "" 

tin- hack of the chair to hits she stamped her 
feet— she choked— she shrieked, and Elinor sat 
perfectly quiet and offered no assistance or in- 
tervention. At, last Miss Laidley began to 
make, dashes at, the lahle-eover, and Llinor said, 
" I would not, destroy any thing else— Mrs. 

Thornton may at k how it, happened." 

Even spasms had no effect, so the mermaid 



1GG 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



came out of them and cowered down in her 
chair, a miserable, shameless culprit. "What 
are you going to do about it ?" she asked sud- 
denly. 

" That depends on yourself." 

" Oh, you hate me ; so does Mrs. Thornton, 
the nasty cat ; a pair of you ! I'm younger and 
prettier than you, and you hate me and will be 
glad to do me harm in any way you can." 

"I have no intention of saying one word, 
Miss Laidley, unless you compel me." 

" A likely story ! I'm not to be duped. Any 
woman is always glad to hurt another." 

' ' Heaven knows in what school you learned 
such opinions," returned Elinor, full of horror 
and sorrow to think that a girl so young and 
fair could be hopelessly astray in every thought. 
" I only want you to promise me that not by 
word or look will you again try to prejudice 
any body against Mrs. Farnsworth." 

" If I don't promise ?" 

"You will force me to tell the whole story, 
and oblige my father to throw up his guardian- 
ship. " 

"I don't believe he can. I won't have it!" 
cried she. 

" You will find that it can and will happen." 

"And if I do promise ?" 

" Then I promise to forget the whole busi- 
ness ; and no matter what you may pretend to 
believe, you know that I always tell the truth." 

"Oh yes; but that horrid Piffit Mill say I 
told her and set the Farnsworths and every body 
against me." 

"There is no danger. I frightened her ef- 
fectually j she will not mention your name." 

" Oh, you dear Elinor," exclaimed Miss Laid- 
ley, brightening up, "that was so good of you; 
how thoughtful you are ! There, let the whole 
thing go." 

" You give me your word ?" 

" Yes ; but you wouldn't take it. Gracious, 
I want to forget the whole business ! That's 
the surest proof that I shall hold my tongue," 
cried she, in all sincerity and innocence this 
time. 

"Let us both forget it," said Elinor. 

Suddenly Miss Laidley turned into a penitent 
angel, and flung herself at Elinor's feet, writh- 
ing and sobbing. "I did look at the letter," 
she cried. "Oh, I'm so sorry — I've had no 
peace since. The desk came open in my hand 
and the letter fell out." Elinor did nottmen- 
tion the fact of its closing with a spring ; it was 
useless to force her to more falsehoods. " I am 
so sorry. I love you, Elinor, I love you ! In- 
deed I'm only thoughtless. You won't tell 
your father?" 

" I will tell no human being." 

" And you'll be good to me, and act as if you 
had forgotten, and not snub me ; and you'll give 
me parties next winter?" 

"I promise. I will forget if you will let 
me ; at least neither by word nor look shall you 
think I remember." 

" I don't care then. If you act just as usual 



I can forget all about it — that's my way — so it's 
all over." 

Miss Laidley rose from her knees and flew to 
the glass, radiant, and began arranging her hair. 
"You haven't any powder ? Never mind, I don't 
dare use it by day-light. My eyes aren't red ?" 

Elinor watched her in silent amazement: 
here was a new revelation of womanhood with 
a vengeance. The moment the fear of exposure 
was removed she cared no more about the mat- 
ter — forgot her shame in exultation — and would 
never think about it any more, that was a literal 
truth : if Elinor gave the semblance of forget- 
fulness she would be content. 

"But I say, " she exclaimed, making the 
dimple in her chin deeper by pressing her little 
finger into it, " I do wonder you took all this 
trouble." 

"What do you mean?" 

" Why, I should have thought yon would 
have been delighted to see Mrs. Farnsworth 
pulled to pieces, because he was an admirer of 
yours. " 

" They are both my friends, Genevieve. Don't 
try to talk about what you can not possibly 
understand," said Elinor with perfect good 
nature. She sat wondering whether the creat- 
ure had any soul, any womanly sensitiveness, 
or was a mischievous Undine whom no spell 
had been able to give a spirit in keeping with 
her loveliness. 

" I won't," said Miss Laidley. " I'm a fun- 
ny little thing, now am I not? I sometimes 
wonder at myself. Let's go down stairs ; I'm 
ready. Don't let them think we have had a 
quarrel, you dear, you. Is my new bonnet 
pretty ? The Duchess gave it to me. Oh, Eli- 
nor, she gave me her emerald necklace ! I never 
call her names now. I'm so glad you warned 
me. I should have missed such oceans of pret- 
ty things if I made her angry — the dear old soul." 

Elinor followed her in amazed silence ; and 
they M'ere greeted by acclamations from the 
Idol, who had learned from Tom, not about the 
quarrel, but the fact that Clive had explained 
matters. 

"Perfectly satisfactory," said the Idol. — Ev- 
ery body else would say the same, although the 
explanation had been so vague. But you see peo- 
ple are like sheep — they all jump one way — 
they only want somebody to jump first in the 
right direction. — "I am sublimated with de- 
light !" continued she. " That lovely Hebea and 
that adorable lord of the lute." 

" You know, dear Duchess, I said all the 
while she was charming, and that I didn't be- 
lieve a word, though I could not understand," 
cried Miss Laidley, completely transformed into 
an angel once more. 

" Always, always, my precious," returned the 
forgetful Idol, and believed she was telling the 
truth. 

Rosa Thornton made a private grimace art 
Tom ; she said afterward she should have had 
a happening of some sort if she had not re- 
lieved her feelings in that way. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



167 



"Just think," pursued the Angel; " that 
abominable Piffit tried to make Elinor believe 
I told her those horrid stories." 

" The reptile, the wretch !" cried the Idol. 

" Yes, indeed ; when she told you before me, 
and I couldn't half understand." 

The Idol was furious, but Miss Laidley 
soothed her. "We must forgive her," she said 
sweetly; "forgive those who persecute us; I 
wish her no harm." 

The Idol was enchanted ; even Tom thought 
such entire innocence and sweetness must be 
natural, while Rosa, not to be deceived, swelled 
with wrath, and Elinor sat more bewildered 
than ever by the creature's assurance. 

"Don't think about her, dear Duchess," she 
said, when the Idol flung huge anathemas at the 
absent Piffit ; " I am glad she has told fibs and 
tried to injure me. I am certain now that I 
can forgive — we never can tell till we are tried, 
you know, Mrs. Thornton." 

"No," said Rosa, and very uncompromising 
and unforgiving she looked. 

" Upon my word," exclaimed Tom honestly, 
" there are not many girls who would bear it 
as well as you do, Miss Laidley." 

Rosa annihilated him with a glance of unut- 
terable contempt. Tom knew that he had been 
an ass. 

" I do feel it," replied the Angel, with a tre- 
mor in her voice ; "it makes me remember that 
I am a homeless, fatherless girl." 

"My Angel !" cried the Idol. 

" But I won't think about it," she continued. 
" I know you love me, dear Duchess, and so 
does Elinor." 

Tom saw Rosa with a face of intense disgust 
making an effort as if to swallow something very 
nasty indeed. 

"We'll never think about it again," said the 
Angel, seeing that she had blinded Tom at least, 
and not wishing to cany the matter too far. 

The Idol rose to depart, and the Angel kept 
her quite in the background by her vivacity and 
sweetness. " Good-bye, darling Elinor," and 
she kissed her. 

"The loving blossom!" cried the Idol. 

" Good-bye, Mr. Thornton — I'll shake hands 
with you because I believe you do like me a lit- 
tle, if I am silly and childish." 

"Indeed," said Tom, " I won't be slandered ; 
I never thought you silly." 

" And I like to be thought a child," cooed she. 

" I know I'd like such a charming child al- 
ways near," said Tom, quite subdued and shak- 
ing her hand warmly. "I hope you will come 
often to see us, and always be childish, Miss 
Laidley." 

She beamed and went up to Rosa. " I won't 
offer to kiss you, because you don't like me a 
bit, dear Mrs. Thornton, said she archly. 

"My sweet, what preposterousness !" cried 
the Idol. 

" She doesn't," laughed the Angel. " Now 
be honest, Mrs. Thornton — do you ?" 

Rosa was a little taken aback, especially as 



she was in her own house, but she recovered her- 
self. "I think you are very pretty, and the 
men think you are charming," she laughed. 
"Now, you know in your heart you don't care a 
pin whether I actually like you." 

"But I like you," said the Angel, " and I do 
want to be loved. I shall kiss your hand — oh, 
the pretty hand with rose stains inside !" and 
she kissed it in a very graceful way. 

They departed after that; and when Tom 
returned to the room, Rosa exclaimed — "I give 
in ! She did it well. Of all little imps that 
ever I saw, that Angel is the most cunning." 

"Now, Rosa," said Tom; "I don't believe 
she's a bad little thing." 

"Oh, my dear," returned Rosa, with con- 
temptuous pity; "you are only a man; — you 
can't help being a dunce — one expects it. And 
it is fun to see how the Idol believes in her." 

"Let the child alone," said Elinor. 

"Child!" repeated Rosa. "Bah! That 
girl has lived five hundred thousand years, and 
she's the quintessence of every thing that's art- 
ful. You may be silent, you may deny it, but 
all heaven and earth wouldn't make me believe 
that she has not slandered Ruth Farnsworth 
worse than the others have all put together — 
there!" 

Rosa retired from the subject with dignity, 
and requested that Miss Laidley's name might 
not be mentioned in her presence again that day, 
because it made her head dizzy to think about 
her. 

After dinner Tom went over to Judge Ham- 
lyn's place, according to promise, to make one 
at a euchre-party, for.the rapid little game was 
among the Judge's weaknesses. 

Rosa and Elinor would have the evening to 
themselves, and as Tom was taking leave and 
being absurdly funny up to the last, Elinor sud- 
denly recollected that Mr. Rossitur would be 
certain to call before bed-time in order to in- 
quire after her, and she was in no state of mind 
to see him. " We are not at home to any bod}', 
are we, Rose?" she asked. 

"No indeed; not to the choicest ghost that 
ever Home called up," returned Rosa. "Tom, 
he sure and give orders; and O Tom, do dis- 
patch that Stupid— I can't stand him about an- 
other week — I'd rather answer the door my- 
self." 

" And uncommon well you'd look," said Tom, 
"with a white apron and a frilled cap ; and I'd 
be sure to make yon say 'the master.' ' ; 

Tom departed and the ladies ensconced them- 
selves in Elinor's dressing-room to be certain of 
security from any blunder Stupid might see fit 
to make. 

It was still early when Elinor's suspicion was 
verified. Leighton Rossitur drove up, too anx- 
ious to wait, and confident from Elinor's man- 
ner when they parted that his visit would not be 
unwelcome. Unfortunately for him Elinor Grey 
had gone through a new experience since. Stu- 
pid was confident that he made no blunder this 
time — Mr. Thornton was out and the ladies had 



168 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



gone to their rooms. No, Miss Grey was not 
ill — only fatigued, and could not be intruded 
upon even with messages. 

Rossitur had to make the best of it and be 
content to wait until the following day — the day 
to which for so many months he had been look- 
ing forward, and which now brought triumph so 
near. The man's will and love of success had 
a part in the smile which lit his face as he drove 
from the door. In his whole life he said to 
himself he had never failed, and he should not 
in this dearest, best aim. He had found the 
card at the hotel with that word written on it 
which puzzled Rosa Thornton and put her out 
of spirits, and it was intelligible to him — an 
omen of hope. 

Presently Rosa's maid came up stairs and 
gave Elinor the card he had left. She glanced 
at the name and saw written under it — " To- 
morrow?" She too remembered what to-mor- 
row was to have been, what it had so nearly 
brought, and shivered with the dread of an es- 
caped danger, worse to contemplate than the 
death which had that morning seemed close 
upon her, 

"Who is it?" Rosa asked. 
Elinor told her, and absently twisted the paste- 
board in bits and let them fall upon the floor. 

Rosa was glad to go to bed early, for she had 
not entirely recovered from the effects of her 
headache, and Elinor was still more glad to be 
alone, that she might get through with the task 
before her and have done forever with the dream 
which during the long spring she had tried so 
conscientiously to cherish into brightness. She 
took out of its hiding-place the letter written on 
the previous night. The very sight of it made 
her tremble ; she could not read it ; she grew 
cold to remember that she could have made the 
open, honest avowal she had there done. She 
held it over the lamp-chimney until it took fire, 
and threw it down, looking on with a feeling of 
relief as the leaves curled and crackled in brief 
flame and lay a little heap of black ashes on 
the hearth. She could not have any interview 
with that man ; she could not trust herself while 
her indignation and the pain of knowing herself 
deceived in a friend were so fresh in her mind. 
She wrote another letter : even that was a dif- 
ficult business. Several times she was obliged 
to tear up unfinished pages, because her angry 
feelings showed themselves in some sharp sen- 
tence, and she wished the letter to be perfectly 
distinct and free from emotion of any kind, lest, 
noting that it had been written under excite- 
ment, he should hold fast to some hope. It 
was finished at last, put in the envelope and 
sealed, and she sat holding one of her old 
vigils until the clock struck twelve and Tom's 
step in the hall roused her. She went out and 
called him softly; gave him the letter, and beg- 
ged him to see that it reached its destination 
at the earliest possible hour, and Tom carried 
it off in his hand with much silent exultation, 
for he felt certain as to the nature of its contents. 
Elinor had done with Leighton Rossitur for- 



ever ! She said the words over and over, and 
the thrill of joy at once more finding her freedom 
beyond danger warned her of the suffering she 
would have brought upon herself had it not been 
for this gracious interposition of some power 
higher than her own will. But all the while 
her heart ached ; she was more alone than be- 
fore. It was easy enough to forget the lover who 
proved unworthy, but it was sad to lose the 
friend in whom she had trusted. 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE LETTER AT BREAKFAST. 

Leighton Rossitur was never an early riser, 
and he liked to enjoy the idleness of his holi- 
day to its full extent, so it happened that he was 
sitting in his own room, sipping his chocolate 
and enjoying the bright morning at his open 
window, when Miss Grey's letter was brought in. 
He recognized the superscription at a glance, and 
took the note eagerly. Its arrival caused him 
no alarm ; he was not surprised that she had 
written and avoided an interview which her 
peculiar reticence made difficult to her. He 
had wakened from pleasant dreams, with the 
thought of the day full in his mind, and he was 
glad to be greeted by this epistle. He knew 
quite well what the pages would contain— she 
would trust to her friend. He should shield 
her and teach her to be grateful to the man 
who loved her. And she should love him ! — 
his pale cheek flushed under that thought, and 
the bright smile curved his lip — love him with 
all her heart and soul, all her pride and strength, 
and that man whom he hated should see and 
writhe under the knowledge. Even with those 
feelings in his mind he could not keep away 
the baser emotion. 

He held the sealed letter while he reflected. 
He was in no haste; it pleased his sensuous na- 
ture to enjoy this pleasure to the utmost. The 
pretty English envelope with the monogram in 
blue mediasval letters that nobody could have 
deciphered but the ghost of some old monk who 
had passed his monotonous years in illuminat- 
ing manuscripts; the marked individuality of 
the hand in the superscription ; the faint odor 
of violets which he recognized — he enjoyed the 
whole. 

One of the eager impulses to which he was 
subject suddenly interrupted this slow tasting of 
anticipated happiness : he tore the envelope with 
reckless fingers to get at its contents, as he might 
some day have torn Elinor Grey's heart to get at 
its love, if Fate had not interposed. He glanced 
down the page; in his haste he had begun to 
read in the middle of a sentence ; he started as 
if something had stung fiim, shook the letter out, 
and went back to the commencement. 



" I have not forgotten, Mr. Rossitur, that to- 
morrow will bring the expiration of the term of 
waiting Which you so generously offered to my 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



169 



hesitation. Believe me, during these long 
weeks I have never forgotten, and I have tried 
to act honestly. I can not marry you— I must 
write the words at once— easier for you in read- 
ing and for me in writing to have them over. 

"I know now that for me to have decided 
otherwise would have been not only dangerous 
but an absolute sin, and you and I may both be 
thankful all our lives that I was guarded from 
committing it. I have no desire to write harsh- 
ly, but this letter you must feel to be my full, 
unwavering answer. I can not marry you ; be- 
cause, setting aside the fact that my heart has 
never been touched by your generous devotion— 
and it has been very generous— I can no longer 
trust you as I have done. 

" I have lost the friend in whom I believed. 
It. is a little thing to see the lover go, but I 
can not easily forgive you that you have lost 
me my friend. When yesterday you so far 
forgot the commonest instincts of manly chival- 
ry ; when you insulted the name of a woman — 
not simply because she is dear to me, but be- 
cause sheis a woman pure and good— you broke 
the bond of friendship between us, and no hu- 
man power can ever bridge the gulf. 

< ' Forgive me if these last words are harsh ; 
I would not willingly add to the pain yon may 
endure by one severe expression, and it was for 
this reason that I avoided an interview. My 
temper is so hasty, and my indignation is so fresh 
in my mind, that I can not trust myself. 

" Be you certain that years of reflection could 
not change my resolve. I must speak the whole 
truth— I must tell you honestly that I can not 
at present meet you with any appearance of tol- 
eration, and the kindly sympathy I might have 
felt for the man whose heart had gone out to- 
ward me is lost in my sorrow that the friend I 
trusted could have proved so ungenerous, in re- 
ality so unlike the person his gentleness to me 
had made me believe him. Elinor Grey." 



Rossitur read the letter through and let it drop 
on the table ; his head sank upon his hands and 
he uttered one groan of exquisite pain. Verily 
the world had fallen at his feet ; the element of 
baseness hidden under so much that was noble 
had worked this ruin. He sat for a time stupe- 
fied, then he started up with a mad intention of 
seeking Elinor Grey and overwhelming her with 
reproaches and threats— of finding Clive Farns- 
worth and tearing his heart out in his wife's 
presence. Then he fell back in his chair and 
covered his face with his hands and groaned 
anew. He looked up and saw the sunlight 
]. laying in at the window— the glass of summer 
roses which some soft-hearted chambermaid had 
sent up on the breakfast-tray— every thing as 
quiet and peaceful as before, and he marvelled. 
The world had fallen in ruins about him, and yet 
nothing was changed. 

He sat there till the pain, the regret, were lost 
in a mad desire for vengeance, and he rose from 
that first season of reflection, which ought to 
have softened him, a worse man : harder, more 



unbelieving, and with every evil instinct in his 
nature strengthened and made active. At 
length he tore the letter in fragments, and that 
bit of violence was a momentary relief. He rec- 
ognized that the light of common day was about 
him, and that life must go on with no glamour 
over it, at least for a season. 

A great trouble ought never to assail one in 
the morning : it is made worse by the prosaic 
details of the hour. Rossitur had to come down 
from tragedy and finish dressing; to leave his 
room at the bidding*of domestics impatient to get 
through their work. He did suffer, he suffered 
cruelly ; but the sense of defeat, the rage, the de- 
sire for vengeance, in a measure supported him 
by their excitement and fury. He hurried out- 
of-door ; she lounged about the veranda ; he 
smoked ; exchanged greetings with people who 
would speak cheerfully, and whom he must an- 
swer instead of knocking down ; went through 
the variety of petty miseries we must in this 
world, and bore them as we must, though we may 
have come away from a murder or a mystery 
which shall cloud all coming years. He order- 
ed a horse — at least movement would be a relief. 
He could gallop over the hills, and away amid 
their solitude he could be free to howl or curse 
or be insane in any manner the passing mood 
might- dictate. While waiting for his horse he 
went up stairs again and paced back and forth 
the piazza, lighted numberless cigars and flung 
them away, and kicked every obstacle that came 
in his path, and was as absurd as any body is 
when nerves and sinews ache in sympathy with 
the heart. The sunlight was a curse ; the green 
fields a desert ; the world was at an end ; and 
he could not get at that man and tear him as 
one wild beast tears another, because he must 
still live in this ruined planet, and he could not 
sacrifice every thing to this thirst for revenge. 
He might seek a quarrel with Farnsworth— might 
shoot him openly in a duel, or, better yet, spring 
on him in some lonely spot and grind his life 
out under a heavy heel, while his wife stood 
shrieking. He might do either of those things- 
he wanted to do both— and howl in the dying 
man's ear some vile slander about Elinor Grey : 
but he had to stay in the world, though it was 
become chaos. A coroner's inquest and a crim- 
inal's cell would follow the one assassination. If 
he shot him according to the code of murder, 
damnably called by afine name, the consequences 
would be little le'ss fatal. They would pursue 
him. If he sought public office they would 
stand in his way ; political opponents would point 
him out to a crowd as an assassin, and every- 
where he turned the infamy would follow. No, 
Clive Farnsworth must live, because the century 
is prosaic in certain matters, and though Tybalt 
and Laertes might slaughter their enemies and 
hope to hold up their heads after, if they were 
not cut off by a lucky thrust, Tybalt and Laertes 
of to-day must button their modern loose coats 
over their wrongs and curse in unadulterated and 
commonplace English, instead of brandishing 
daggers and bursting into blank verse. 



170 



MY DAlKiHTKli KLINOIi. 



Roisitur walked up and down and surveyed 
every side eleurly enough ; his selfishness con- 
trolled his passion, fierce us it, was. lie saw 
the children playing about the grounds and 
hated them for being merry; a group of men 
sat under the trees chatting and reading news- 
papers; ill" birds sang in the branches; the 
sunlight played and danced — every body and 
every thing united t<> be aggravations and abom- 
inations, and lie cursed them from high hca\- 

en down. Presently from the corridor came 

Sounds of wrath and distress- broken invective 

and dolorous Bobbing— -the first agreeable noises 

he had heard that, morning, and lie went to the 
door tO BOO what mortal suffered and tO enjoy 
the sight. In the middle of the hall stood Mrs. 

Pifflt, her bonnet hanging down her back, the 

flat reticule on her arm, and she was assaulting 

a black porter who had her trunk on his shoulder 

and her bonnet-box in his hand. 

"Set 'em down!" she shrieked. " Set 'em 
down, I say !" 

" Lor bress ye, missis," returned the darkey, 

ducking and dodging, '"miss de train, sure: 
Oa'ragC at do door and no time tO lost." 

"1 won't go ; I'll stay till I get mj property ! 

I'll rouse the house ! Where's the proprietor? 
Set Ym down, I say !" The porter set down 
the baggage and stood rolling his eves in won- 
der and delight, while Pifflt danced ahoiit him. 
'•(>h, my Umbrellal" she cried. " I will have 

my umbrella! Somebody's stolen my umbrellal 

I set ii against that chair while I ran up stairs, 

and it's gone. Oh, my umbrella I" Waiters 
began to gather people opened their doors and 

came out Pifflt danced about ami detailed her 

loss and was quite beside herself. " Where's the 
proprietor, I say? ('all him. ['ve lost my um- 
brella! Call him, I say— maybe he stole it. 

Some of yOU stole it ! 1 set it against that very 

chair. 1 will have my umbrella." The waiters 
expostulated — busy people said she ought to 

he put out of the house — Pifflt only danced and 
shrieked the harder, growing more frantic each 
instant. "('all that landlord," she howled, 
"lire! Murder! Thieves ! thieves ! I'll bring 
him. Fire! lire! lire!" 

Out rushed more people; up thoycanie from 

below iii wild confusion, with the landlord at 

the head, to know whero tho lire was; and 

'when it was disCOVerod that the outcry was 

made hv a mad-woman bewailing the loss of 

her umbrella, they fumed or laughed accordyig 

as their tempers or their sense of the ludicrous 

happened to he most active. 

Pifflt tlew at, the landlord and sei/.ed him by 
the collar. "My umbrella!" she shrieked; 

" I will have my umbrellal Give it to me, I 

say." 

" 1 haven't your umbrella,'' he answered, she 

shaking him so violently that the words came 
in gasps. " Why, let go — you're crazy !'' 

••No, I'm not. Somebody's stolen my um- 
brella— I set it against that verv chair. Get it 

—find it. Fire ! (ire ! " 

" Oct her a straight-jacket," said the crowd. 



"Why, Madam," cried the landlord, ext Hear- 
ing himself with the loss of an end of his neck- 
erchief, which fluttered victoriously in Mrs. 1'if- 
fit's hand, " I'll give you twenty umbrellas, if 
you'll only go." 

"I won't go! I will have my umbrella! 

You're a set of thieves, the wdiole of you — laud- 
lord, guests, waiters ami all. I'll take the law 
of the wdiole house ! My umbrella- -I will have 
my umbrella!" Sim subsided for an instant 
into a Storm of puffs and snills, and the landlord 
ordered the waiters to search in every direction 
for the missing article. "They'd belter find 
it . !" cried Pifflt, With fresh energy. " Look ill 
OVery body's rooms- pull the folks out of bed. 
1 will have my umbrella! I'm Mrs. Pifflt, the 

writer- — ill put you all in every paper, from 

Maine to Georgia — I'll show you up for a nest 
of thieves — umbrella — umbrella J" She paused 
again to sob and get breath. » 

'•You have been a nuisance ever since you 

came," exclaimed the. long-suffering landlord, 

roused to anger by the treatment he had re- 
ceived and the general confusion. " i only 
ask you to get out. of the house ; you may write 
w hat you please only go." 

"1 won't go! I'll st,aml here till the Day 

<fT Judgment if you don't find my umbrella. 
Fire! lire! Murder! Thieves 1" howled Pifflt. 

"For heaven's sake, Madam, hold your 
tongue," pleaded the landlord. " J'm doing all 
I can. I've got half the house hunting for 
your confounded umbrella." 

"1 won't hold my tongue! I'll expose you 
— I'm Mrs. Piffltt, the writer, oh, my umbrel- 
lal" 

"Land's sake, ole Miss," spoke up the por- 
ter, who thought the exhibition fun beyond 

•any experience on a Mississippi plantation, 
"don't take on so like all possessed; 'twan't 
only a nanibarilly arter nil." 

Mrs. Pifflt's wrath subsided in a passion of 
tears ; she sat down on her trunk, perched her 
feet on her bonnet-box, and sobbed bitterly ; 
tor Pifflt had one human weakness- --she loved 
her old friend. 

" Twasn't only a nanibarilly, artcr all," re- 
peated her sable comforter. 

" It was more than an umbrella t<> me," said 

Pifflt, weeping copiously. " It was a friend and 
companion — it shared my bed and my board." 

"'Fore de Lord, it couldn't eat!" cried the 
Cloud. 

" It might if it had wanted to and welcome ; 
I wouldn't have minded the expense," sobbed 
Pifflt. " I'm a lone woman and a widow. It 
walked with me — travelled with me — lay on the 
foot of my bed at. night ami was a protector to 
me — and now it's gone — ooh ooli !" 

That crowning elegy convulsed the listeners, 
and her dark consoler absolutely rolled over on 
the floor in an ecstasy of delight. 

"Oh, you may laugh," sniffed Mrs. l'itlit, 
brushing away her tears and going into a new 
access of rage. "You'll laugh out of the other 
side of vour mouths before I've done with you. 



my daughter elixok. 



171 



I'll show you up — I'll mako the papers ring. 
I'm Mrs. Pifflt, the writer. I'll set Congress at 
von — 1 will have my umbrella ! Fire ! Murder ! 
Thieves !" She fairly jumped up and down and 
shook her lists at the crowd. 

At that moment one of the waiters appeared 
on the stairs carrying the green umbrella; but 

o, wot'ul change ! it bore witness to its Bufferings 
since purloined from its loving mistress. Some 
mischievous child had seen and pounced upon 
it. It had been made a horse — it had been 
dragged through an opportune puddle — its stays 

were broken, its green dress was torn, and the 
muddy drops dripping from it seemed tears as 
the waiter held it aloft and it surveyed its mis- 
tress with its crooked handle. " Here's your 
umbrella," was the cry, and a heartless laugh 
followed. \ 

Pifflt sprang forward, seized her companion 
and hugged it to her hosom. .She was past rage 
— she had no breath left ; the sight of this 
havoc and ruin wrought on her trusty friend 
filled her with poignant grief. 

"Carriage is waiting, Madam," said the 
landlord; "you've barely time to get down to 
the train." 

" Leas' ways, ole Miss, ycr's found do nam- 
hardly," cried the darkey, again shouldering 
her trunk. 

Pifflt sniffed and sobbed and held it fast. 
" Ten years I've had it, and it was as good as 
new,'' she moaned; "and now look at it!" 
She held it up, and a muddy tear oozed down 
the crook. 

'■ Dat yere chile wants its nose wiped,'' sug- 
gested the negro. 

"Get out!" cried Mrs. Pifflt. "Go on! 
Let me get away. Oh, you're a pretty land- 
lord — you're a sweet set ! I'll show you up — 
I'll teach you ! A nice house, where property 
isn't safe ! I'll expose you — I'm Mrs. Pifflt, the 
writer — from Maine to Georgia." 

Her voice was heard all the way down the 
stairs as she trotted on, clasping the umbrella 
to her breast. She bounced into the carriage 
and the thoughtless umbrella brought her new 
trouble — it poked its crooked nose directly 
through the window. 

"Dollar for that, ma'am," called the coach- 
mna. 

"'Pears like dat ar chile's 'spensive, ole 
Miss," said the porter. " Don't forget the con- 
weyancer, ole Miss." 

But he held out his palm in vain ; Pifflt only 
shook the umbrella at him furiously and was 
driven oil". Up to the last moment that she was 

visible to the throng she was embracing her 

companion and holding it close. So Pifflt was 

gone. 

Bossitnr stood in the door and watched the 
whole exhibition ami laughed unrestrainedly; 
he enjoyed it the more because the woman's dis- 
tress, though ludicrous and unreasonable, was 
genuine, and be was in a mood which made it a 
satisfaction to see somebody suffer — to soothe the 
gnawing at his heart with the sight of pain alllict- 



ing another. He went down stairs in search of 
his horse, and as he was mounting he saw Jack 
Kalston's wife come out and enter her slvlish 
barouche, and if she could have heard the gen- 
tle message he mentally sent after her she might 
have been edified. Mrs. Ralston had an errand 
before her which was by no means a pleasant 
one, but which, after a night of sleepless terror, 
she bad deeided must be undertaken. 

Elinor Grey, sitting by one of the windows of 
the breakfast-room at Alban Wood, saw Mrs. 
Kalston's carriage drive up, and instinctively 
drew back among the curtains to be concealed 
from view. She knew that the woman never 
ventured to pay Rosa visits, and when Tom from 
his easy-chair, bearing the wheels, ('ailed out to 
know who was coming, she uttered the name in 
atone of horror, and Rosa repeated it with a lit- 
tle natural indignation added. 

"Don't be excited, Indies," said Tom; "1 
prophesy that Mrs. Kalston's call is for your 
bumble servant." 

"At all events, she need not come to see 
me," cried Kosa. 

"Bless me," said Tom; "you meet her nt 
lots of places, and you invited her to a ball 
once." 

" I did, to oblige Annie Ralston, but I never 
visit her, and barely speak. You know it well 
enough. You never said why, but you (old me 
lint was all I ever should do." 

Tom diil not have an opportunity to answer, 
for Stupid came in and verified his prediction. 
Mrs. Ralston wished to speak with Air. Thorn- 
ton an instant her husband had been called 
back to town suddenly and had left a message 
for her to deliver. Would Mr. Thornton have 
the goodness to step out to the, carriage, as she 
was in haste and had no time to make a call on 
the ladies. 

"The impudence! A call onus!" ejaculated 

Rosa. 

Tom made a mouth at her and went out. of 
the room. Elinor sat still behind the, curtains, 
and Rosa came and leaned over her chair.. 

They saw Tom approach the carriage— saw 
the woman's countenance, haggard in spile of 
paint, with the fierce eyes dimmed by a long 
night of terror, lean eagerly toward him, while 

he stood perfectly civil and indifferent. She 

talked rapidly — once clutched at his hand ; they 
could tell by her face that she was pleading with 
much earnestness. Torn bowed — answered 
briefly — smiled, and looked entirely uncon- 
cerned. 

"She's begging him to keep her secret," 
whispered Kosa; "but he'll never tell it even 
to me. She docs not know Tom." ' 

"And you would not hear it if be would 
tell," returned Elinor, 

"Heaven knows I woidd not! It's not 
Tom's. I don't want to hear her name. How 
frightened she looks." 

" It makes me sick," cried Elinor. " Oh the 
poor thing! Come away, Kosa don't look." 

They hurried from the window and were 



172 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



standing at the further end of the room when 
they heard the carriage drive away with a great 
dasli and whip-cracking, carrying off the woman 
who in spite of her splendor was more wretched 
than many a houseless beggar, " because her 
sin had found her out." 

Tom came in, wearing his impassable expres- 
sion. "Miss Grey," he said, "Mrs. Ralston 
desired me to offer you the most humble and 
entire apology— I quote her expression — for any 
word she may have said against your friend Mrs. 
Farnsworth. Slie begs you to believe that she 
will do every thing in her power to contradict 
the reports during the brief time she remains 
here." 

Elinor was silent and Rosa exclaimed — 
"That is the last of the matter. Go on read- 
ing, Tom, we don't want to think of her." 

Tom resumed his book, and during the rest 
of their lives there was never so much as an al- 
lusion to that secret in Mrs. Ralston's career, 
which some chance had exposed to Tom Thorn- 
ton. 

After luncheon Ruth Farnsworth drove over; 
so beautiful in her delight at Elinor's safety, 
so proud and happy that Clive should have been 
the one to save her, that Tom declared he lost 
his heart on the spot. Clive was not with her 
— he was busy with letters that day — he would 
not hear of her waiting until he should be at 
leisure, perhaps preferring to send kind inquir- 
ies, to be repeated in her graceful way, to trust- 
ing himself at Alban Wood so soon after a shock 
which made it difficult to settle down to actual 
life without a struggle. Ruth was so glad and 
happy, so radiant a sunbeam in her excited 
spirits, that when she departed Rosa was un- 
able to say enough in her praise. 

That evening Mr. Grey arrived somewhat un- 
expectedly, bringing Coralie and Hungarian 
Henry in his train, and Elinor thought she had 
never been so fidl of joy at seeing him. He had 
to be told of the accident, and was frightened 
out of his placidity at the bare recital. He kept 
her cjose by him for two hours after, appearing 
to think there could be no absolute safety for his 
treasure anywhere else. The next morning he 
would £0 immediately after breakfast to see and 
thank Clive Farnsworth, who could easily have 
dispensed with any expression of gratitude and 
devoutly wished that every body would forget 
the matter as soon as possible. But Mr. Grey 
would not forget, and he would consider Clive 
a hero to Ruth's intense delight, who thought 
him the most charming elderly gentleman the 
world ever produced, and could have listened 
to his graceful speeches all day, as indeed most 
■people could. 

After his return he was alone with Elinor 
and mentioned Rossitur's name, adding that he 
wished to see him. !So Elinor had to say that 
the time of probation had come and passed. 
"And what did my daughter Elinor decide? 
Am I to lose her ?" he asked. 

" I am going to stay with you, papa." 

Mr. Grey did not wish to lose her — he was 



glad there was no danger — still to a certain ex- 
tent ho was disappointed. She must marry 
some time — it was the destiny of woman — there 
was no man with whom in many ways an al- 
liance could be so useful to Mr. Grey. "My 
Elinor has given the subject full thought, I 
know," he said. 

"Indeed I have, papa. I tried to do right. 
Oh, you can't think what a relief it is to have 
it over — to be quite free again." 

"Then certainly there is not a word to be 
said. I am sure you gave your refusal in the 
gentlest way." 

"But I had to be decided, papa. I could 
not leave any hope." 

"You were right. But I like Mr. Rossitur; 
I hope nothing will interrupt our friendly rela- 
tions." 

Elinor would not pain her father by telling 
him of the meanness which Rossitur had com- 
mitted. Perhaps he was already sorry for it ; 
she was glad now she had written instead of 
seeing him, because in a personal interview she 
must have plainly shown her contempt and 
wrath. She was glad to think he might be 
sorry — might have much in his character that 
was really noble — only the fact that there were 
such black possibilities too, would leave him 
worlds away from her forever. She would be 
civil when they met, and would not tell her fa- 
ther, and she was glad to leave the matter 
there ; it hurt her. to cherish harsh feelings 
against any body. 

They met the next day but one at an im- 
promptu dinner, as the Idol called it, given by 
her to honor the Farnsworths ; and she had 
collected the Hamlyns and several of the chief 
among the magnates, and was in a seventh heav- 
en of delight at Mr. Grey's arrival. 

The Angel was also in ccstacies at the sight 
of her dear guardian ; but though he was gal- 
lant and amiable as ever, the Angel knew that 
the scene so inopportunely interrupted could 
never be gotten up afresh. Mrs. Fiffit had not 
ventured to leave any stings behind for her, 
therefore she escaped scot-free, and congratu- 
lated herself immensely thereupon. She told 
every body that Mrs. Fiffit had tried to drag 
her into the matter, poor child that she was, 
who could not understand what the trouble 
meant ; but her dear Elinor Grey had defend- 
ed her. Most people believed her account, and 
she did the martyr very neatly, as she did near- 
ly all roles she attempted, because — 

" The serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field." 

She had Juanita up before the Idol, and told 
her what wicked things Mrs. Fiffit had said, 
and Juanita, having been previously instruct- 
ed, rolled her eyes wildly and was proof that 
Fiffit had once met her young mistress in the 
grounds and had begun to abuse every body, 
the bressed Senora Duchess included, and had 
been sent to the right about without scruple. 
The Idol praised her faithfulness, and gave her 
a gorgous red dress and a yellow feather, where- 



MY DAUGHTER ELlNOIt. 



173 



at her young mistress was almost as much de- 
lighted as Juanita, because she had expected to 
be obliged to reward her fidelity herself. The 
Angel was at tlio dinner in the most bewilder- 
in"- toilette, and was an Undine and a seraph 
and every tiling artful and bewitching added. 
She was enthusiastic over Ruth, and charming- 
ly afraid of Clive because he was a genius ; and 
Elinor felt at case, since she knew that she 
would not dare let Ruth discover the scandal 
that had been crushed, and concerning which 
they had no care now except to keep her from 
knowledge of it. 

The Earnsworths had arrived when the Al- 
ban Wood party entered; indeed, they were 
last of any body, for Rosa was never in a hurry 
and Tom was a hopeless dawdler. Clive 
Famsworth was talking to stately Mrs. Ilamlyn 
and watching Ruth, the centre of a little group 
of men— the old Judge chief among them— and 
thinking how lovely she looked and feeling 
clad ami thankful at her safety, when he saw 
Elinor Grey come in. He did not cease his 
conversation ; he gave one glance, then he 
looked at Ruth again till the mist had cleared 
from his eyes, and heart and brain were steady 

once more. 

Leighton Rossitur saw her too as he leaned 
over Miss Laidlcy's chair ; and though he had 
longed for this meeting, he felt at that instant 
as if he would be glad to get away. He de- 
lighted the Angel's heart by retaining his posi- 
tion and making her believe that her fascina- 
tions prevailed over the spell of Elinor's pres- 
ence. The dreariest forty-eight hours that 
Leighton Rossitur had ever spent had been 
those since the reception of that letter. He 
had scarcely eaten or slept, and he had made a 
comforter of wine as much as ho dared, not 
venturing to trust it too far, lest he should be 
led into some insanity which could not be re- 
trieved, lie hail been in twenty different minds, 
and had resolved upon numberless plans of ac- 
tion, and was as far from finding any anchor 
with which to steady his senses as when the 
blow fell. lie had been so certain of success— 
up to the latest moment every tiling had appear- 
cd prosperous— and it was the fust failure of his 
life, lie had gone nearly mad, there was no 
doubt of that, and a soul in purgatory might 
have pitied his pangs, for he loved Elinor Grey 
with all the passion of his voluptuous nature. 
He was glad when the Idol's hurried invitation 
came; he should Bee Elinor; in some moods, 
the sight of her looking into his very soul with 
her eyes' 'full of honest scorn would have been 
better than the misery of his solitude. That 
morning Mr. Grey had called on him, and had 
been so exactly the same as of old in his man- 
ner that Rossitur decided he could know noth- 
ing either of the season of waiting or its bitter 
end. He was pale and worn from lack of sleep, 
and feverish from thought and wine, but he 
controlled himself and listened eagerly to Mr. 
Grey's confidential talk, for the statesman had 
insensibly fallen into the habit of conversing 



more freely with this young man than he ever 
had to any other, and he could hint plans to 
him which were best not exposed to "my 
daughter Elinor's" keen sense of honor anil 
justice. Therefore Rossitur came to the Castle 
in that excitable state which made him unusual- 
ly brilliant, lift blazed all the evening like a 
meteor, and was the life of the party, and he 
whispered tenderer speeches than he had ever 
before offered to brighten the Angel's romance, 
and in a voice which thrilled her like shocks 
from a galvanic battery. He was not brought 
near Elinor before dinner, indeed he had noth- 
ing to do but whisper softly in the Angel's car, 
for Mrs. Clive Earnsworth was made the chief 
feature of the occasion in a manner that would 
have goaded the Angel to desperation had it 
not been for hi in. 

The Secretary had received a hint from Eli- 
nor, and he was surpassing the other men in 
his attentions, saying graceful things to Clive 
also, thanking him playfully as a public bene- 
factor by his book, and something higher yet 
for having given him personally the happiness 
of meeting this lovely Avife, his daughter El- 
inor's cherished friend. And the Idol beamed 
and fluttered, and stately Mrs. Ilamlyn unbent, 
and the dignitaries generally so bowed before 
Ruth's shrine that she would have been nervous 
only Clive's smile assured her, and she forgot 
herself in thinking about him, and believing 
that she was courted on his account, because he 
was so famous and so grand that every thing 
belonging to him must be of importance. She 
talked just enough, and she talked well, and her 
poetry and her romances had taught her pretty 
phrases and wording of sentences, which never 
sounded studied from the fact that she employed 
them unconsciously. 

The Hull not being in the home pasture, ow- 
ing to the suddenness of the affair, the Idol re- 
quested her charming Secretary to play host, 
and to lead her sweet Cynthia of a minute, the 
brightest ornamentation among the bays of her 
Apolloite, in to dinner, because the feast im- 
promptu was in her honor, as all must know. 
It came about that Elinor was paired off with 
some notable, and Rossitur fell to the Angel's 
share by a bit of previous diplomacy on her 
part. 

Clive had not found an opportunity— no, that 
is not honest— he had been able to avoid speak- 
ing to Miss Grey until they came face to face in 
the general rising to go toward the dining- 
room. Ruth was close by, leaning on the Sec 
retary's arm, and Elinor was glad to have her 
near. She held out her hand to Clive with 
frank cordiality, and said, "I have been talk- 
ing to the best part of you," smiling at Ruth. 
And Mr. Grey leaned over to whisper— "I 
have not thanked you half enough. God 
knows I never can." Then, emotion being out 
of place, the line of march was duly taken up 
and the party gathered about the table. 

"So blest to see these familiar faces of be- 
loved friends gathered around my impromptu 



174 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



her romance, which was growing a very serious 
matter, but she believed that she was taking her 
hero away from Elinor Grey, and therefore her 
exultation equalled her happiness. Rossitur 
allowed her to think this — he wanted her to — 
and when she was most interested he told her 
that he must go. He was beginning to play 
the part which he had unconsciously acted to- 
ward her hitherto : he tantalized her with a 
purpose now, and made her romance more and 
more sensational by rendering her uncertain 
whether he cared for her or whether it must end 
with despair and death. He was going up to 
Lake George and the picturesque scenes about 
Champlain, and it was understood between him 
and the Angel that on his return he should join 
her at Saratoga. He hesitated and acted as 
though he was very anxious to meet her there, 
but was held back by some scruple. The An- 
gel was more than ever convinced that a secret 
engagement existed between him and Miss Grey, 
and she never rested till she received his un- 
conditional promise. He departed, and in spite 
of the incessant dissipation, the amusement ev- 
ery day and the opportunity of endless Ger- 
mans every night, the Angel was restless. She 
assumed certain triumphal airs toward Elinor 
which amused Miss Grey and made her won- 
der in what petty craft the damsel believed her- 
self to be victorious. 

The Angel had a due share of admiration and 
a crowd of adorers, still Ruth Farnsworth was 
first, and that took the sweetness out of her cup. 
Nothing could he done unless Mrs. Farns- 
worth appi'oved. She must decide whether the 
next day's party should be on the lake or a pic- 
nic in the woods ; at the balls her favorite dances 
must be played ; she must be the principal 
feature of every pleasure. Of course the guests 
took the tone adopted by the Alban Wood resi- 
dents, classing the Secretary and his daughter 
thereamong, and Ruth's head might have been 
turned had she been in the least different from 
what she was. She never accepted the homage 
as a tribute to any charm of her own — she laid 
it at Clive's feet and made it a fresh offering of 
love and devotion. " My own darling," she 
would say, "I am glad they like me — it is for 
your sake." And he saw more and more clear- 
ly how pure the nature was that he had taken 
into his keeping — how free from the least tinge 
of vanity which even a noble-minded woman 
might have indulged at that time. 

The Angel could not endure it long : she 
gave the Idol no peace until she persuaded her 
to be off to Saratoga. The good Idol was en- 
joying greatly what she called " this festial con- 
vivia," but she could not bear to disappoint her 
pretty blossom, and prepared to get under way. 
There came occasional letters to the Angel 
about this time, concerning which she made a 
profound mystery, only leaving it evident that 
she had one, and after receiving such epistles 
she always assumed a greater air of triumph to- 
ward Elinor Grey. For the letters were from 
Rossitur, and he could write remarkably well. 



He call her his friend — his Consuelo. He 
hinted at a heavy cloud which hung over him, 
but he wrote very vaguely, and never committed 
himself. " The children of darkness are wiser 
in their generation than the children of light," 
and his letters were so worded that if vanity or 
pique should ever induce her to show them to 
Elinor, Miss Grey would only read therein the 
black anguish which filled his mind at her cast- 
ing him off, and would understand that he had 
corresponded with this girl because her answers 
gave him tidings of the loved and lost, while 
the pretty phrases and poetical names were be- 
stowed from the fact that he considered her a 
mere child. But the Angel treasured the let- 
ters ; she would not have had Elinor know of 
them for the world. She believed firmly that 
Miss Grey loved Rossitur, and she feared that 
if a suspicion of this correspondence reached her 
she would force him back to his allegiance. So 
the Angel guarded her mystery ; read the epis- 
tles again and again, wept over them, hid 
them in her bosom, slept ^ith them under her 
pillow, and, with such force as her nature own- 
ed, she loved Leighton Rossitur. She was suc- 
cessful at length in forcing the Idol to carry her 
away under her wing ; and as at the last moment 
one man offered his hand and heart, either 
from fancy or on account of her wealth, she 
went off with unalloyed delight, and the party 
in general missed her very little. 

During this season Elinor and Clive Farns- 
worth were constantly brought into each other's 
society, but it was always in a crowd, and as 
neither sought any intercourse beyond the nec- 
essary civilities and appearance of cordial friend- 
ship, they were almost as far apart as they had 
been during the past months. I am glad that 
I have no sentimental episode to set down here ; 
I am glad that there was not in the mind of the 
woman or the man a single thought which it 
was difficult to face in secret. The recent 
danger from which Ruth had escaped and of 
which she could never be conscious had made 
Clive's heart very, very gentle toward her. He 
d.id not allow himself lonely hours in which to 
grow morbid and visionary. He kept her by 
his side, he made her his companion in every 
pursuit, and out in the world he was busy watch- 
ing that she was happy and so carefully guarded 
that the least shade of annoyance could not 
come near her. He simply kept self in the 
background — studied her pleasure — and that ab- 
negation of self made him content in her happi- 
ness. I shall not tell you that the chance men- 
tion of Elinor Grey's name ceased at certain 
moments to thrill him to the heart's core, but 
he disregarded the weakness — he refused to 
yield. Sometimes when he looked up suddenly 
and saw her standing in the throng, so near and 
yet so far off, the mist would gather before his 
eyes and the lost life which never had any cul- 
mination would rise vividly before him ; but to 
have mad thoughts pass through the mind is a 
very different thing from dwelling upon them. 
When such emotions troubled his quiet he went 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



177 



resolutely away to Ruth — he sought her beam- 
ing smile — he bent over her to hear some whis- 
per of tenderness with which he might steady 
his soul and go calmly on again. 

And Elinor Grey in her womanly purity had 
not even those feelings to contend against. He 
had literally no place in her mind other than 
as the friend who had saved her life, the man 
who had nobly redeemed his errors and who was 
the guardian of the girl she loved with a tender- 
ness which we can only give those whom we 
have protected and helped out of suffering. Eli- 
nor was very lonely — life was very empty to her 
— but she was not mourning over any lost dream 
or shattered idol. She had acknowledged hum- 
bly to herself that her heart had gone out to 
Clive Farnsworth as it could never do toward 
any man again, but she put the memory aside 
and it ceased to have an actual part in her 
loneliness. 

One bright sunset a party had been rowing 
over the pretty lake and had come back on shore 
and were roving about, climbing the steep hill 
to watch the sun go down, lingering under the 
pretenses with which people try to prolong a 
pleasant day. Elinor had slipped off from every 
body for a few moments, and coming to a shady 
nook she sat down, as completely hidden from 
the rest as if she had been miles distant, but 
within reach of the merry voices still. She sat 
in the shadow looking out over the golden and 
green waters, up to the purple hills beyond, 
which were crowned with a line of white light 
like an ineffable glory. She thought sorrow- 
fully that the scene was typical. As she sat in 
the gloom looking out at the sunlit waters, so 
her soul gazed out from among the shadows at 
the brightness which could never come near her 
life. It was a fanciful but natural thought, and 
she smiled at its morbidness, for, looking up, 
she saw the white glory crowning the purple 
hills, and remembered that thus from amid the 
darkness of this world may the soul gaze at the 
radiance that always streams down from the 
higher shore, if we would wipe our blinding 
tears away and search for it. As she thought, 
there was a step near, and before she turned 
her head she knew that Clive Farnsworth was 
standing beside her. He started a little — he 
had not dreamed of her being there — he too had 
strayed away for an instant's quiet. "Is it 
you, Miss Grey? - ' he said, with the slow, grave 
smile which had taken the place of youthful 
brightness. " If people talked as they do in 
books, I should say I almost fancied I had come 
on the guardian spirit of the lake." 

"Only a very tired young woman," she re- 
plied, lifting her calm face toward him. "But 
look at those hills, Mr. Farnsworth ; have you 
any comparison for that brightness?" 

" I think it rests one to watch it," he said. 

" If we could always look up — always remem- 
ber the brightness is there — what a help it would, 
be," Elinor returned softly. She told him part 
of her thought — not the sentiment which she 
had applied to herself, but of the likeness to 
M 



human existence — looking out from among the 
shadows to the glory of the upper sky. 

" And we feel it more and more as the years 
go on," he answered. 

"Yes; that is the best of it." 

"The best of it, as you say." He stood be- 
side her and gazed up toward the dazzling radi- 
ance, and the tired face grew peaceful. It was 
the first time they had stood thus alone since 
that parting which was a final separation as far 
as the real life of this world might be concerned. 
They remembered the fact at the same instant ; 
their eyes met, but the peaceful light was on 
both faces still, like a beam reflected from that 
heavenly brightness. 

"I have had no opportunity to thank you," 
Clive Farnsworth said, " but I knew, Miss 
Grey, that it was not necessary. You have 
been loving and kind to my little Ruth ; she is 
very happy now." 

" If I have been allowed to help," replied Eli- 
nor, "you know that I am thankful — He has 
permitted me." 

"Yes," Clive said, "I can understand and 
believe that now. I wanted to tell you so — I 
knew you would be glad." 

1 ' Very glad. My friends are so much nearer 
to me when they can believe this with me — it is 
such a rest. He keeps us — we are never alone, 
and the light is always there." 

They were both silent for a little after that. 
I may safely say there was no human weakness 
in the thoughts which filled each soul. 

"I read your book," Elinor said. "I am 
glad you wrote it. I wanted to blot out the 
title and have it — ' Toward the Light.' " 

" I tried to make it a good book," he answer- 
ed. "I am not young enough to waste a*ny 
more time or to write without a purpose." 

" To live at all without a purpose soon ceases 
to have any charm," Elinor said. "It is very 
romantic and very pretty for awhile, but we soon 
learn how petty and selfish it is." 

"And the melancholy and morbid feelings 
which looked beautiful grow very faded and 
tame," Clive said. 

" Very faded. The most humiliating thing 
is that we find there has been no originality in 
them — every body has had the same." 

"Only you could not make any youthful 
dreamer believe that," he said. "And after 
all, I would not deprive youth of its romance." 

"Nor I," said Elinor, "because you would 
take away its brightest charm. But I would 
try to direct it, to strengthen the character so 
that it might have no evil effect." 

" Only nobody will try to help young people 
aright." 

" No ; older people seem to think the romance 
is to be laughed at or to be ashamed of, or they 
sneer from bitterness because their lives have 
lost even that glow." 

"And it is so easy to sneer, and people are 
just as absurd in doing it as they were in the 
first folly — they think they have exhausted life 
and felt every thing." 



178 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



" And have not lived enough to know the 
true light is there," she said softly, pointing to- 
ward the distance. 

" 'I will lift up mine eyes to the hills from 
whence cometh my help,' " Clive repeated in- 
voluntarily. 

" ' My help cometh from the Lord who made 
heaven and earth,' " added Elinor. 

"Would they think we were making two 
dull sermons of ourselves if they heard us?" 
returned Clive with a smile, waving his hand to- 
ward the diroction from whence the voices of 
their friends could he heard. 

"Some of them might; we can pity them 
for it ; their blindness or their inability to com- 
prehend does not alter the beautiful truth." 

" ' Growing toward the light,' " he repeated, 
and again he looked out on the hills, and the 
peaceful smile softened his face still more. "I 
sometimes think," ho said slowly, not turning 
away from the radiance, "that my life is very 
near its close for this world." Now he looked 
at her and smiled. " It is a weak thought per- 
haps — it may be only a relic of the old morbid 
fancies — but it comes to me so frequently that 
I can not believe it right to put it wholly aside." 

" No, no," she said hastily ; " I can not 
think so — for Ruth's sake, you know." 

" Only we know Ruth would be cared for 
just the same. If I go, He will send other help." 

" I forgot that ; you see it is so hard to look 
up." 

"I wanted to speak of this thought to you," 
he went on, "although it may be weak. I 
wanted to ask you to love her more and more, 
because she would lean entirely on you then as 
far as human sympathy is concerned." 



ar as n 
T.liuc 



lor Grey felt no sorrow ; she was looking 
up too. If his thought were true she could not 
regret that he might go away. — Life here seems 
so poor when wo gaze over yonder ; not with 
sickly longing to be away from care, but con- 
tent to remain while there is work to do ; only 
ready to hear the call, ready to give free vent to 
the gladness. 

" I know what you would be to her," Clive 
said. 

"I would try." 

"Yes. I have told you now; that was all. 
It may happen that in the whole course of our 
lives I should have had no other opportunity, 
and I wanted to say this." 

" I am glad to accept the trust," she replied. 

They stood there, looking away from each 
other, not because there was any pain in either 
heart, but each wanted to watch the brightness 
and remember whither it led. 

After a time Clive said — "Thank you. 
When the thought comes now I shall be quite at 
rest." 

" Since whichever way it may be will be 
right," Elinor answered. 

He bowed his head. I think if he had been 
dying and she had come to hear his last words, 
both would have had very much the same feel- 
ing they had at that moment. It was not grief, 



it was no relapse into weakness ; their minds 
were steady and calm, but it seemed a very sol- 
emn season to them, and they knew that this 
meeting and parting was like death, like some- 
thing holier too. It was as if he had been dead 
and his soul for a brief space was permitted to 
come back and be visible to her and look straight 
at her soul beyond all mortal disguises. 

"There is nothing else," ho said gently ; "I 
am at rest now." 

She gave him her hand quietly and he held it 
an instant in his own, and without another word 
they turned back to the world. The first to 
meet them was Ruth, her checks blushing with 
roses and her eyes like twin stars. " Every 
body is going,'' she said. "I am so glad I 
found you together. You never have a chance 
to talk and get well acquainted. Oh, Elinor, 
you can't know me really if you don't know 
Clive ; I'm only a bit of him, after all." 

They could both smile at her and love her 
and be glad that she should meet them thus. 

"I know Clive very well," Elinor answered, 
for the first time calling him by that name. 
She was smiling still, and kept the action from 
appearing strained by a quiet playfulness. She 
took Ruth's hand and laid it in her' husband's. 
"When I think of one I think of both," she 
continued softly ; "Ruth and Clive — they make 
but one friend to me." 

There had been seasons, there might easily be 
again, when that incident would have caused 
Farnsworth the keenest anguish, but he did not 
stiller now. Though she called him by the fa- 
miliar baptismal name, and he remembered that 
it was the first and last time in all their lives 
that she would ever call him thus, he did not 
sutler. A few moments longer they stood 
there, and the conversation floated back to every- 
day subjects, as was wisest and best. Present- 
ly the rest of the party came trooping up; it 
was growing late, and though poetry and ad- 
miration of nature are very well in their place, 
every body had exhausted them for the time 
and wanted to got back to dinner, which I sup- 
pose would have been equally the truth if they 
had all been Longfellows or Mrs. Brownings. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE INCONSIDERATE HOSTESS. 

The days went pleasantly on past the middle 
of July, then Alban Wood emptied itself of 
guests, the other houses followed the example, 
and every body rushed away through the hot 
summer glare in search of the purgatorial pleas- 
ures df watering-places. 

The Angel had been enjoying a season of 
unbroken delight at Saratoga. The Idol hu- 
mored every whim in the most amiable way, 
and the more whims the Angel had the more 
charming she thought her. Wherever she 
moved people bowed down before her and yield- 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



179 



ed to the spell of her witcheries or to her gold- 
en charms, and all she cared was to have the 
admiration ; she did not trouble her angelic 
mind about the motive. 

Her romance had reached its culmination — 
she was mad for Leighton Rossitur. — I em- 
ploy the word advisedly, pink-and-whitc seraph 
though she was. — He played his part most skill- 
fully, and enjoyed the refuge from dismal or 
wicked thoughts. He wanted her to love him ; 
if the blackest possibility must be realized, and 
he found there could be no hope of a restoration 
to Miss Grey's favor, he would marry Genevieve 
Laidlcy because her wealth would afford him a 
life of luxury and be an invaluable aid in his 
wish for political advancement. If her heart — 
supposing that she had one — chanced to be 
broken in the game, he would care as little as 
the Angel herself would have done in a similar 
case. So he acted his role well ; making her 
believe that he was partially engaged to Elinor 
Grey, had been before he knew and loved her. 
Now he was held fast ; he could only wait till 
he learned whether he might consider himself 
honorably released. 

The Angel would have had little sympathy 
with such scruples, only if he had not clung to 
those chivalrous safeguards there would have 
been no secret and no mystery, and losing those 
concomitants, her romance would have lost half 
its charm. He did not tell her outright that 
he loved her; lie kept his full power by letting 
her think he was constantly on the verge of do- 
ing so. He called her his Consuelo, his Gene- 
vieve, and did melodrama in a style which de- 
lighted her and amused him sufficiently in the 
need he felt for constant excitement. He 
brought about meetings at impossible hours and 
places, and he raved like Claude Melnottc. 
Once when they were on the lake in a boat he 
dropped the oars and caught her in his arms, 
crying dismally that they would at least die to- 
gether. A cruel Fate kept them asunder here 
— he could not live without her — she should die 
with him. At first she shrieked with delight, 
then she shrieked with actual fear ; he looked 
very pallid and wild, and no wonder, for he had 
been drinking all night; but she recovered her- 
self and did her part with great spirit. They 
must live — they must not tempt Heaven. He 
saw it in that light too, and came down from 
tragedy to sentiment, and moaned like a Bed- 
lamite in Owen Meredith's choicest stanzas ; and 
she wept bucketfuls of tears. Her emotion 
made him relapse into momentary frenzy; he 
seized her hand and swore he would kill her 
then and there if she did not vow never to mar- 
ry any other man, and dictated a horrible oath 
which she mouthed after him with great relish. 
That over, he flung her from him and beat his 
forehead with his fists — it did ache dolefully, 
which was not surprising. He threw himself 
on his knees and tilted the boat dreadfully, 
called himself a fiend, a base wretch, and many 
other unpleasant names, andbeggedher to forgive 
him. Then she forgave him in blank verse ; then 



he cursed fate — the world — all things ; then he 
cheered up and called her Consuelo, his love, 
his dove, his star ! Then they went ashore and 
found the Idol and a good dinner, and their ap- 
petites were wonderfully sharpened by the ree- 
reation, which was a blessing, for their insides 
needed wholesome food very much. The An- 
gel had been living on trash for a fortnight, 
and he had been pouring wine and something 
more potent into an empty stomach till it was a 
marveJ^hc coats had not dissolved entirely. 

BttHn spite of indulging in midnight orgies, 
in spite of doing absurd drama with the Angel, 
Rossitur never forgot his grief or his rage: one 
or the other was uppermost in his soul all the 
while. He was not afraid of acquiring the habit 
of unlimited drinking — he could indulge for a 
month whenever he pleased, and forget for two 
years after that he had ever cared for the excite- 
ment — and his frame was so wiry and muscular, 
notwithstanding his seeming delicacy, that the 
occasional excesses did him no apparent harm. 
When he was tired of alternately sending Miss 
Laidley up to paradise or down to black misery 
by his changeable moods, and discovered that 
it would not be safe to pursue the unlimited 
drink business any longer, he announced to her 
that he was going away. Duty called, etcetera ! 
His was a hard, uncongenial life, but he would 
not murmur. Only Consuelo must remember 
him. He should find her out soon again — he 
should come back to look in her eyes and see 
heaven once more — but now he must go. Even 
in the anguish of parting — and he did it in a, 
way that would have made his fortune on the 
stage — he was careful not to commit himself; 
he could not speak — he was not yet free — but 
she must know that his heart would linger 
there ; and in her excitement she was ready to 
offer him herself and her money, but she did not. 
He broke off in a passionate speech — rushed to 
the door — came back ; he groaned — he ranted — 
and this time the poor miserable little Angel got 
so much in earnest that she almost fainted. He 
uttered her name in a despairing baritone ; he 
caught her in his arms ; he kissed her till he 
took her breath away — he had no objection to 
doing that because hers was a pretty mouth to 
kiss and he did not commit himself by any 
amount of oscillatory practice to which she 
would submit. He strained her to his breast ; 
he swore she was his soul's bride, and dared her 
to wed another, promising if she did to dye her 
bridal robes with the hated rival's blood at the 
altar. He kissed her again, flung her from 
him, and dashed out ; and she actually believed 
herself dying and loved him, and he went oft* to 
keep a crowning revel. Before the morning 
dawned, had any woman accustomed to seeing 
him as he appeared in society looked at him 
with a wine-glass in his shaking hand, his wavy 
hair falling about his pale face, his voice harsh 
with coarse jests, she would certainly have 
thought that she saw some evil spirit who had 
assumed his likeness. 

When he had gone, the Angel grew restless 



180 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



again. She wanted to be off to Newport ; her 
darling Duchess must send and have the cottage 
there put in order ; the doctors advised sea-air 
for her chest — and the Angel coughed piteously. 
The blessed old Idol consented, and proposed 
that they should leave at once and spend a few 
days at the Castle, and sec what their friends 
were doing. The Angel was ready for any 
change that could be snatched at without delay, 
so down they went to the Castle, they and a 
troop of men-servants and maid-scrvante, and 
dollies enough to have fdlcd twenty anfs like 
Noah's, and twenty arks tliey had to hold them. 
Rut behold, when they had readied the Castle 
the neighborhood was a desert. The Ilamlyns 
were gone ; the Thorntons and the Greys had 
set oil' to the Green Mountains, meaning to see 
Canada and the Thousand Islands and other 
lovelinesses before they returned ; indeed, ev- 
ery body was absent. No, the Idol to her de- 
light learned that the Farnsworths were at home. 
Ruth had preferred staying quiotly in her beau- 
tiful house to any trip whatever, and Clive was 
quite willing to gratify her. 

The Angel wanted to depart without so much 
as unpacking a single ark, but this time the Idol 
had to insist on a little opportunity to get her 
breath before starting on a fresh chase. She 
was a large body, and large bodies can not be 
expected to move with the celerity of celestial 
creatures burdened with only enough semblance 
of mortality to confine their soaring souls. It 
is doubtful,! however, whether the Angel would 
have permitted this delay with a good grace, or 
indeed have permitted it at all, had not the Idol 
showed her an order that was going down to 
Pinchon for two heavenly ball-dresses for a 
young seraph, and given her a set of sapphires 
ou the spot. So the Angel said — " Oh, of 
course we will wait, darling Duchess ; I am so 
glad to have you a few days all to myself." 

"Thanks, love. Indeed, the cottage will not 
be ready this week — people are so dilitative ; and 
the hotels are crammed with odious creatures. 
Besides I think I am not quite well, sweet — I 
have a dull pain in my head, and my limbs 
fairly pain me when I walk. 

"Oh, you'll be quite well in a day or two, 
sweet Duchess. Don't think about it ; so bad 
for nervous people, you know," cried the Angel, 
never interested in other people's maladies. 

The Idol had excellent health ; she admit ted 
that it was preposterously good; and she did 
not fancy herself ill now, and had no intention 
of complaining. " We will drive over and sec 
the Farnsworths, love, to-morrow," she said ; 
" but, really, if you will excuse me, 1 think I 
shall siesta for a space — my head is too painful." 

"It will cure you to sleep," replied the An- 
gel as sagely as if she had been a female physi- 
cian with the pretty feminine accompaniments 
of a scalpel in her belt and the odor of pills 
about her garments. " I would offer to read to 
you, hut you will be better alone and quiet." 

"It will pass briefly, I doubt not," said the 
Idol. "Amuse yourself, sweet pet — read — 



drive — while away the dreamy hours as may 
please your exuberant mind." 

She took her aching head away to her bed- 
chamber, and when she was gone the Angel ex- 
ecuted a pas seul before the mirror expressive of 
delight, and did it so well that it was a pity 
there was no one to admire. She hoped de- 
voutly that the Idol's head might continue to 
pain her until they were ready to depart. She 
was not fond of her own society ; but it was 
better than the Idol's, unless while she was in 
the act of bestowing presents. So the Angel 
slept a great deal — she had a happy faculty of 
curling down in easy places and sleeping peace- 
fully at will ; she devoured great quantities of 
trash ; she read a new foreign novel the name 
of which 1 will not mention ; she wrote letters 
toRossitur; bemoaned herself loudly when she 
was tired of other amusements ; and managed to 
get rid of the time. 

Two days passed, and the Idol's headache 
seemed to increase rather than diminish ; and 
when she did force herself to sit up and try 
to entertain her guest, it would have filled a 
boa-constrictor with compassion to see how ill 
she looked and how determinedly she fought 
against her sickness. But the Laidley was an- 
other sort of serpent, and she was touched with 
no compassion whatever. Indeed, she thought 
the old thing was trying to be hateful: prob- 
ably she had overeaten herself. The Angel, by 
the way, thought that after an hour's picking 
at jelly-cake, cold pate, cream, ripe plums, bon- 
bons by the box, and other trifles too numerous 
to mention. On the third day they drove over 
to the Farnsworths, and to the Angel's joy the 
pair were out. She had no desire to see either 
of them. She was growing exasperated under 
this seclusion ; bear it any longer she could not 
ami she would not. A journey somewhere 
should be undertaken if the Idol died on the road; 
in fact, that would be romantic ; and the Angel 
fancied herself doing grief over her sweet Duch- 
ess's death-bed to the admiration of sympathetic 
strangers. She had driven several times to the 
village — she had hunted in vain for an advent- 
ure. There was not a male biped who could be 
transformed into a temporary prince or trouba- 
dour, and the Angel began to feel that life was 
a burden, to have longings to fly at the Idol and 
peck her, and to nip old Juanita privately by 
way of consolation. She assured the Idol that 
she was better, and the Idol smiled in a very 
ghastly fashion, and tried to have faith in the 
opinion so confidently asserted and followed by 
such tender epithets. The Angel would not 
say a word about departing that day, but on the 
next go they must ; in what direction she little 
cared. She would not be mewed up in that 
trumpery Castle any longer for all the ailments 
that ever troubled a legion of dumpy duch- 
esses. What did the vicious old grimalkin 
mean by such conduct? Was she to be treated 
in this way ? She asked these questions of 
Juanita, in a great rage because the Idol had 
been obliged to go to bed on their return from 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



1S1 



the drive. Juanita was unable to give satisfac- 
tory answers, although she fully agreed with her 
young mistress, who flung a few choice flowers 
of rhetoric at her head and boxed her ears for 
talking when she had no business ; and that was 
the sole relief she could find. 

But she was tired of being alone, and wanted 
Juanita to flatter her since there was nobody 
else to do it; and Juanita, marking that, seized 
the opportunity to turn sulky and sat rubbing 
her ear, which still tingled from the pressure of 
the Angel's white hand. The Angel had to 
coax her with sugar-plums, and finally the wcll- 
inatcd pair sat on the floor and ate sweets, and 
Juanita told her how lovely she was, and in- 
vented praises from innocent people, and then 
diverged to ghost-stories, for which she and her 
mistress iiad a weakness, and frightened them 
both so successfully before she got through that 
they screamed like two eagles when one of the 
servants chanced to pass the door. This was after 
dinner, at which the Idol forced herself to ap- 
pear and had gone to bed again convinced at 
last that she was ill, and promising her maid, 
who had been getting more frightened ever since 
the attack commenced, that in the morning she 
would permit a physician to be sent for if she 
were not materially better. 

"Don't be alarmed, sweetest," she said to 
the Angel, trying to be playful and kind, till 
the Angel was mentally reminded of a sick 
porpoise attempting to disport itself in the sun, 
"I shall be well on the morrow — lam never ill." 
" Oh, don't be! I should go mad at once !" 
" Sweet sympathizer ! No, no ; fear not." 
"I should die too, and Mr. Ilackett would 
have to be sent for," cried the Angel, remem- 
bering him at a juncture like that. 

"Oh, dear man, he has no leisure to attend 
to siek people. lie is very kind- — but, love, 
ours is a union of mind and matter — yes, yes ! 
He is the soul of goodness, but he is always 
down among those dreadful B.'s, you know." 
"What bees ?" asked the Angel. 
"That dreadful slang phrase they have in 
Wall Street, love — Bears and B.'s, you know." 
" No, I don't. Bees, bees ! How funny !" 
"Never mind, love; that is the initial. I 
can not bring myself to repeat their indecorous 
phrases." 

But the Angel was determined to make her 
utter the word, just by way of gratifying her ill- 
humor. " I'm going to ask every body what it 
is," cried she, in her most childish voice ; " so 
you had better tell me." 

Now the Idol could not divest herself of the 
idea that there was great indelicacy in saying 
leg, bull, or go to bed ; and being ill, she was 
quite fretted by her Angel's persistency. But 
she had no peace till she had pronounced the 
improper word, and then her head ached worse 
than ever. "I shall retire," she said, "and 
seek oblivion on my couch. Adieu till to-mor- 
row, sweet pet." 

" Mind you are well then, dear Duchess, or 
I'll never forgive you." 



"Oh, I shall be quite restored — val — vail" 
and the Angel privately tittered to sec that she 
appeared more and more like a sick porpoise $s 
she tried to be at case. 

"And oh, sweet Duchess !" 

"Yes, love?" 

"Don't dream you hear a B. crying boo! 
boo! at another B., and frighten me by crying 
out like a 1'. P.," called the Angel. 

"Playful love! You try to make me forget 
my ills," said the Idol. "But what is P.P., 
sweetest ?" 

"Ah, I'll not tell you," said the Angel, arch- 
ly; "I have my secret now." 

The Idol's head seemed splitting and she had 
to depart without more ado. 

" What is P. P. ?" asked the Angel, going be- 
fore one of the mirrors and imitating the poor 
Idol's wavering gait. "Why, puffy porpoise, 
ponderous princess, pompous Pandora, pawky 
primpcr, pernicious pug, and five hundred other 
nasty things ; and you're every one of them, 
you old turkey, you!" And having relieved 
her feelings somewhat, tlje Angel went off to bed 
in her turn. 

But before the disrobing operation comrr enced 
she had her little difficulty with Juanita, and 
the candy-eating and ghost-story telling follow- 
ed, so that by the time she was ready to seek her 
virginal couch the delicate Angel was frighten- 
ed half out of her wits. She made old Juanita 
lie on a rug by her bedside, and the brown ani- 
mal, able to sleep in any position, wrapped her- 
self in shawls and blankets and crouched down, 
her wild eyes shining and rolling in the lamp- 
light, for neither of them had courage to go to 
bod in the dark. Miss Laidley was horribly 
afraid, but after her face Mas safely muffled in 
the counterpane so that she could not have seen 
a whole troop of ghosts had they appeared, she 
could net resist frightening herself worse by 
forcing Juanita to relate another story more 
horrible than those which had preceded. Juan- 
ita was trembling in every withered limb, and 
consequently told the tale with great spirit ; ami 
when she reached the culminating point of in- 
terest — "And jes, as de clock struck twelve dere 
was a step in dc hall — one — two — and de door 
opened and dere a figure stood all in white — " the 
clock in the dressing-room beat the fatal chimes 
and the Angel cowered lower in the bed with a 
smothered shriek which old Juanita echoed in 
such dismal tones that any body overhearing 
might have thought the luckless Angel was be- 
ing devoured by an ill-regulated hyena with a 
morbid taste for young and tender flesh. The 
Angel scolded her for having terrified her, and 
Juanita had to disregard her own nervousness 
and soothe the fair creature as well as her chat- 
tering teeth would permit. 

At length, after a great many false starts and 
numerous rousings of her brown guardian, the 
Angel went oft' to dream-land and Juanita fol- 
lowed : of course not into the paradise where 
the pretty Angel would bo borne with her 
thoughts like white lilies, but into such lower 



182 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



realms as Morpheus may be pleased to reserve 
for animals of her calibre. How long they had 
s^pt neither could have told — it seemed to the 
Angel that she was only dropping into a doze, 
though in truth she had been slumbering peace- 
fully for hours — when they were called back 
simultaneously to the dangers and troubles of 
waking existence by loud knocks on the door 
and a mournful outcry. The Angel uttered one 
prolonged shriek, thinking that the ghost had 
certainly come at last, and Juanita, responding 
with a howl, sprang upon the foot of the bed, 
and forgetful of her duties as guardian to a 
seraph, dragged the coverings ruthlessly off her 
in a wild effort to shroud her own shaking 
form. 

The knockings continued ; Miss Laidley rec- 
ognized a voice — if it was a ghost it spoke in 
the tones of the Idol's maid — and her rage at 
Juanita's selfishness and presumption helped 
more than any thing else could have done to 
bring back lver senses. " Get up, get up !" she 
exclaimed — and there was a sound as if her two 
fairy feet came in heayy contact with Juanita's 
woolly head — "go to the door, I say." 

"Oh, please, Senora mia — oh de Lord! 
Please, young mistress ! Lie still — it's a bogy 
—oh, don't stir!" 

"If you don't get up I'll take you down to 
Cuba and sell you and have you whipped to 
death," cried the Angel ; and Juanita, though 
born as free as Miss Laidley herself, had un- 
limited faith in her mistress's power and be- 
lieved that she could do any thing she pleased. 

She got off" the bed, materially assisted by an- 
other push from the fairy feet, groaning a chorus 
to the knocks and calls which still went on with- 
out. "Young Senora'll be eat up," she cried. 
"Juanita's not feared for herself, but she's fear- 
ed for young Senora ;" and her chattering teeth 
made her voice resemble that of a long-armed 
ape more than ever. 

But the Angel was past fearing ghosts ; the 
pleasure of scaring Junita out of her senses 
checked that dread, and she imperiously reiter- 
ated her command with worse threats than the 
one she had uttered about the selling of the 
brown carcass to be murdered by inches some- 
where in the depths of Cuba. Juanita muffled 
her face in a shawl and sought blindly with out- 
stretched arms for the door, nearly upsetting the 
table and banging her shins, which were the 
most sensitive portions of her anatomy, either 
mental or physical, against all sorts of opposing 
objects in a way which caused her to emit 
strangled squeals from beneath her head dra- 
pery. She found the door at last and unlocked 
it ; the Angel sitting up in bed saw the Idol's 
maid rush in followed by another servant, both 
bearing lamps, half dressed, and in great ex- 
citement. 

"Madame se meurtJ Madame se meurt .'" 
shrieked the Frenchwoman, waving her torch 
and nearly making a conflagration of Juanita 
and her shawl. 

"Oh, Miss Laidley, Mrs. Hackett is a dyin,' 



I'm afeared," echoed the chambermaid in the 
vernacular. 

The Angel darted out of bed and began to 
scream ; old Juanita rolled herself closer in her 
shawl, not daring to look out in spite of the 
ghosts having familiar voices, and howled like a 
dog baying the moon. The concert executed 
by the four would have driven an entire flock of 
spectres back to the Stygian pools, convinced 
that the lowest realms of Pluto were not disturb- 
ed by such diabolical sounds. 

"Que/aire? Je perds la tete .'" moaned the 
Gallic female, forgetting her limited knowledge 
of English altogether in her terror. 

"Don't know what on airth to do, none on 
us," added the chambermaid. "The house- 
keeper ain't tu hum, and the men's all struck of 
a heap. She'll die ! she'll die !" 

" Oui, oui," cried the Frenchwoman, grasping 
at the English words. " She'll died, she'll 
died!" 

Another howl from Juanita — shrieks and 
symptoms of hysterics from the Angel. 

"I believe it's striped fever," moaned the 
chambermaid ; " and that's the truth." 

"Striped fever?" echoed Miss Laidley. 
" Oh, what's that ? Does .it kill people ? Will 
I catch it ? Let me out of the house ! I won't 
stay to be killed — let me out!" 

"Land's sake!" exclaimed the chamber- 
maid. " You can't go and leave the poor wom- 
an to die alone ?" 

"I don't care how she dies!" shrieked the 
Angel, unable to think of any thing but fears 
for herself. " I wish she was dead ! Why 
didn't she tell me she was going to have some 
dreadful thing, so I could get away ?" 

" Wal, if that aint the beat !" exclaimed the 
chambermaid, somewhat restored to her senses 
by this exhibition of character. She was na- 
tive-born and seldom demeaned herself by per- 
forming domestic duties, but the housekeeper 
had persuaded her to come for a few weeks to 
take some vacant place. "Here Frenchwom- 
an," she continued, " stop your mung duing 
and come along back. We'll send down to the 
village fur a doctor, and we'll put ice on her 
head, and that's all we earn do. ' We've ben 
acting like fools, but my grit's up now and I 
ain't a goin' to let nobody die while I can help 
it." 

" Is she very sick?" demanded Miss Laidley. 

" She's a lunacing awful," replied the dam- 
sel. "The Frenchwoman come and woke me 
up so sudden I lost my head like, but I've found 
it now ;" and she shook the organ in question, 
surmounted by the most wonderful tower in the 
shape of a night-cap that ever woman wore. 

" Que/aire, mon Dim .' La bonne maitresse ! 
Mais cast a fendu le camr ! Kile vous appellc, 
Mademoiselle ! Mais venez pour Famour de 
dim." 

"Oh shet up!" exclaimed America, shoving 
her lamp under the frightened creature's nose. 
" None of that furrin gibberish now — jest talk a 
Christian tongue or don't say nothin'." 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



183 



" She says Mrs. Hackett wants me,'' groaned 
Miss Laidley. " Oh, I can't go — I never do go 
near" sick people." 

"There hez to he abeginnin' to most things," 
replied the chambermaid, "and you carn't begin 
this younger. Why, come along ; it ud melt a 
heart of stun to see her. I jest looked in, and 
there she lay with her face like fire, a screechin' 
like mad. This bawlin' furriner skeert me so 
that I was a fool too, and we come a yowling 
here instead of standin' up to our dooties." 

"I know not the zooties," moaned the 
Frenchwoman. "Madame se meurt .'" 

"I shouldn't think yew did," exclaimed 
America addi - essing the waiting-maid, but ey- 
ing Miss Laidley wrathfully, and glad to give 
vent to her emotions by abusing her fellow-do- 
mestic. "Now come along back and talk sense 
— no more gibberish. Will you come with us, 
Miss Laidley?" 

" Oh, I can't — I don't know what to do. I 
am ill myself — oh, I am dying!" 

" Wal, I guess you'll hev to put it off ef you 
want any attention," returned the native. 
" Some folks has one way and some another, 
but ef I was a young lady of name and fortin' 
I don't think I'd stay in my room and let a female 
what had loaded me with trinkets die like a dog. 
Come along, furriner." 

"You are an impudent creature !" cried Miss 
Laidley. "How dare you speak like that? 
Do you suppose I'll be insulted by a servant?" 

"Oh, there, land's sake, that upsets the bi- 
lin'!" cried the damsel, roused to desperation. 
" Hold this lamp, furriner. My forefathers fit 
and bled on Bunker Hill, and 1 ain't a goin' to 
be called a sarvint by nobody." 

"Help, help! She'll kill me!" screamed 
the Angel, running behind the bed. 

The Frenchwoman and Juanita, not half 
comprehending what had been said, howled 
more hideously than ever. The damsel's sense 
of the ludicrous overcame her rage, and she 
shook her cap-tower with laughter. 

"I ain't a goin' to tech you," said she; 
" but remember, I'm nobody's sarvint ! I come 
here fur a few weeks jest to obleege. But here 
we be a wastin' time. "Will you go or not ?" 
Miss Laidley cowered behind the bed and made 
no answer. "Then come along, furriner. 
You'n I'll try what we can do. I ain't afeared 
of striped fever now." 

"Oh, what is striped fever ?" cried Miss Laid- 
ley, emerging from behind the bed. 

"I dessay you'll find out, mum," returned 
the chambermaid. "They've got it awful all 
about. I hope you won't hev it afore mornin', 
fur we'll all be busy — but folks is tuk suddin'. 
Anyhow, you've got that ar yaller varmint to 
help you. Striped fever ? Some folks says ty- 
phis ; but up to our place we allers said striped, 
and I allers will." 

" Typhus fever ! " shrieked Miss Laidley, quite 
insane now. " Let me out of the house ! Why, 
it's sure death ! Let me out !" 

" Pretty sure, mum, and you can't outrun it ; 



but the side door's unlocked if you wish to try. 
Come along, furriner." 

" Oh, don't go — don't leave me! Stay here 
and I'll give you anew dress— I'm very rich — I'll 
give you six!" exclaimed Miss Laidley. 

" I've hcerd of promises afore," returned she. 
" Dooty calls and I obey — twenty new^lresses 
wouldn't keep me. Mebby I'm rough, mebby 
I'm a sarvint, but I'm made of flesh and blood, 
and I've got bowels, and that carn't be said of 
every body, ef they be pooty and rich. Come 
along, furriner." 

The Frenchwoman and Juanita had stood 
stupid while the dialogue continued, occasion- 
ally throwing their heads back and uttering a 
simultaneous howl, but as the energetic damsel 
dashed out with her cap-border shaking, the 
Frenchwoman followed in blind obedience to 
the stronger will, and Juanita, concluding it was 
to be a grand rush somewhere for safety, darted 
after them. The Angel caught her in the door 
and dragged her back, pulled her down on the 
carpet and sat upon her, in order to make sure 
of not being quite alone, while she shrieked and 
moaned and beat tattoos with feet and hands 
upon any portion of Juanita's person that 
chanced to be uppermost. 

There was a good deal of confusion in the 
house by this time, for the whole troop of serv- 
ants had been roused. Some of the men had 
gone with all speed to the village in search of 
doctors, and the chambermaid was making her- 
self of great importance, and did manage to do 
several little things for the poor Idol, who lay 
upon her bed raving with delirium and calling 
piteously on her sweet Angel to come and help 
her out of some danger. ' ' It would melt stuns ! " 
exclaimed the chambermaid, wringing a cloth 
out of ice-water and laying it on the Idol's fore- 
head, while she addressed the group of helpless 
women about her. "Stuns? Yes, it would 
soften amadantines and nanycondys to see and 
hear the poor creetur, and there that young nimp 
sticks in her own room and won't stir a peg nur 
lift a hoof. Why, she ort to have a disease as 
much wus'n striped fever's striped fever's wus'n 
the measles." The listeners agreed unamimous- 
ly in the sentiment, for Miss Laidley was no fa- 
vorite among them. 

The Idol lay there, and in spite of her wealth 
and grandeur many a poor creature in the hum- 
blest station would have been better cared for 
than she during a few hours. The house was 
full of servants, but the under ones were mostly 
Irish, the others French or German ; the house- 
keeper was ahsent, the major-domo had gone on 
to Newport, so there was nobody to display a 
grain of sense except the native chambermaid. 
The Irishwomen were ready to collect about 
the bed and howl, but the French and Germans, 
with the exception of the bewildered waiting- 
ing-woman, were so appalled by the direful 
name the native gave to their mistress's malady 
that they ran away from the part of the house 
where she lay in wild confusion. 

The Angel sat upon the struggling Juanita, 



184 



MY DAUGHTEK ELINOR. 



who, nearly smothered, only gave vent at inter- 
vals to strangled squeaks and spasmodic twitch- 
es, and loudly the Angel bewailed her fate. 
* ' I shall die ! I am very ill ! I want a doctor ! 
Oh, they've left me here to die alone ! Oh 
dear, oh dear ! " The words ' ' striped fever " had 
filled kr with such terror that in spite of the 
after-explanation she could not help believing 
the Idol had been seized with some mysterious 
and infectious disease, which would communi- 
cate itself to her without loss of time. Seized 
with fresh horror, she jumped off Juanita and 
ran to the light to look at her arms. "Oh, I 
believe the stripes are coming out on me," she 
moaned. " I'm dying — I'm dying!" Juanita 
sat up and shook herself, and drew several deep 
breaths to relieve her stomach, which had been 
so long oppressed by the Angel's weight, and 
began to howl again. " The old wretch !" vi- 
tuperated Miss Laidley. " She did it on pur- 
pose — she's murdered me ! I hope she'll die 
twenty times ! Oh, why didn't I go with Eli- 
nor? Here I am left to die by myself." 

" young Senora, don'tec, don'tee," pleaded 
Juanita. " Fever won't touch you ; it'll catch 
Juanita fust — allays takes brown folks fust. 
Oh, de Lord, de Lord !" 

" Does it ?" cried Miss Laidley, her terror 
brightened by a ray of hope. "Are you sure 
it does ?" 

"It allays does. Old Juanita'll die. Oh, 
de Lord, de Lord !" 

"But you don't feel sick, do you, Juanita? 
You haven't got it — so I'm safe." 

"Juanita feel berry sick," groaned the old 
woman, crouching on the floor and swinging 
her short body back and forth — "berry sick. 
Oh, deLord, de Lord!" 

" If you dare to get the fever I'll kill you !" 
shouted the Angel furiously. "I'll take you 
to Cuba — I'll have your flesh torn off with red- 
hot pincers ! Get up, you old devil, get up !" 

" Oh, de Lord, de Lord ! Oh, my stomaco !" 
cried Juanita, making fierce gripes at the organ 
in question with her claw-like hands. 

" Oh don't die — please don't," sobbed Miss 
Laidley. " I'll give you a new turban if you 
won't — I'll give you a new gown." 

Juanita sat upright and clutched the organ. 
"Gib 'em now, young Senora," she said, like 
a wise magpie. " Mebby old Juanita be better 
then." 

In her fright Miss Laidley ran to a wardrobe 
and pulled down the first dress she laid hands on, 
caught up a blue scarf that had been the chief 
longing of Juanita's soul for weeks, and flung 
them toward her. "Take them, take them," 
she cried. " I'll give you every thing I have 
in the world if you won't be sick, dear Juanita. 
Come to the light and let me see if you have 
stripes on your arms." Juanita bundled the : 
treasures under her dress and approached the 
table, baring her witch's arms to her mistress's 
eager gaze. But the brown shrivelled skin was 
uniform in color. "There's nothing the mat- 
ter, you old cat," shrieked Miss Laidley ; "you 



only wanted to frighten me ! Oh, I'll have you 
beaten ! You shan't keep the things !" 

"Such dre'ful pain here," moaned Juanita, 
pressing her hands hard against her food-casket 
once more, and skilled in theatricals from long 
watching of her mistress. "Dre'ful pain! 
Stripes all inside, young Senora, and dat's wust. 
Oh, old Juanita'lUie, she'll die !" 

"Don't, don't die," sobbed the Angel, fright- 
ened again and reduced to abject submission. 
"There's some wine in the closet — the Duchess 
brought it up when I was sick the other day. 
You shall have some — I'll get it. Don't die, 
dear old Juanita, and leave your poor little 
mistress who loves you so." The promise of 
the wine induced Juanita to postpone the 
death-struggle, and the Angel hurried to un- 
lock the closet and produce the bottle. " Drink 
it, drink it !" she cried eagerly ; " it is sherry. 
You'll be well after, I know you will." Juanita, 
anxious to live a little longer as a special favor 
to her beloved Senora, did not wait to pour the 
wine in a glass, but raised the bottle to her lips, 
threw her head back, and allowed the contents 
to gurgle down her throat, while she kicked her 



feet in ecstasy, and the Angel, thinking the 
movement caused by a spasm of pain, was more 
alarmed than before. "Are you better — has 
it done you good, Juanita dear ?" she asked 
tearfully, when Juanita removed the bottle from 
her lips to get a little breath. 

"Some good — little better," replied she, 
smacking her lips, but holding fast to the bottle. 
" Mebby old Juanita won't die jes' yet, but 
young Senora must be good. Stripes all inside 
and dey might bust out and young Senora 
ketch 'em." 

"Go away — get out of the room! I won't 
catch them," moaned the Angel. " Oh, you 
wicked old woman !" 

"Young Senora mustn't be frightened," 
said Juanita, beginning to roll her eyes more 
wildly than usual and to speak a little thickly 
as the fumes of the golden cordial mounted to 
her brain. " Jes' keep quiet, young Senora. 
Mebby old Juanita can get to sleep, and then 
she won't die." 

"You shan't go to sleep! I won't be left 
alone." 

"Oh! oh! dese stripes," moaned Juanita, 
smiting her stomach with one hand and raising 
the bottle with the other. " Wuster and wust- 
er, young Senora — mustn't let 'em break out." 

There were new sounds in the hall. The 
men had returned in hot haste, bringing every 
physician that could be knocked up in the neigh- 
borhood, and the disciples of Esculapius, as- 
tonished at this meeting of the clans, glared 
wrathfully uponeach other and were inclined to 
go away individually because so many had been 
called. Fortunately a noted physician from 
town chanced to be staying at the Lake House, 
an acquaintance of the Idol's, and on his ap- 
pearance the lesser lights paled and he went to 
work like a sensible man. The Angel heard 
the tread of feet, the rushing to and fro, and 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



185 



thought the Idol must be dead, or that the dc- 
• nioiis who ruled the fever were coming in a 
body to attack her. She bundled herself into a 
wadded dressing-gown and got her feet in a 
pair of stockings and slippers. " I won't stay 
another minute in the house," she screamed ; 
" I shall die here ! I won't die — I can't die!" 

" Don'tee, don'tee, young Senora," grunted 
Juanita, who had nearly finished the bottle and 
was too comfortable to remember the stripes 
variegating her interior and threatening to break 
out if she was crossed. "Don'tee, don'tee. 
No fever here. Let old Duchess debbil die. 
Can't come here — yah, yah !" 

"You're drunk. You'll kill me!" shrieked 
Miss Laidlcy. "Help! help! Come somebody ! 
I'm dying — Juanita's murdering me ! Help ! 
help!" She caught a blanket from the bed, 
wrapped it about her, and ran out itito the hall 
in a paroxysm of terror which for the time made 
a veritable lunatic of her. 

Juanita dropped the bottle, after draining 
the last drop, and staggered on behind, echoing 
her mistress's cries without knowing wherefore, 
hiccuping and sobbing in a maudlin way. They 
encountered the native; chambermaid with a 
pitcher in her hand, which she nearly dropped 
in her enjoyment of the spectacle. "Is she 
dead?" cried Miss Laidley. "Let me out! 
I won't stay ! Is she dead ?" 

"Wal, not to say as yit," replied the cham- 
bermaid, wiio had been relieved by the doctor's 
assurance that, although very ill, the patient 
was in no immediate peril. "She's alive yit; 
but law, this striped fever is tumble ! I hope 
yew wun't ketch it ; fair-haired folks alius hez 
it wus'n others — I'm dark myself." 

" Oh, let me out — let me out ! Call the doc- 
tor! Tell him I'm dying! Say it's Miss Laid- 
lcy the heiress — I'll make him rich if he'll come 
and cure me." 

" Bery rich, young Senora, "grunted Juanita. 
" Bring doctor." 

" Doctor's got his hands full now," respond- 
ed the damsel with grim delight. " Miss Laidlcy 
the hairess'll hev to put off dyin' jest at pres- 
ent. The doors is all onlockcd ef ye want to 
get out, but you'd better heel it nimble or 
Striped'll ketch up with ye." 

Miss Laidley gave another shriek and darted 
down stairs, Juanita tumbling after, and the 
grim damsel set the pitcher on the floor and 
shook herself in silent mirth. She waited until 
the outer door banged behind them, then she 
flew down and fastened every means of ingress 
and returned chuckling to her duties. 

Miss Laidley had dashed out at a side door, 
and she ran to the back of the house, too 
frightened to do more than gasp, seeking some 
place of shelter, while Juanita followed with un- 
steady steps, grunting brokenly — "Don'tee, 
don'tee, young Senora. Old Juanita keep 
Striped off— dar, dar !" An out-building in 
which fire-Wood was stored chanced to be the 
first refuge Miss Laidley discovered in the dark- 
ness : she Van in and cowered down in a corner 



and went oft' in veritable spasms. Old Juanita, 
stumbling along in her wake, happened to fall 
on a pile of shavings, and the bed being soft and 
warm she soon went to sleep and left her mis- 
tress to her fate. When Miss Laidley could 
think or cry out again, she heard a horrible 
sound like the growls of a wild beast which fill- 
ed her with dread. "Juanita!" she shrieked. 
— There was no response — the growls grew 
louder.—" She's gone— I'm all alone ! Help ! 
help !" shouted the Angel. But nothing answer- 
ed save the echo of her own voice and the omi- 
nous sounds. She shrieked again with no bel- 
ter success; she moaned, she sobbed, she had 
convulsions, and when she was nearly dead with 
terror and cold she rolled over on the pile of 
shavings and lay there. When day-light roused 
some of the , men her cries were overheard. 
They ran to the spot and discovered the Angel 
moaning among the shavings and Juanita snor- 
ing in blissful unconsciousness near at hand, un- 
seen by her mistress, who had believed herself 
alone with some terrible enemy. She was car- 
ried up to her room, and Juanita, effectually 
roused by having a pail of water poured over her 
head by the native chambermaid who came out 
to look after them, was able to assist in getting 
her mistress in bed. The chambermaid was 
sleepy and had no pity to waste on trtic suffering 
Angel ; indeed, reckless of consequences, she 
did not hesitate to overwhelm her with reproach- 
es and to tell her that what she had endured 
was a judgment on her cruelty, and added, as a 
final blow, that she was certain to catch the 
striped fever now in its most malignant form. 
Miss Laidley had no strength to answer, and the 
damsel having no faith in hysterics, and small 
pity for convulsions, ruthlessly dosed her with 
valerian and brandy and left her paralyzed lry 
that last threat, which she followed up with — 
" I'll look in agin if I hev time'n, remembor jest, 
to sec whether you're dead or not— so good-bye." 
The Angel fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, 
and Juanita, curled up like a dog on the floor, 
slept off the confusion left in her senses by her 
unaccustomed libations. The doctor had gone 
away at length, promising to come back soon 
and bring a nurse, and as the housekeeper would 
return that day, the servants recovered their 
sanity in the morning light and went about 
their duties with tolerable regularity. In the 
mean time the native chambermaid watched 
over the bedside of the Idol, who had become 
more composed and dozed a little at intervals, 
but was very, very ill. 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

TWO WOMEN. 



Early that morning one of the Castle serv- 
ants, dispatched upon some errand, chanced to 
encounter a man employed on Clivc Farris- 
worth's place, and gave him an account of his 
mistress's illness. The news was brought to 



186 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



Ruth by her staid housekeeper soon after break- 
fast. Clive had gone out on some business, 
the breakfast having been hastened on his ac- 
count, and Ruth could not wait for his return. 
Under ordinary circumstances she could never 
undertake the least thing without consulting 
him, but the tidings filled her with grief and 
she could not delay an instant. She must go 
over to the Castle, for the idea of poor Mrs. 
Hackett lying unattended, unless by frightened 
domestics and a helpless creature like Miss 
Laidley, inspired her with horror. She was 
certain that Miss Laidley must have been at 
her bedside all night, but she could know noth- 
ing about illness, and Ruth was a born nurse. 
She must goat once, and the carriage was ordered 
in great haste and a note scribbled to Clive, that 
he might be made aware of what had happened. 

Ruth had heard there was fever in the vil- 
lage, but the fear that it might be infectious did 
not deter her for an instant. If she had been 
going to certain death it would have been as 
impossible for her to hesitate or think about 
herself as it would for the Angel to have 
forgotten her own precious safety and behave 
with decency and composure. She drove over 
to the Castle, and neither the doctor nor house- 
keeper having returned, she was met by the 
Goddess of"" Liberty, who shoved the French- 
woman aside and told her story clearly, feeling 
with the first glance at Ruth's face that she had 
at last encountered a woman blessed with a lit- 
tle common sense. 

" Can 1 go up?" Ruth asked, when she had 
finished her account. "I know Mrs. Hackett 
well. I shall not disturb her, and I am accus- 
tomed to sick people." 

" She was a dozin' when I came down," re- 
plied the chambermaid, "but the minit she 
wakes up I'll tell her, and precious glad I shall 
be to hev a little help frum somebody with a 
head-piece on their shoulders." 

"Is Miss Laidley lying down ?" asked Ruth. 

" Yes'm, she's laid down, she has," returned 
Liberty with emphasis. 

"Poor thing," said Ruth, "she is worn out, 
I suppose ; one night's watching is hard on any 
person not accustomed to it." 

"Wal, yes," replied the native with grim 
but unbounded delight, " I berlieve a body may 
say she watched all night — yes. Oh, mebby 
you're afeared of fevers too, mum, and this is 
what we call, over our way, striped." 

"Striped fever? I never heard of it," said 
Ruth in amazement. 

"Wal, I s'pose the more geological name is 
typhis," returned the native; " but where I was 
rose they called it striped, and I do as folks did 
where I was rose." 

"Typhus fever," said Ruth; "oh, the poor 
tiling ! I am glad I came. I have seen a good 
many cases, of it, and I shall be glad to help 
you till the nurse comes." 

The Goddess of Liberty gave her an approv- 
ing scowl. " You ain't like our young hairess," 
said she. " I thought she'd a died with fright." 



" She is very fond of Mrs. Hackett." 

"Wal, she mought be, 'nd she moughtn't. 
Anyhow, she wished her dead, and run out and 
sot all night on a pile of shavin's, and that 
drunken yaller catamount along with her ; an' 
she's in bed this blessed minit, 'nd well I dosed 
her with valerium and old cut-your-eye. fur where 
I was rose we don't hev much pity fur hystrikes, 
I earn tell you." The young woman uttered her 
speech volubly, and before Ruth could answer, 
went on — " Riches don't make a lady, and a 
person may be young and well favored, but that 
don't bender their bein' snakes ; and ef ever I see 
a snake, and a cold-blooded one, it's that young 
hairess." 

" You must not speak in that way of any guest 
Mrs. Hackett may have," said Ruth, with her 
gentle dignity. "I will go up and see Miss 
Laidley, if you will be good enough to show me 
her room." 

"I will and glad to. I know a lady when I 
see her, and you're one, born, rose, and edi- 
cated," cried the native, determined to finish the » 
expression of her opinions. " I never was call- 
ed a sarvint afore, and it's what I shan't bear, and 
so I told her. I came here to obleege — jest for 
a few weeks, 'cause the housekeeper's a friend 
of mine, an' 'tvvasn't suspected the madam or 
that young sarpint — hairess — would come back ; 
but I'm no waiter." 

"You must not be angry because Miss Laid- 
ley in her fright — " 

"Oh, law, I mind her no more'n a muskety! 
I'm of New England extract — I was rose partly 
there and partly in Herkimer county — and I've 
teached school in Pennsylvany where I went to 
stay with an aunt of mine, an' I expose I've 
ketched some of their unorthographical expres- 
sions ; but I know a lady, and you're one — 
there!" 

She wheeled about and showed Ruth the way 
to the Angel's room, and when Ruth entered 
Juanita sat on the rug rubbing her red eyes, the 
Angel woke, recognized her visitor, and began to 
sob and shriek with delight. " Have you come 
to take me away ? Oh, you darling creature — 
I love you so ! I am almost dead ! The poor 
Duchess is ill — I got fastened out-of-doors by a 
wicked wretch who ought to go to prison. Oh, 
take me away ! I shall die — I can't die here ! " 

Ruth comforted her and tried to make her 
somewhat reasonable, but that was never the An- 
gel's forte. " I heard, of Mrs. Hackett's illness 
and came over to see if I could help in any way," 
she said. 

The Angel was smitten with a new fear. 
" Have you been in her room ? Do you want 
to give me the fever?" she shrieked. "Oh, 
you heartless creature — a poor young orphan like 
me !" Ruth hastened to re-assure her. " Then 
take me away — take me to your house — I won't 
stay here ! Somebody must telegraph to my 
guardian — he shall come after me. He and El- 
inor are cruel wretches to desert me in this way," 
moaned the Angel, too thoroughly alarmed to 
try to hide her selfishness or make it interesting. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



187 



"My husband will send a dispatch to Mr. 
Grey, " Ruth said. "You shall go to our house 
if you like, Miss Laidley." 

" Yes, let me go at once. I'd go anywhere to 
get away ! Take me right away, you darling." 

" I must see poor Mrs. Hackett first — she is 
very ill. I must stay with her till a nurse comes 
and her husband can be sent for," Ruth said. 

"Then you'll come and give me the fever! 
Oh, they'll kill me — every body wants to kill 
me !" sobbed the Angel. 

"You can go back in the carriage," continued 
Ruth ; " I will have you made comfortable, and 
you shall not see me until there is no danger. 
But indeed, Miss Laidley, the fever is not infec- 
tious in the way you fear." 

"Oh, yes it is. I should be sure to get it — 
I am so delicate. I must go away — I can't 
wait." 

"As soon as my husband comes," Ruth said, 
"you shall go. You had better have a cup of 
tea now and get dressed." 

"I will. Oh, you must take care of me — I'm 
a baby ! It is cruel of my guardian and Elinor 
to expose me to such things. Don't leave me 
— stay here by me." 

But Ruth was roused by such mention of El- 
inor and said, "I must go to Mrs. Hackett ; she 
needs me." 

"So do I," sobbed the Angel ; " I'm a great 
deal sicker than she. I've caught my death of 
cold, and I've the fever besides." 

Ruth ordered Juanita, who was still stupid 
from her late revel, to get her mistress some tea, 
and having done every thing she could to com- 
fort Miss Laidley, went away to the Idol's cham- 
ber. The poor Idol was awake and rational for 
the moment, and so glad to see Ruth that it was 
pitiful. "You idolizable Cynthia!" she cried, 
employing the huge words still from force of 
habit, " I can not thank you. Dear friend, I am 
so illr— but I trust it is not serious." 

" You must lie quiet and try to sleep," Ruth 
said. "I am going to sit by you." 

"So good! And have you seen my poor 
Angel ? Don't let her come in, for she is so 
nervous and delicate," said the thoughtful Idol. 
" I ought not to let you stay." 

"I shall not go away if you send me," Ruth 
said pleasantly, and by this time the Idol was 
glad to lie still. 

Ruth threw off her bonnet, and in ten minutes, 
without making the least bustle, she had effect- 
ed a total transformation in the appearance of the 
room. The disorder had vanished, the light 
was properly shaded, an open window made a 
pleasant coolness, and the Idol was refreshed by 
having her face and hands bathed in cold water 
and her bed so softly arranged that she fell 
asleep with some broken words of thanks on her 
lips. When the doctor arrived he told Ruth 
that he had telegraphed for Mr. Hackett and a 
nurse, and Ruth, hearing that there was not a 
fit one to be found in the neighborhood, assured 
him that she should not leave her post until prop- 
er assistance arrived. The doctor glanced about 



the transformed chamber, looked at her, and 
he knew that she was capable of fulfilling the 
task she had undertaken. "You must tell me 
just what to do," Ruth said, "just how ill she is, 
and then you may trust me. I am accustomed 
to the care of sick people." 

The doctor could have worshiped her, for he 
had been at his wits' end. They left the native 
chambermaid in possession for the time, while 
he went away with Ruth to explain matters 
thoroughly. "My dear lady," said he, "you 
take a great load off my mind." 

"I am anxious to do all I can," Ruth an- 
swered. " Mrs Hackett is so entirely alone, in 
spite of this houseful. She is an old friend of 
my husband's too." 

The doctor was very desirous to learn who 
this pretty, unselfish creature was, and he asked 
in the suavest way, that, as he said, he might 
know by what name to address his fair coad- 
jutor. 

"I am Mrs. Farnsworth," Ruth answered. 

The doctor nearly whistled — he had heard 
the dying whispers of gossip on his arrival. " I 
know your husband well, dear Madam," he said. 
"I can not refuse your aid — but indeed, you 
must be very careful. There is no positive 
danger of infection — " 

"I am not in the least afraid, Sir," inter- 
rupted Ruth. " I will be careful, but I can not 
leave her." 

"Why, Madam, you are — you are an angel !" 
cried the doctor enthusiastically, and Ruth 
laughed. 

She made him explain exactly what she was 
to do, and he was to come up again that clay. 
The fever was not typhus, it was some peculiar 
type of disease such as occasionally rushes 
through a neighborhood. A good many peo- 
ple were coming down with it, though how the 
poor Idol should have been so quickly seized 
was one of those inexplicable things which even 
physicians can not throw light upon. The doc- 
tor said he feared that the fever was going to 
prevail to a considerable extent, and would per- 
haps become an epidemic among the poor peo- 
ple in a village on the opposite side of the lake, 
but there was little danger to be apprehended 
in Mrs. Hackett's case. "I think it right to 
tell you these things, Madam," he said, "so 
that if you have any fear you can leave the 
house at once ; and if you did ^nobody could 
blame you — nine women out of ten would go." 

"Oh, what will those poor people do over in 
South village ?" cried Ruth, not hearing his 
last observation. " Can't something be done at 
once ? I wish you would wait till my husband 
gets here. Some plan must be settled on. It 
will be terrible!" 

The doctor thought she was beyond angelic 
now, and he promised to wait and see M1\ 
Farnsworth, and consoled her by saying that 
while he remained in the neighborhood he would 
do every thing in his power. 

"If it can be kept from spreading among 
those poor creatures !" 



188 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



The doctor said it was only in ill-ventilated 
dwellings, and among those who were less clean- 
ly and well cared for than they ought to. be, 
that the fever was likely to prove fatal, and the 
South village, as it was called, was a cluster 
of Irish shanties, rum-houses, and other fungus 
growth that had sprung up during the past year. 
A tunnel was being excavated for a new rail- 
way, and the work had brought its usual ac- 
companiments of a hurried hamlet which looked 
like booths erected for a fair, and misery and 
drunkenness and like horrors. 

The Idol woke and began to moan, and Ruth 
returned to her bedside, bathed her forehead 
again, fanned her and soothed her, as only one 
woman in a score can quiet a sick person. 
The doctor went down stairs to await Earns- 
worth's arrival and to meditate upon the beauty j 
and virtues of Famsworth's wife, and to think, 
very justly, that any body who could look in 
her face and not feel she was every thing that 
was pure and lovable, must have a mind so 
hopelessly contaminated that nothing but a 
vigorous scouring with some sort of mental soda 
could afford it the least benefit. It was not 
long before Clive arrived in hot haste, having 
heard of the spread and nature of the fever, and 
quite beside himself at the idea of Ruth exposed 
to danger. He was ready to blame the doctor, 
of course, because it js natural to any man to 
blame somebody when trouble arrives, but the 
doctor cleared his skirts by declaring that Mrs. 
Earnsworth was in the sick-room when he 
reached the house, and could not be induced to 
leave her post, although he had told her of the 
possible danger. "And, Sir," cried he, "I took 
the liberty of telling her that she was an angel, 
and I repeat it to you, Sir — an angel, no less ! 
Most women would have left Mrs. Hackett to 
the care of servants and thought it right." 

"But I can't have my wife run such risks," 
returned Clive. And Ruth, having heard of 
his arrival, entered the room as he spoke the 
words, and coming behind him, laid her hand 
softly on his shoulder and said — "Dear old 
Clive, there is no danger ; , if there were you 
would not let me run away from so plain a 
duty." Clive put his arm about her and held 
her fast. 

" Did I say she was an angel ?" cried the old 
doctor, blowing his nose till it sounded like a 
trumpet. " Bah ! there must be female angels 
too good to be sent on errands like the male 
ones mentioned ; and she's one of them — come 
down for your special benefit, Sir — that's what 
she is!" and he blew his trumpet again. 

"You see I must stay, dear," continued Ruth. 
" The room is well aired — there is no danger. I 
think the fever is very like that I helped in once. 
But oh, Clive, something must be done for those 
poor people in South village! Do help them! 
If the fever gets there, think of the misery." 

"Yes, yes, only don't be distressed." 

The doctor held out both hands in an appealing 
way. The gesture said plainly — "There is no 
comparison for this woman ; I want one and can't 



find it." And he sounded his trumpet a third 
time. You see the old doctor, in spite of his 
oddities, was a favorite physician among delicate 
women who had on velvet and could scarcely 
breathe common air, and he was so accustomed 
to selfishness that it bewildered him to see this 
young creature, rich and elegant, ready to be- 
lieve that she had strength to help herself and 
other people into the bargain. 

" Mr. Hackett is certain to be up before 
night," Clive said. 

" Oh yes," returned Ruth; "don't think about 
that any more, dear. But you will see to-day 
that something is done to warn those poor peo- 
ple? — and the doctor will help." They both 
promised her, provided she in her turn would 
not think and be disturbed. "And Miss 
Laidley ! O Clive, I forgot poor MissLaidley," 
Ruth exclaimed. " She is frightened almost to 
death. It seems she got fastened out of the 
house in the confusion and stayed all night in a 
shed." 

"How came she out?" asked Clive. 

"I think in her alarm — " Ruth did not 
care to finish her explanation, because it would 
have been an exposure of the young lady's self- 
ishness. 

" She ran out," added the doctor ; " of course 
she did. Nine people out of ten would have 
run at being told that there was an infectious 
disease near. It seems that young woman who 
is here ' to obleege ' for a few weeks, frightened 
them all by calling it starred and barred fever — 
no, striped." 

"Miss Laidley can return in the carnage," 
continued Ruth. "I think the doctor had bet- 
ter see her first, she is so nervous. I must 
sro back to Mrs. Hackett now. Good-bye, 
Clive." 

Clive followed her into the hall to beg her 
to be careful, and to hold her close in his arms 
for a moment with an undefined but poignant 
premonition of danger. She whispered a few 
cheering words and ran away, and he went back 
to the doctor to await Miss Laidley 's ap- 
pearance. Ruth had sent her word that she 
could leave the house, and that Mr. Farnsworth 
was waiting for her. So the Angel got out of 
bed and put by her fright long enough to dress 
herself becomingly. She would have done that 
if she had been struck with death, and would 
have been divided between horror of the sum- 
mons and a dread that she might have to go 
before assuring herself that her corpse would 
be picturesquely attired. She descended upon 
the gentlemen, very pale, sobbing and trembling 
anew, and fancied herself looking lovely, and 
she was ; but they had the remembrance of an- 
other type of woman fresh in their minds, and 
were not so much touched by her weakness and 
her tears as they might have been under other 
circumstances. "Oh, Mr. Farnsworth!" she 
cried, rushing up to him and snatching his hands. 
" You have come to take me away ! Bless you 
■ — heaven bless you, my preserver ! I am ill — 
— dying ! Oh, let me go at once !" 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



189 



The doctor rubbed his hands and nodded ap- 
proval ; that was the sort of performance he ex- 
pected from fragile creatures at an extremity 
like the present, and he was glad to have his 
experience put straight again, for Ruth had up- 
set all his theories. 

"You can go at once, Miss Laidley," Clive 
answered. "My wife has told me that you 
have been much alarmed." 

ifrHl — dying! A fiendish woman drove me 
out of the house in the middle of the night. 
Somebody ought to punish her. Oh, if my 
papa 'were living ! But I am a helpless, deso- 
late orphan. Oh, father! father!" She went 
through the old scene, striking an attitude and 
flinging her arms aloft, and as the sleeves of her 
dress were loose, her arms showed to good ad- 
vantage. 

Clive retreated and the doctor whispered in 
his ear— "I say, she does it very well— very 
well. Now that's the sort of thing I under- 
stand and expect. Lord bless you, if it was 
her dear papa sick up stairs, she'd be for run- 
ning off all the same." 

"Take me away, take me away!" moaned 
Miss Laidley, noticing the whispers, and think- 
ing that her point, as the actors say, had been 
more appreciated than it was. 

" As soon as you please," said Clive. " My 
wife—" 

"She mustn't come near me," interrupted 
Miss Laidley, forgetting every thing again in 
fears for for her own safety. " She shan't come 
—she'll poison me ! She must fumigate herself, 
or whatever it is — I won't be killed !" 

"We will do our best to preserve your life," 
returned Clive, too much disgusted to be more 
than civil. "By the way, Miss Laidley, this 
gentleman is Dr. Aldrich. I dare say he can rec- 
ommend something to help your nervousness." 

The Angel stretched out her hands to him 
in mute appeal, as she might have done if she 
had been on a burning roof or a plank in 
mid-ocean, and he had appeared to save her. 
The doctor felt her pulse, and mixed some sugar 
and water for her and said flattering things, 
and she soon felt strengthened. She began to 
tell them how much she had suffered, how six 
times she had tried to get into the chamber of 
her darling Duchess and thrice she fainted on 
the threshold— her spirit was brave, but ah, she 
was so frail ! Thrice that evil woman had push- 
ed her back, and then had driven her from the 
house, and she wandered about in the grounds, 
alone, deserted, till morning came and some 
Samaritan found her stretched lifeless upon the 
turf. 

" The most affecting thing I ever heard," ex- 
claimed the doctor, who had listened to the 
story already as rendered by the chambermaid, 
and so took it at its proper value. " The wom- 
an ought to be gibbeted." 

Miss Laidley was so much encouraged by his 
sympathy that she heightened her account with 
a few more details. " I knelt on the damp earth 
beneath the casement of my dying friend and 



prayed. I believed that our souls would go out 
together — it was all I asked." 

"Beautiful!" said the doctor. "It is as 
romantic as a novel ; but much more real and 
touching, much more." 

Clive thought she had gone far enough, and 
advised her to get her bonnet on and depart — 
every moment spent in the house was running a 
new danger. 

" Let me go !" she cried, in a tremor again. 
" I'll be ready in an instant. Oh, let me get 
away !" She darted out of the room and the 
doctor nodded his head many times and rubbed 
his hands in glee. 

" I've seen a great many of them do that 
sort of thing," said he, "but she beats Vestris — 
perfect! And to see her get frightened in ear- 
nest every few minutes, and stop lying to own 
her fears and show her selfishness. It was 
perfect, Sir, perfect." 

" It was disgusting," said Clive, who had a 
bad habit of speaking his mind when roused. 

" Nonsense, nonsense," returned the doctor. 
" She must behave according to her gifts. Can't 
expect all women to be like that angel of yours, 
Sir. According to her gifts she acts ; and by 
Jupiter, she acts well ! It's a pity she's rich ; 
she'd have done wonders on the stage.'' 

" Most people consider her a pretty, thought- 
less child," said Clive. 

" Of course they do ; so they ought. But 
I'm a doctor, and you're a writer — we see a lit- 
tle closer. Bless you, she's delightful ! "Why, 
she'll do an amount of mischief in this world 
that is refreshing to think of," replied the phy- 
sician. " In a decorous way ; she hasn't stami- 
na—not blood and bone enough to get beyond 
that." 

Miss Laidley came back followed by Juanita, 
and the old doctor felt her pulse again, and told 
her what a fragile flower she was, and she beam- 
ed. "Did the medicine help you ?" lie asked. 
"Oh, so much! It must have been very 
powerful. I thank you — I shall think of you 
as my preserver." The doctor was a picture. 
"And oh, Mr. Farnsworth ! I want to send a 
telegram to my guardian : he must come for 
me," she continued. 

" I will go down to the village myself if you 
will give me his address," replied Clive. Miss 
Laidley wrote it on a slip of paper, and \vrote 
the message also, notstoppingto count the words, 
because she recollected that Farnsworth would 
have to pay for it. ' ' Doctor, " continued Clive, 
who felt that he could not endure more of her 
society just then, " perhaps you will have the 
kindness to go to my house with Miss Laidley 
while I attend to this. The carriage can take 
you down to the hotel after, and I'll drive down 
in your trap." 

The doctor was quite ready to study this 

peculiar phase of human nature a little longer, 

! being given to odd theories, so he expressed the 

! pleasure he should have in serving the young 

! lady. Miss Laidley gave him one of her sweet- 

est "looks, for she thought him much more im- 



190 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



pressionablc than Clivc, and the doctor thought, 
" If she only had more stamina — more blood 
and hone ! But the acting is good, and in the- 
ory she must be immense. What a course of 
foreign literature she has gone through — bless 
the little dear !" He saw Miss Laidley safe in 
Farnsworth's house, and recommended her and 
Juanita, whom he felt certain was a brown ape 
gifted with the faculty of speech, to the house- 
keeper's best care, and went back to the hotel to 
await the train which ought to bring the Idol's 
other half and a nurse. 

The Bull arrived sorely dismayed, for he was 
fond of his Idol in his way, and was divided be- 
tween grief at her illness and distress at leav- 
ing Wall Street in a critical juncture. He 
brought another physician and a brace of nurses, 
and Clivc thought he could take Ruth home, 
but the Idol, still partially astray in her mind, 
conceived an aversion to both nurses and would 
not permit Ruth to leave her. The Bull was 
helpless as a spring calf, and could only wander 
about the house and bellow mournfully. Clive 
was forced to yield to Ruth's importunities; she 
could not be heartless- enough to go away, and 
he could not wish her to, anxious as he was. 
lie drove home to tell Miss Laidley that his 
wife could not return, and being too much en- 
grossed by his fears for her to pay the Angel 
much attention, she determined to do something 
annoying if she could. She was seized with 
Scruples — impossible for her to remain there, in 
the absence of the mistress of the house, if he 
did. She was an orphan — an unprotected child 
— she must be very cautious in tho merest trifles. 
Clive was only too glad of an excuse to get 
back to the Castle, and departed without wast- 
ing many words upon her. lie kept the Bull 
company nearly a fortnight, for the Idol's illness 
had taken too linn a hold to be easily subdued, 
and she would allow no one but Ruth to attend 
upon her. So Ruth stayed, and did not take 
leisure to think she was a heroine or to think 
about herself at all. Once during that time 
the Hull made a rush down into Wall Street to ' 
see that affairs were prospering, but the rest of 
the period he lowed sorrow-stricken about the 
home pasture and threw himself helplessly on 
Clive for society, and the two animals, having 
no more sympathies or ideas in common than a 
bovine monster and the fabled Pegasus would 
have had, were both of them in distressing case 
by the time the sojourn was ended. Miss Laid- 
ley 's dispatch had been speedily answered, and 
her guardian found her an escort without being 
obliged to journey back himself, so she and 
Juanita and her wilderness of trunks departed. 
She would not go to the Castle for an instant — 
left a brief note for Ruth and hurried off in 
great delight, so full of the new scenes and pos- 
sible adventures to which she might be going 
that she never so much as remembered the Idol 
and her illness. 

The blessed old soul could sit up at last, and 
the Bull and Clive were admitted into her room 
when she was for the first time lifted out of bed. ' 



It was ludicrous and yet touching to see her 
gratitude to the husband and wife, and weak as 
sho was she would articulate immense phrases 
that burst out like spent cannon-balls. "I have 
no syllableization !" she cried. " Apollo, Apol- 
lo, my heart pants for expressiveness and finds 
it not ! Thank her, my husband — go down on 
your knees to her!" The Bull mumbled a few 
words, but was very much out of his element, 
and so confused by the request that Ruth took 
pity upon him and talked in his stead. The 
Idol promised that she would not be selfish any 
longer — on the next day they might return liomc. 
They must sleep under her roof once more. 
Ruth should go to bed and have a long rest — 
no, even in her weakness she was not guilty of 
saying "go to bed." " Morphean garlands 
shall strew her couch," said she. " But re- 
main — when I wake in the gloom I must be 
cheered by remembering that my dwelling is 
guarded by her presence." She kissed Ruth, 
she wept over Clive, and they had to force her 
to lie down and bo quiet, lest she should do 
herself harm. " And I have been trouble 
enough," she said, submissive as a child, " so I 
will obey." 

She was able to sec them before their depart- 
ure the next morning, and could utter more 
thanks and call down more blessings on their 
heads. She spoke kindly of her absent Angel, 
but it was plain that she was much hurt at her 
not having left a message in her haste, though 
Ruth good-naturedly excused her. " Yes, yes," 
said the Idol, "she is young — youth is efferves- 
cing ! But you, dear lady — there are no words." 
She was strong enough to be indignant at a new 
performance of Mrs. Piffit's which the Bull re- 
lated to her. Piffit had besieged his Wall Street 
stable and told him she was his wife's friend, 
and forced him to take her money to invest in 
some wonderful speculation of his which she 
had heard talked about till .she forgot her usual 
prudence. Clive laughed at this last effort of 
the Piffit, but was glad to cut short the farewells 
and get Ruth away. 

They were once more in their own house ; 
and though Ruth was very pale and completely 
worn out, she insisted that it was only fatigue 
that ailed her. She would not go to bed, and 
she would sit by Clive and talk and be cheerful 
and try to forget the dreary ache of body and 
nerves in her joy at being home again. She 
was saying, " I am so glad, so glad — " when the 
dizziness and weakness asserted itself, and she 
sank fainting in the arms of her terrified hus- 
band. 



CHAPTER XXXVI. 

ONE TOO MANY. 

Our party of travellers were stopping on the 
shore of Lake Champlain for a few days when 
the news from Miss Laidley broke in upon their 
enjoyment, and plans for her joining them had 
to bo arranged. Rosa spoke aloud the secret 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



191 



sentiments of each member of the group, bewail- 
ed this intrusion, and called the Angel an un- 
grateful little monster for deserting the Idol 
in her sickness. But there was nothing for it 
only to wait there until she could reach the 
place, and a more lovely spot to rest in during 
the golden summer days can not well be imag- 
ined. They were established at a hotel near 
Burlington in Vermont, on the banks of the 
beautiful lake.« Back of them stretched the 
range of the Green Mountains ; in front, away 
beyond the bright waters, the grassy plains, and 
the waving woods, rose the lofty peaks of the 
Adirondacs, so glorious in the changing light 
that it was like a glimpse of the Delectable Hills 
to watch them. The sunsets were so gorgeous 
that it seemed heaven itself opened in full splen- 
dor — the grandeur and yet exquisite loveliness 
of the view fairly intoxicated one's senses with 
its beauty. 

Elinor Grey revelled in the beauty of the 
spot, and her companions were congenial asso- 
ciates. Such days as they had ! The rides among 
the hills ; the sails on the lake ; the dinners over 
at that old farm-house on the opposite side where 
there was a bevy of pretty girls ; the freedom ; 
the sense of renewed health and vigor — they all 
enjoyed it immensely. And into the midst of 
their pleasure must come the shadow of the 
Angel's arrival ; and as Rosa vowed, " it was 
too bad." " One so seldom has a happy week,'' 
she declared ; " and to have this spoiled by that 
little cat ! You need not look shocked, Mr. 
Grey — you need not try to frown, Elinor — you 
hate it as much as I do. I wish she was back 
in Jamaica. She's an angel, and I wish she 
was up in purer air. I've a mind to cry ! I'll 
bite her if she attempts to kiss me !" 

" Go it, gentle woman," cried Tom. 

" And all her graces — bah ! Her nerves and 
her sorrow — we shall have the whole. The 
outrageous little pigeon, to run off and leave 
the poor Idol ! Oh dear me, life is a burden." 

"And you are out of breath, fortunately," 
replied Elinor. " Submit to fate with becom- 
ing fortitude, my Rosa." 

"Not when it comes in the form of Miss 
Laidley," she averred. "Never mind! I'll 
mimic her; I'll be as wicked as she is — no, 
that is impossible ; but I'll do my best." 

"And we can ask ng more," said Mr. Grey, 
laughing, who in his heart had never quite for- 
given his ward for having so nearly made a 
fluffy, disjointed idiot of him. 

"There is one consolation," cried Rosa; 
"we all know her thoroughly. She can't do 
any mischief; Elinor has conquered her in all 
sorts of quiet ways." 

"Let us hope, then," said Mr. Grey, "that 
shotunderstands — ' Una salus victis, nullum spe- 
rarc salutem ;' " and he was one of the few 
men who can quote the classics without being 
absurd. I think it was the way in which he 
took out his snuff-box carried off the quotations. 

"She understands it if it is any thing wick- 
ed, you may be sure," returned Rosa. " There ! 



I won't say a word more. Don't all look shock- 
ed. When she comes I will be very sweet to 
her, but she shall not torment us, and she shall 
not make us change our plans." 

Miss Laidley arrived in due course, and veri- 
fied Rosa's prediction about her nerves, her sor- 
row, and all the rest. There was nobody whom 
she could hope to fascinate, and she proved a 
nuisance, always wanting to do the very thing 
that was most inconvenient and most opposed 
to the others' wishes. But even, Rosa bore 
with her patiently enough ; when the Angel was 
too annoying she mimicked her, and when she 
was poetical she solaced herself by private 
grimaces at Tom. (Let me remark, in passing, 
that the amusement which children call "mak- 
ing faces " may not be elegant, but it is a won- 
derful relief to the feelings. Just try it when 
somebody bores you. Pretend to hunt for 
something in a corner, any thing to get your 
back toward the bore, and then go through the 
performance. You can return to your seat and 
endure like a Christian after. I was staying 
one summer in the country, and was dreadfully 
persecuted by a solemn .man who would come 
to see me, and who would prose, till, if I had 
not made faces, I should inevitably have burst 
a blood-vessel or split his head. As it was, I 
put a box on my table that had a glass in it, 
and every now and then I solaced myself by a 
series of grimaces, which refreshed me as much 
as an hour's gymnastics would have clone. I 
kept charmingly civil ; and I like to be civil — 
except when my temper's up. But on a luck- 
less morning some fiend of a chambermaid had 
put away the box. The solemn man appeared, 
and he was a more outrageous bore than ever — 
he was ten bores rolled into one. Civility de- 
serted me : I made a horrible face directly in 
his ; and, thinking it was no use to be careful 
after the ice was broken, I treated him to a de- 
lightful bit of my mind. He went away and 
abused me worse than most people did, and 
they in general abused me enough ; but he was 
a solemn man and a pious, and wanted to do 
his duty — how he did give it me behind my 
back!) But they all bore the infliction of the 
Angel's presence with a better grace than she 
did what she called "a horrid waste of time." 
They went to Canada; strayed about quaint 
old Quebec, steamed to Montreal, saw Montmo- 
rency, and floated down the St. Lawrence among 
the Thousand Islands, and every body enjoyed 
it except the Angel. Even old Juanita chewed 
bark and kept her composure, and was glad she 
seldom had to be alone with her mistress; and 
she certainly had reason to congratulate herself 
upon that fact, for, when any opportunity to 
vent her feelings did occur, the Angel pinched 
and pulled her to such an extent that Juanita's 
arms and neck seemed dotted with small rain- 
bows. The old witch, however, had her share 
of craft and cunning ; she made the Angel ob- 
serve how thin the partition walis were, and 
after that if her mistress, rendered desperate by 
the ills of life, appeared inclined to seek a littlo 



192 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR 



consolation in tinting and tattooing her brown 
flesh, Juanita would utter loud lamentations, 
and as Elinor's room was on one side of Miss 
Laidley's apartment and Mrs. Thornton's on 
the other, the unfortunate girl was deprived of 
her last resource. She was very severe in 
her strictures upon the careless mode of build- 
ing houses prevalent in the land, and in sharp 
whispers reproached Juanita bitterly for her self- 
ishness and insubordination ; but Juanita rub- 
bed her spotted arms ruefully, and rolled up her 
eyes in mingled entreaty and warning. She 
was blindly attached to her mistress, as a dog 
sometimes is to a cruel master, and when there 
was no avoiding the pinches she took them as a 
part of this world's experiences ; but when thin 
walls and near neighbors offered a prospect of 
relief, Juanita could not resist taking advantage 
of it. The Angel thought her conduct in keep- 
ing with the dismal era upon which she had 
fallen, and pitied herself as the most unfort- 
unate seraph breathing, with a quartet of hor- 
rid people at hand to annoy her, and no speedy 
means of relief visible — not the ghost of a flir- 
tation to be got at. She kept a close lookout 
upon such travellers as appeared, but there was 
nothing to reward her. Several times parties 
of men bound for the Adirondacs came, but 
they only stayed over night, and when the An- 
gel had caught sight of some man among them 
who looked worth dressing for, she had exerted 
herself to go down stairs to breakfast in a pict- 
uresque costume, and found to her disgust that 
the whole set had gone off at some preposter- 
ously early hour, too anxious to reach the re- 
gion of primeval forests, with their attractions 
in the way of hunting, even to wait for a second 
glance at her. One man did come and stay 
several days — a raven-haired, melancholy man, 
with a charming pallor of visage and a long 
mustache, who did nothing but stare at her 
whenever she appeared. The Angel began to 
meditate ways and means of acquaintance — 
having decided from his looks that he was an 
Italian exile, in better circumstances, evidently, 
than the generality of those devoted heroes, for 
he dressed well and had horses and servants — 
when Tom Thornton innocently spoiled her 
dawning poem by pointing him out to Rosa in 
her hearing and giving his history. He was a 
Jew clothes-merchant, who had made an im- 
mense fortune, softened his original appellation 
of Jacob Jacobs into Jaccopo Jacopi, cut the 
synagogue, and went further than old Shylock 
in his dealings with Gentile dogs, being not 
only willing to buy and sell with them, but to 
eat and drink and even to pray with them, if 
that could have helped him to cultivate their 
acquaintance, though the habits of most of 
them gave no opportunity to practice that par- 
ticular grace. The Angel liked nature in 
books, and could quote whole cantos of Cliilde 
Harold, and give you any amount of Manfred 
you might desire, but this realization of poetry 
was not in the least to her taste. 

The Herald informed her of the recovery of 



Mrs. Hackett, and announced that she had gone 
on to Newport, and the Angel tore the paper in 
bits and stamped on them in her rage at having 
spoiled her own pleasure by her fright and self- 
ishness. But there was nothing impossible 
with her ! She actually wrote the Idol a long 
letter full of sympathy. She would never have 
left her darling Duchess, but the physicians 
ordered her away. Now she was pining and 
desolate among her friends, ki»d as they were. 
Nobody but her sweet Duchess understood her ; 
she should droop and fade and float off to the 
Better Land if the Duchess did not summon 
her. Her chest was weak — these northern airs 
were killing her — but she could not alarm her 
guardian ; she could not selfishly ruin the pleas- 
ure of her companions, who were too happy to 
notice how ill she was — an illness induced prin- 
cipally by her sufferings on account of her dar- 
ling Duchess. But she would not repine. She 
could die ! She was, a lonely little thing whom 
no one would miss ! Better that she should go 
and join her lost parent in the Elysian Fields ! 
In fact, that was what she wanted — she had only 
written to bid her beloved Duchess farewell be- 
fore increasing weakness rendered this last act 
of friendship impossible. She should bless her 
with her latest breath and then fly away, away ! 
All this and much more, on numberless tiny 
sheets of tinted paper, with legions of exclama- 
tion points like pigmy sentinels, and every other 
line underscored. Broken sentences which im- 
plied that death was near ; but she would not 
detail her sufferings — every thing that was 
touching and sweet. 

The Idol received the letter, and forgot the 
slight soreness that had been in her mind. In- 
deed she reproached herself bitterly for having 
had the least doubt of her Angel. She wrote, 
begging her to come ; she wanted the whole 
party — but at least she must have her Angel. 
Some acquaintances whom they encountered 
were bound for Newport, so the Angel and her 
brown familiar were put under their care, and 
she departed rejoicing ; and truly her departure 
was a great relief, though only the incorrigible 
Rosa avowed it openly. 

I must leave them here to pursue their jour- 
ney in peace, and go back to other scenes. I 
hope you have not forgotten to be sorry for the 
distress in which we le/t Clive Farnsworth and 
the black terror which filled his heart. 



CHAPTER XXXVII. 
■ 

TIIE GODDESS OF LIBERTT. 

I left Ruth fainting in Clive's arms as a pre- 
paratory step toward illness and death. You 
thought so, you know you did ; you foresaw 
how the romance was to end — of course you did. 
Now she did not die, she was not even sick, and 
after frightening Clive out of his wits, she re- 
covered from her swoon and was very much 
ashamed of herself. I broke off abruptly, hav- 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



193 



ing reached a sensation, and put a brief chapter 
of suspense between it and the explanation, be- 
cause that is according to the rules of high art ; 
and do you think I wish you to go on with events 
happening in regular and natural sequence, and 
have you say that I do not understand high art ? 
Now the truth must come out. Ruth was not 
ill, and after resting a few days was as bright 
as ever. But you thought she would die ; you 
thought he would marry Elinor Grey — don't be 
aggravating and deny it ; and I have shown 
that I know how to make the most of a sensa- 
tion, and am as highly artful as any nine-hun- 
dred-pager among the craft. 

Notwithstanding the efforts Clive and the old 
physician made, the people in South village 
could not be persuaded to forswear the unclean- 
liness and misery in which they had been reared 
in their native lands and had brought with them 
over the sea. Were they to be taught by 
Yankees and made to wash themselves in a free 
country ? Not a bit of it ! They expressed as 
much contempt for the Yankees as their betters 
do, and, when the trouble came, were as glad to 
bowl and be helped as their betters are when 
they get into difficulty. 

Am I never to flutter the star-spangled? If 
any body in England reads this, why — whisper 
— it is only another specimen of high art ! If 
any body in America reads this, why — very 
loud — I am not one to truckle to foreign weak- 
nesses ; I'll make the eagle scream — hurrah ! In 
the mean time I add — this to myself — Brother 
Jonathans and John Bulls ! there is a good deal 
to admire in you both ; nevertheless, O Britan- 
nia and Columbia ! you are the silliest, conceit- 
edest old mother putting on virtuous airs, and 
the most boastful, outrageous child ; together 
the most arrogant pair that ever deafened the 
ears of the whole world with incessant self-glo- 
rifications, backed by a lion that has lost sev- 
eral of its best teeth and an eagle that needs to 
have its tail-feathers viciously pulled. 

The fever skipped about a little on the side 
of the lake where the hotel stood and frightened 
such guests as were left into hasty departure. 
After a few days of intense heat and breathless 
nights, in which a damp, miasmatic fog rested 
on the waters, the demon made straight across 
and attacked the ready victims. They did suf- 
fer terribly, poor things. Scarcely a foul, ill- 
ventilated cabin from which the moans for some 
lost one were not going up to Heaven, and may 
be Heaven hears the moans of the dirty and 
miserable as easily as those from fresher lips. 
The wretched creatures suffered much, and would 
have suffered more had it not been for Clive 
Earnsworth and his Ruth. There were not 
influential people enough left in the neighbor- 
hood to prevent any real good by a fit of phi- 
lanthropy. The directors of the railway be- 
haved as the directors of most railways, whether 
proposed or finished, do in this land : that is, 
like abominable brutes, who ought to be strung 
in rows on the tallest trees from the Atlantic to 
the Pacific, and compelled to hang there heads 
N 



downward through all eternity, with the shrieks 
of their countless victims forever ringing in their 
ears. 

I can not say that Clive might not have been 
inclined to think he had fulfilled a fair share of 
his duty by affording liberally the means to 
make the unfortunate creatures comfortable, but 
Ruth could not be satisfied with that. As long 
as any sanatory measures could be taken she in- 
sisted on going with Clive to see that they were 
carried out — that is, if what was the sweetest 
form of pleading could be called insistence — and 
her persuasions moved tjie reckless Celts more 
than all the advice and hygienic precautions 
Clive and the doctor could lay down. 

" You see, dear," she would say, " they don't 
half know their own danger. If we just drove 
over again to be certain that every thing is being 
done." 

"I will go, Ruth ; there is no need to expose 
you further." 

"But there is no risk, Clive ; if there were, 
you couldn't be cruel enough to go and not let 
me share it." 

When the fever did attack the place, and both 
saw how much there was to be done, neither had 
any mind to keep aloof. Ruth's presence was 
like a blessing in every house ; the people used 
to say that the sick always mended after her 
visits. " Oh, yer honor," said an old man to 
Clive, "just the sound of her voice seemed to 
take away the pain." A poor little lame girl 
in whom she became greatly interested, one day 
whispered to Earnsworth — "Don't you believe 
she's the Blessed Virgin, Sir, come down for a 
little out of pity, because we suffered so?" 

The violence of the disease soon spent itself, 
thanks in a great degree to the vigorous meas- 
ures that had been commenced almost at the 
first alarm ; the dead were buried o^; of sight, 
and the sick returned to strength and the ordi- 
nary hardness of- their lives. When there was 
nothing to be done, and no danger of having to 
spend any money, the directors called a meeting 
and appointed men to go up and find out if it 
were true that the laborers were menaced by an 
epidemic, and passed such fine resolutions that 
when the newspapers reported them every body 
was greatly impressed by the kind-heartedness 
of those great men, who, in spite of their camel- 
loads of wealth, were certain to pass easily 
through the needle's eye. The residents of the 
neighborhood came pouring back when they were 
convinced that they did not endanger their pre- 
cious lives thereby, and, to Ruth's wonder and 
annoyance, persisted in regarding her as a hero- 
ine. The Idol kept writing astounding letters 
to every body, relating again and again that Mrs. 
Earnsworth had preserved her from death, and 
setting the seal in the minds of the readers to 
Ruth's claims to heroineship. 

The housekeeper at length came to Ruth 
with a request that she would go down to the 
village to see the bad boy of the neighborhood, 
Tad Tilman, who had fallen very ill. His aunt 
had besought her friend Mrs. Sykes to ask this 



194 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



favor of her mistress, because Tad insisted that 
he must sec her, and would allow no one in the 
house any peace until she was sent for. Mrs. 
Sykes looked upon Tad with horror, and had no 
doubt whatever in her own mind that he was 
"possessed," and, as she was wont to say with 
an awful shake of the head, "Not by one — " 
leaving a blank for the word devil which she 
thought wicked utterance from other than the 
lips of preachers or deacons in meeting — "but 
by a Legion ! There is such and we know it, 
and I'm afraid to think what would become of 
all the pigs, far and near, if what's in that boy 
could be driven out." With the prospect of such 
misfortune to the neighboring swine in case the 
boy should be freed from the control of his un- 
pleasant familiars, and such sentiments as she 
entertained toward him personally — sentiments 
which she had not kept for private contempla- 
tion, but had many times felt it her duty to re- 
peat to Tad with variations when she encounter- 
ed him at his aunt's house, which in spite of 
their mysterious awfulncss had small effect upon 
hiin, inured as he was to being told that he was 
the most depraved of sinners, to being prayed 
over and wept over and groaned over in the fam- 
ily circle, to being set up as a target in meeting 
for the deacon to fire reproofs and warnings at, 
to being exhorted in mourning and solemn tones 
as to the place where he would go if he did not 
mend his ways, and encouraged by the informa- 
tion that there seemed no hope of his being able 
so to do if he wished, whenever a select knot of 
his worthy relative's friends met for a religious 
tea and an afternoon's consideration of the 
wickedness of the world and the probability of its 
speedy destruction — -it was natural that Mrs. 
Sykes should prefer her request with a good 
deal of hesitation. Indeed she went about so 
much, ma^e so many apologies, ran the begin- 
nings of such opposite sentences together, and 
was so incoherent and mysterious that Ruth for 
sometime was at a loss to understand whether 
therewas somebody sick or some strange appari- 
tion had appeared in the meeting ; whether some 
dark calamity had befallen the pigs or the sin- 
ners, or whether private trouble had assailed 
Mrs. Sykes herself, and she had come to seek 
sympathy and advice. She gained a faint per- 
ception of the good woman's meaning at length, 
and asked — 

"Is it that little Tilman boy who is sick?" 

" Yes, ma'am ; and as I was a savin'," replied 
Mrs. Sykes, going off again into regrets at troub- 
ling her mistress about such a reprobate ; min- 
gling a description of his aunt's anxiety and a 
compendious history of the boy's misdeeds from 
his cradle up, in happy disregard of nominative 
cases and personal pronouns. 

" You say he wants to see me, Mrs. Sykes?" 
inquired Ruth when there was an opportunity 
given by the housekeeper's being forced to draw 
a little breath into her exhausted receiver. 

"Yes, ma'am," she answered, hurrying a 
rush of air in, which hissed in her pipes as if 
hey were hot, ' ' and if you could see how worked 



up his poor aunt is ; and no wonder, with the 
trial that boy's been, and she a prayerful wom- 
an, ma'am, and a strivin' after mortifications if 
ever a woman did ; not a bit set up, but jest 
layin' that boy afore the deacons and askin' — 
though it wasn't no use, for it crM seem as if the 
more was done the worse he got — and you 
couldn't believe if I was to tell you, ma'am, how 
they've wrastled over him and he a goin' on in 
the old way; as Elder Mosely has said to him 
many a time, dancin' on the brink of the bit 
as it were — in my hearin' — " 

"I am sorry he is sick," interrupted Ruth; 
"I doubt—" 

"And nobody can blame you, ma'am," in- 
terposed Mrs. Sykes ; "and I don't wonder you 
feel so about .goin', and I didn't expect, but 
asked because his poor aunt was so worked up." 

" I was not going — " 

"Excuse me, ma'am, for interrupting but I 
must say in self-excuse I know'd you wasn't, I 
couldn't expect you would, and I can't blame 
you and nobody couldn't. I've only wondered at 
your goodness in tryin' to have him help among 
the flowers, and him a standin' on his head for 
an aggravation to 'me, like a piny with the root 
up, when you'd gone into the house." 

"I shall go to see him this morning," said 
Ruth; "you misunderstood me. I have found 
him very obliging and industrious." 

" Wal, ma'am," replied Mrs. Sykes, looking 
much relieved, "it'll be a kind act, and it'll be 
like you; and who knows? — a body must al- 
ways hope for a sinner as long as he's left with- 
in the hearin' of grace ; of course when once 
they've gone beyond it, why then we know 
where they've gone, and it's a comfort to us 
feelin' that we've warned 'cm and wrastled with 
'cm—" 

"Yes, I will go," Ruth interrupted, not be- 
ing so much at ease as Mrs. Sykes under the 
form of theology that left a person with a true 
Christian spirit so confident in regard to the 
final destiny of sinners, and so comfortable in 
the belief that the " wrastlin's and warnin's " 
had been a complete fulfillment of duty. Mrs. 
Sykes, after expressing her sense of her mis- 
tress's kindness, and uttering a few more moans 
over the depravity of the lost child — for in spite 
of her remark about his being still within the 
reach of grace it was evident there was no possi- 
ble loop-hole for him in her view of the matter — 
retired to pursue her contemplations in private. 
It is very probable that her fears for the sick boy 
diverged into doubts where her master and mis- 
1 tress were concerned, for she often indulged in 
such, as was natural, since they must be in a 
| good deal of danger while they went to that 
I church which had a painted window, and tin* 
still greater enormity of a flower-wreathed, cau- 
dle-decorated altar, and where they offended 
Heaven by repeating prayers out of a book. 

When Clive was ready to drive out with Ruth 
on her daily round, she told him about poor 
Tad's illness and request, and begged him to 
take her to the house at once. Clive had a 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



liking for the boy, and always enjoyed the sto- 
ries of his misdeeds, not possessing a well-regu- 
lated mind. " Poor little fellow," he said, 
" how he must suffer now he is entirely at the 
mercy of his relations and the deacons." 

"lie is such a bright, quick little fellow," 
Ruth answered; "we used to hold long talks 
while he helped me among my flower-beds. 
Clive, if he gets well, couldn't you have him 
sent to school ? — Why, what are you laughing 
at, you bad boy ?" 

" Only this is the forty-fourth small individu- 
al whose future you have asked" me to take on 
my hands during the last fortnight," replied 
Clive. 

" Not so bad as that," rejoined Ruth, laugh- 
ing too. " But, Clive, I do feel so sorry for 
the poor children." 

" And you shall help all that come in your 
way in every possible manner I promise you," 
said he. 

"You good Clive!" 

"Yes, it is I who am good," he answered, 
laughing again, yet moved by her unconscious- 
ness ; "you liavc nothing to do with it, of 
course ; you never want to help people." 

" You are not to tease, Sir. But isn't that 
the house ?" 

" Yes, I think so ; I shall go in too. I have 
a decided weakness for Thaddy and his diabol- 
ical propensities." 

So the groom had an opportunity to drive the 
horses up and down the street and know him- 
self an object of admiration to all the youthful 
females in that neighborhood, while Clive fol- 
lowed Ruth into the house. They were met at 
the door by a tall, scraggy young woman with 
her hair in curl-papers, who began to exclaim 
at sight of Ruth — " Why, dear me — MissFarns- 
worth ! Do come in ! I declare, J*m ashamed 
to ast you into such a poor place. I didn't ax- 
pect to sec you here, I'm sure ! I see you up 
to Miss Hackett's, if you don't disremember." 
In fact, the scraggy damsel with horns pro- 
truding over her temples was no other than the 
Angel's enemy of that dreadful night when the 
Idol's reason went overboard. 

"Mrs. Sykes told mo," said Ruth, "that 
Thaddy Tilman was verysick and wanted to see 
me." 

' ' Wal, ya'as, he's ben proper bad. I wouldn't 
have had you troubled on no account, but Aunt 
Prudence she youmors him, and he's dreadful 
youmorsome. I'm sure it's no place to ast you 
into." At this moment she became conscious 
of Clive's presence — her faculties before that 
had been concentrated in the contemplation of 
Ruth's hat ; she started back with a mysterious 
sound in her throat, and appeared to have some 
idea of concealing herself behind the door. 
" If it aint Mr. Farnsworth too !" she exclaimed, 
making a grab at her self-possession and digni- 
ty, determined to be equal to the occasion. 
" Wal, this is onaxpected. I declare, Thaddeus 
i^ a lookin' up." She gave an engaging giggle, 
and added to Ruth in a painful whisper that 



must have been audible across the street, 
"Deary me, to think o' my bein' ketched this 
way — in my old dress and my hair — " That 
last reflection was so appalling that she broke 
off in dismay, put both hands on her horns and 
cried shrilly — "Aunt Prudence! O Aunt Pru- 
dence !" 

At the imperative summons, down stairs came 
a meek, watery-eyed old woman, who had wit- 
nessed the arrival from an upper window and 
been hesitating about making her appearance. 
" I'm so glad to see you," she said in a little 
trembling voice, " I don't know how to thank 
you." 

Here the scraggy damsel cut her short, desir- 
ous of showing that she was perfectly aware 
what was proper on an occasion like the present. 
" This is Miss Farnsworth, Aunt Prudence," 
said she, taking one hand from her horns to 
wave it in the air, " and this is Mr. Farnsworth, 
though I hain't the pleasure of an acquaintance " 
— removing the other hand to wave at him, 
forgetful of the spiral decorations — "but Miss 
Farnsworth I see up to the Castle when I were 
there fur a week to obleege. They've come to 
see Thaddeus. I'm sure I didn't axpect com- 
pany and me such a rigger ; but sickness in the 
house and all, I hope it won't be noticed." 
Here she clapped both hands to her horns again 
and tossed her head at Clive with another gig- 
gle. " I'll jest let Thaddeus know," said she ; 
" no more on us had better be took by surprise, 
though it mightn't be so onsupportable as it is 
to some;" and here, perceiving that Ruth had 
begun to make inquiries of the old woman about 
the sick boy, and that Clive was looking at a 
flower-pot in the window, the damsel retreated 
hastily, not so much to warn Tad as to have an 
opportunity of enduing herself in a new pink 
gown and removing the obnoxious horns. 

The room was so clean and tidy that it was 
a relief after the abodes of misery Ruth had 
seen among the foreign population in South 
village, and the woman herself seemed a meek, 
kind-hearted body, very grateful for the visit, 
but inclined at once to become lachrymose 
on the subject of her nephew, not so much 
where his illness was concerned as in fear for 
the soul somewhere hidden in his fever-con- 
sumed little frame. There was a piteous croak 
in her voice too, evidently an affair of long hab- 
it, which made Clive think she had been repress- 
ed and overcrowed by her husband and the 
scraggy damsel, as well as alarmed by the theol- 
ogy she had heard from the deacons. " He 
wanted to see you so much, and he thought " — 
the last " he " referred to her husband — " mebby 
it was a sign sumpthin' was a workin' in him " — 
now she meant the boy again. "The dear 
knows we've wrastled with him, and since he's 
ben sick we've had Deacon Spriggins reg'lar ev- 
ery day ; but he's a cur'us boy, though good to 
his old aunt I can't but say." 

"You have had a doctor, of course," said 
Clive. 

" Wal, no, we hain't ; you see he was on'y 



I'M, 



mv DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



took day afore yoi'day- was It day afore yes' 
day? nO| 'twas the night no,'twarnt; wal, 
iin\ liow I thought mebbj he'd git <>n, and ( Iran* 
nv < 'umber she's sech a doctor herself, and she's 
»lve 1 1 1 1 ■ i b powerful lot ofyarbs, and Ih-'h bad 
four doses o 1 calomel and eai*tor-ile." 

Taken In connection ^^ , i 1 1 1 her previous re- 
mark) which howoYor she had Intended to apply 
in his spiritual condition, this was too much for 
Olive's gravity, and he retreated to the window 
mill the friendly flower-pot. 

" Vi ust have a doctor," Ruth said ; " and 

oh, don't give him any more calomel." 

" Wal, when I was a gal," replied Aunt Pru- 
denoo, " calomel and jollip was thought could 
cure a'most anj thing, and Granny Cumber she 
sets great store by 'em." 

"But in those fevers," pursued Ruth, "you 
noed to keep the strength n|> us much as possl 
ble. Clive, please tell Jones to drive round for 
i lie doctor at onoe, do." 

Clive went out and dispatched the man on 
his i- 1 1 mill j when became back, Aunt. Prudence 
w:is in the niiiisi ni'u dismal aooounl of a moot- 
ing the] had held the night before In that very 
room, and growing tearful over Tad's refusal to 
permit Deacon Spriggins to go up and pray with 
him. Indeed it appoared that when that 
worthy gentleman j'," 1 to the head of the stairs 
null tried to point out in lii tii the fearful state 
of his soul, considering the life he had led, 
Tad refused to Listen, and assailod that precious 
disciple with vituperative epithets which had (ill - 
i'il ih^i- minds of the Listeners with horror, and 
convinced tho deacon that the oaje was even 
more hopeless than he had believed. 

" I i in hope the poor boy was out of his head,' 
iii Auiii Prudence, wiping her eyes ; "buthus* 
band Ini's quite discouraged, :uut Miss Sykos an' 
Granny Cumber, they Boemod actilly afeared ii 
wasn't so muoh the fever that's goin' round as 
I'ftft] possession, [t was awful when he called 
the Doaoouashad bellied, stiff-necked old Nico- 
(li'iiius !" 

Clive exploded, and Aunt Prudence held her 
apron fust in her hands and stared at him. 
" Sfou must mil let any body worry him now, 
Mrs. Til i mi 11," he said; " the thing to do at pres- 
ont is to take care of his body, l think von had 
better pul the meetings aside till he is better." 

Aunt. Prudence, acoustomed to be regulated 
in Iut opinions by those of the person speaking 
in her, was wonderfully consolod. " l was say 
in' that to husband," returned she, " and now 
mebby, w hen I tell him you advised it, he'll think 
so too. He's raly disoouraged, and indeed, Tad- 
dy 's ben a great trial to him, very headstrung 
m ini oonsaty. I know he's a bad boy, but lie's 

allays good to me, ami I've lieu mcbby too you- 

morsome to iiis faults, 'cause he's an orphing 
and no! my own Bosh and blood, though 1 iliiln't 
want him to know no difference." 

" I'm sure you have meant to be good to him," 
Ruth said, to comfort her; " I think he is fond- 

Or Of J on than Of any one else." 

" I have tried," she replied in her meek eroak j 



"ami though lu) was husband's nevvy, they 
couldn't seem to agree, and It's ben a massy 
your gettin' him up to help in your garding. 
Ever sence he was took he's hen a boggin' to 

you, and SO at last I thought Pd ask Miss Sykes 

to tell you." 
"I am very glad you did," returned Ruth. 

" May WC go up stairs now ?" 

Aunt Prudence dried her eyes on her apron 

again ami Led the waj to the chamber where tho 

sick hoy was Lying. " Taddy," Said she, in thill 

unearthly whisper certain people think it proper 
to employ in a sick-room, and which is enough 

to make the blood of a giant, sound in wind and 
limb, run cold ■'Taddy, here's Miss Kiirnsworth 
and her husband too, eiuue (o see you." 

The boy raised himself on bis pillow, his face 

and eyes burning with lever, and held out. his 
h:ind to Ruth, while the muscles of his hard 

young mouth worked convulsively under a smile 
of welcome. 

'• I'm sure you'll' oblOOgod to 'em, Taddy," 

said Aunt Prudence, in the same torturing uii- 
der-tono. 

" For the land's sake, speak out!" poor Tad 
fairly shrieked. "I'd ruther hear it. thunder 
than the way you nil go :i whispering around. 

Oh, Mrs. Parnsworth, my hoad does 'ache so, and 
they won't let me alone! They're a. groaning 

OVOrmO, and a praying over me all the time, 
and when they ain't at that they're a. dosiu; 1 , me 

with calomel ; I can't stand ii !" Ruth sat down 

by him and with her usual dexterity bad bis pil- 
low .smooth and bis hair out of his eyes in no 
time. "I'm so dry," Said tho boy, "and they 
won't give me no water." 

"I've brought some lemons," Klllh said; 
"you shall have some lemonade at once. — It 
will he good tor him ; see how parched bis. lips 
are, 'she added to Aunt I'l-mlence. 

" Wal, ma'am," returned the poor woman, too 
much accustomed to being pushed about by her 
husband and his niece to think of opposition, " I 

s'pose you know best, but (Iraiiuy ( 'umber, she 
Said, in her day eohl water wasn't never giv* 

" Granny ( lumber's an old tool !" interrupted 
Tad, in another nervous shriek. " Did she ex- 
pect mo to drink hot water? Ilerel am a burn- 
ing- up! oh, Mrs. Parnsworth, they'll kill me 

if they Can, I do believe." 

"Ob, Taddy, don't !" pleaded Aunt Pru- 
dence. " Vim Linnv how anxious we he. Your 
uncle prayed and prayed last night. Ob, my 

poor boy, if you would only — " 
- Shetupl" howled Tad. " I tell you I won't. 

have briny bell poked down my throat any Long 
Or— ■ I'm sick ot'il ! I've beard uoihin' else sence 
1 can remember. I'd ruthor the devil had me 
and be done with it ! Aunt l'l-mlenee, ifyoU 
don't be still I'll jump out of ihe window.'' The 

poor frightened woman bogan to groan, ami Rut h, 
glad to get her out of the room under any pretext, 

sent her down stairs for sugar and :i tumbler. 
" ( lh, I'm so tired," moaned Tad, w itb difficulty 
repi'08Sing a sob, •■ and my bead aches so. And 
all these messes make me so sick. Ob, Mrs. 



MY, DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



197 



Farnsworth, if you'd please heave 'em away — 
they smell so !" 

There were several bowls and cups on a stand 
by the bed, and Clive examined the contents of 
each with much curiosity. One bowl held wa- 
ter that looked as if there had been ashes stirred 
in it ; a few bits of blackened bread were float- 
ing about on the top. "Now what do you sup- 
pose this may be?" he asked Ruth. 

"It's crust coffee," said Tad, who was in- 
tently watching him. " Old Granny Cumber 
said I might drink that, and it tastes just like 
mud and sawdust." 

"Out of the window it goes, Thad," said 
Clive, to the boy's great delight. " And this?" 
he continued, taking up a cup that contained a 
slimy liquid, with something curled up in the 
bottom that closely resembled a fat yellow worm. 

" That's slippery cllum bark," explained Tad, 
"'cause my mouth was sore. It's so nasty! 
If you'll only throw it out afore Aunt Prudence 
comes." Clive emptied the slime and the wormy- 
looking coil out of the window in disgust. 
"There's enough more," said Tad. "Oh, 
pitch 'em out ! There's snake-root, if I had the 
colic ; and there's water oft' biled cod-fish ; and 
there's more yarbs and bitter things than 'ud 
kill a horse." 

Clive was astonished and vexed at the array 
of nauseous doses, which were new to his expe- 
rience, but Ruth had seen too much of the 
agreeable compounds bestowed on sick persons 
according to the old-fashioned mode of nursing 
among country people, to be surprised. " They 
shan't give you any more such tilings," she 
said; " the doctor that is coming will leave you 
little powders that have no taste, and you shall 
drink all the water you want." 

"You're good tome," faltered Tad, begin- 
ning to choke. " Oh dear, I thought they nev- 
er would send for you ! They've cat-hauled 
me about till I feel as if I was on fire and every 
bone in my body sticking into me wrong, and 
that old Spriggins a praying over me ; oh, how 
I do hate him !" 

These last words were heard by Aunt Pru- 
dence as she entered the room armed with the 
sugar-bowl and a pitcher, which she nearly 
dropped in her dismay that the visitors should 
have had such personal knowledge of her neph- 
ew's depravity. " Oh Taddy, Taddy, don't !" 
she groaned. " He's such a good man!" 

"Then I want to be had!" shouted Tad. 
" If he's agoing to heaven I won't — that's flat! 
I've had enough of him here. He's tormented 
me all my life, he and uncle Josh 'tween em, 
and told me I was bad and a child of the devil, 
and accused me of every thing that was done 
wrong in the neighborhood till I don't care. I 
mean to be bad — I want to be bad — and I'll 
break old Spriggins's head with the shovel if he 
sets foot up here agin !" 

The boy was becoming greatly excited, and 
Clive had seen too much of the fever not to 
know that he was very ill, so he was ready to 
obey Ruth's little signal, which he understood 



perfectly to mean that he was to take the old 
woman away and give her a little wholesome 
advice on the necessity of the patient's being 
kept tranquil. He asked her to go down stairs 
with him, but when they reached the sitting- 
room there was no opportunity to deliver the 
lecture, for behold there was the scraggy dam- 
sel prepared to entertain him, and meek Aunt 
Prudence slipped away into the kitchen to cry 
by herself. 

The young woman was arrayed in a pink 
gingham gown, so shiny and stiff 7 that it looked 
as if it had been cut out of pasteboard ; the ob- 
noxious curl-papers which had before made a 
horned animal of her, and caused her such an- 
guish of mind, were removed from her hair, 
which now depended in long ringlets on either 
side of her face ; but from having been taken 
out of their wraps too soon they were languish- 
ing and evinced a tendency at the ends to spread 
into untidy little tails in a weak-minded fashion 
not in keeping with the young woman's general 
appearance ; while the mass of hair at the back 
of her head was drawn into a marvellous struct- 
ure like a fortification, topped by a large comb 
with a silver-washed back, with three green glass 
eyes in it that blinked insanely with the rapid 
motions of her neck. She was seated in a rock- 
ing-chair of the uncomfortable wooden species 
yclept Boston, with perpendicular rods for a spine 
that bulge out in the wrong place and whirl in 
just where they ought not, so that sitting there- 
in is painful to a bony person and unpleasant to 
a timid one, from the fact that the rockers are 
usually so puton that one must sit rigid to avoid 
being tilted forward on one's nose or keeled in 
the opposite direction in a fashion that, if pict- 
uresque, is not proper. 

The damsel rose as Clive appeared and be- 
gan volubly — " I hope you think Thaddcus is 
likely to chirk up pretty soon, Mr. Farnsworth, 
though he looks dreadful meachin' to be sure. 
Is Miss Farnsworth up stairs?" It seemed 
probable that she was, as she must have passed 
through that room to get out of the house, un- 
less she had made her exit as Tad often had done 
at night when he wanted to play with the 
boys or do something equally atrocious and wick- 
ed, by the window and a ladder. But the damsel 
paused for no reply ; she had had time after the 
robing process to collect her faculties ; she 
knew that her duty now was to make conversa- 
tion, and she was able to do her part. "It 
was very kind of you both to come," continued 
she ; " I wasn't for sendin' myself — I'm not one 
to curry favor — but I'm glad and oblecged, be- 
cause I'm not above ownin' a kindness as many 
is, although I'm not one to forgit my rights and 
my doos, and well I know we don't live in a 
furrin land of oppression where the rich and 
great preys like salamanders on the honest poor, 
though not that you'd ever do it, I'm ready to 
certify if a certifier was necessary, fur well I 
know your name, by sight too, and I've cried over 
your books till my eyes was like red flannel, 
nor your wife either, I'm sure, for I see her at 



IDS 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



the Castle and a coincidence she was to that 
young hairess, the like of which I never thought 
to meet, and blushed to own the claim of sect, 
scrouged behind the bed and Miss Hackett a 
callin' fur her in tones that might have softened 
stuns and nanycondys." 

She paused with a great flourish of her head 
that sent the curls flying out as if they had been 
miniature specimens of the serpent she men- 
tioned under a name of her own coinage ; and 
Clive, with an eye to business, seeing the possi- 
bility of future "copy" in encouraging her to 
talk, was so bland and bowed so politely that 
the damsel was in a flutter of delight. She 
could not decide on the instant whether he was 
most like Lord Mortimer in the " Children of 
the Abbey" or the hero of a sensation story 
which she had lately devoured with much in- 
terest, wherein the said hero was first presented 
to the readers in a deer-skin frock, popularly 
supposed to be the legitimate dress of hunters, 
backed against a tree with several knives in one 
hand, a revolver and rifle in the other, talking 
exalted blank verse to a band of desperadoes, a 
score at least, from whom he had just rescued 
the heroine of the tale, who clung to his shoul- 
der while he brandished the weapons and spout- 
ed the poetry. ^ 

"But do set down, Mr. Farnsworth," said 
the young woman, reserving her decision for a 
lonely hour, and ofTering him the rocking-chair. 
But Clive, being acquainted with the style of 
seat, had no mind to put himself to the torture 
of its embrace, so he sat down on a lounge near 
the window, and the damsel resumed possession 
of the rocker, managing the monster with much 
skill, sitting erect as if her back had been of the 
same material as the chair, with her hands fold- 
ed in her pocket-handkerchief and the toes of 
her shoes turned up in a virtuous and strong- 
minded manner. " I do declare," she continued, 
with a giggle and a flutter, " in the topsy-tur- 
vyness there's hen no nettequette at all, not that 
there's any body to think of it in this house ex- 
cept myself, but dear me, Aunt Prudence — oh, 
she's gone into the kitching — it's quite confus- 
ing, I'm sure — if your lady was here I'd git her 
to mention — " 

"You are Taddy's sister, I suppose," Clive 
said, catching her meaning. 

"I am," replied she, with another flutter; 
"his sister Amanda." 

" Thaddeus and Amanda," said Clive invol- 
untarily. 

"Yes," returned the damsel, shaking her 
curls ; " I thought they'd strike you — Thaddeus 
of Warsaw and the Children of the Abbey ! 
My mar was a great romancer, Mr. Farnsworth, 
and they was her favorite works, but the dear 
knows, I'm sure if you'd been a writin' then it's 
out of your books she'd have took names, fur 
they're so sweet ; though of course it's ridie'lous 
to talk about your writing then." 

Clive smiled his gratitude at such praise of 
his stories, and Amanda, a little embarrassed 
but determined to make the most of the oppor- 



tunity, had so many things she wished to say 
that she could only flirt her handkerchief and 
giggle. 

"I see you are fond of flowers," Clive said, 
pointing to the crooked, thorny cactus in the 
window, stretching out claws as if it wanted to 
pinch somebody. 

"And birds, and books and scenes, and above 
all poetry," said Amanda. " OPen and of en I 
set in the twilight and repeat verses till Aunt 
Prudence thinks I'm quite moonstruck. I think 
Astronomy is such a beautiful study ; I attend- 
ed a course of the geological development of 
the heavens last winter — it is so elevating.'' 

"It is," said Clive. 

" I'm of opinion, Mr. Farnsworth, that the 
female mind carn't be too much cultivated, and 
I don't believe you're one to contradict or un- 
dermine, though many men would." 

" Not I, believe me," replied Clive. 

"I was sure of it," said the damsel. "Not 
that I wish to see woman shoot beyond her na- 
tive spire — far from it; strong-minded I am not, 
though I know my rights and doos, and that 
we're not in a land where kings and rampart 
lions sway and roar, and when I'm roused I 
speak, and roused I was that time at the Cas- 
tle." 

"Indeed," said Clive. 

" I was, and so I'd wish to say to Miss Farns- 
worth, fur her opinionation is one to crave, and I 
never shall deny I was so axcited by the conduct 
of that hairess, who's a Pompadore at heart if 
ever there was a Pompadore or doress, it doesn't 
matter which, fur facts is facts whatever their 
gender may be. I mebby said more than was 
consistent, though that ever I dragged her 
through the hall or pushed her out-of-doors, as 
some has spread stories that was only too glad 
from envy, though she must have started 'em, 
is as false as the Allohorn, and if ever she anil 
I do meet, tell her so I shall." 

" I am quite certain you meant and did every 
thing for the best," remarked Clive. 

" It's a great relief to have your vote," Aman- 
da answered, " for you, Mr. Farnsworth, are 
one to feel and know, and what a village like 
this may say I'm not one to care nor hold my 
head no lower, though I must say, mebby that 
hairess would be disappinted to find she didn't 
injure me with all her tales. I'm very glad to 
afford the explanation, and Mrs. Hackett too, as 
I've thought several times of writing her a let- 
ter, but word of mouth from you will be easier." 

Amanda was interrupted by the appearance 
of the physician at the open door, and was soon 
left to reflect with satisfaction upon the mingled 
dignity and ease with which she had supported 
her part in the late interview, and a gratified 
smile wreathed her thin lips as she twined the 
ends of her ringlets about her fingers and tried 
to coax them into shape. It struck her too that 
she had been decidedly happy in her little effort 
at the poetic, which was a new style for her to 
adopt, she having hitherto adhered rather to the 
strong-minded genus; it had been the inspira- 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



199 



tion of the moment, and Amanda permitted the 
smile to soften her severe lips more and more, 
as she thought of the effect she must have pro- 
duced on the author. 



CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

A FAULT PHOTOGRAPHED. 

When Tad found himself alone with Ruth 
• he appeared more composed, and having drank 
some lemonade and had his face and hands 
bathed with fresh water, he lay back on his pil- 
lows with a long sigh of relief. 

"This is a great deal better, isn't it?" Ruth 
asked in her cheerful voice, which of itself was 
a comfort and help after the mournful whispers 
of Aunt Prudence which had echoed about him 
since the fever began, varied by his uncle's 
squeaky admonitions and the deacon's nasal 
menaces. "A good deal better, Thaddy." 

"I guess it is ! I don't feel as if I was 
burning up any longer, and its sumpthin' to get 
them nasty doses out of sight." 

"You shan't be troubled with any more." 

"I do' know what to say; you're so good 
to me, Mrs. Farnsworth," returned Tad, with 
another suspicious twitching about his mouth ; a 
sign of agitation neither his uncle nor the dea- 
con had ever been able to bring. by their lectures. 
"I tell you what, I'm a pretty tough one, but 
I ain't an ongrateful cub, whatever old Sprig- 
gins says, and I shan't forget this." 

" You must not think about Mr. Spriggins, 
nor any body now," returned Ruth. 

"Deacon Spriggins!" amended Tad with 
wrath and scorn, unmindful of her counsel. " A 
pretty one he is ! He'd better be a thinking of 
the measly pork he sold, and the son he turned 
out-o'-doors for learning to play on the fiddle, 
than come a talking through his nose at me." 

" You must not think such harsh things, poor 
Thaddy," said Ruth ; " he meant to be kind." 

" No, ma'am, I don't believe he did. His 
looks is enough : he's long and lean, and crook- 
ed in the wrong places, and his nose is like a 
hook ; and I can't stand him," added Tad with 
feverish energy. 

" I shall ask your aunt not to let him or any 
one come up here till you get better," returned 
Ruth ; " she will take care of you. I am sure 
you like her ?" 

" Oh yes ; Aunt Prudence is real good when 
old Josh ain't pecking at her ; but he tells her 
how bad I am till she gets scairt, and then she 
shakes her head and cries, so it's worse'n their 
preaching." 

" She won't do any thing now to distress 
you," said Ruth ; " she is too sorry for you and 
too anxious." 

"Why, am I so sick?" asked Tad quickly. 
" I aint going to die, be I ?"' 

"Oh no, my boy ; not that ; but this fever is 
severe while it lasts." 

" Sometimes I've thought I would not care if 



I did die, when they hectored me so,'' said Tad. 
"I'd have gone off somewheres long ago, if it 
hadn't a ben for Aunt Prudence." 

"That would not have been right, Thaddy; 
it would have made her unhappy. . When you 
get well, Mr. Farnsworth will see that you go to 
school ; you would like that, wouldn't you ?" 

"Yes, I would, if it wasn't like the school- 
teacher's mussing here — every body here seems 
agin me and I'm agin every body, and I jest be- 
lieve its half 'cause Josh and Deacon Spriggins 
goes about groaning over me and standing up in 
meeting to pint me out." 

"When you get well you must try not to 
give them any cause." 

" Oh, they don't want no cause, Mrs. Farns- 
worth, they don't; they're causes enough for 
theirselves, and they're both that set in their way 
they wouldn't believe I was any better if I 
went to be a missionary. I guess they'd say I 
wanted to get out where I could eat up babies 
and be a New Zealander." 

"You may not be a missionary," said Ruth, 
smiling, "but I am sure you mean to grow up a 
good honest man and do right." 

"I do' know," replied Tad wearily; "the 
righter I try to do, the wronger I get. Some- 
times I a'most think I'm what they say." 

"I suppose they think you unruly and mis- 
chievous, but you must show them you don't 
mean to be any more." 

"No, 'tain'tthat," said Tad, putting his hand 
to his throbbing forehead; "they think I'm 
lost, that's what they say ; that I ain't elected — 
and oh, dear me, I didn't care nor want to be ; 
and if I wasn't, how could I help it? They 
keep saying I'm born to be damned, and then . 
tell me it's my fault, but how can I be to blame 
if I was born for it ?" 

The poor little victim to Calvinistic creeds 
looked as much confused and troubled as many 
older and wiser persons have done under those 
perplexing dogmas, and Ruth wishing he could 
be kept from any thought, still felt that she 
could not leave the poor boy alone with his dark 
fancies. "Thaddy," she said, "the blessed 
Saviour died for all of us, he pitied us so ; and 
he is just as sorry now, and just as ready to help 
us — don't think of any thing but that." 

"They never talked that way to me," return- 
ed Tad ; " they don't say much about the Sav- 
iour anyhow — it's always Jehovah and the God 
of Battles ; and they talk as if he was always 
mad and hated us." 

" But you know he must love us, Thaddy, 
when he came down and died on the cross for 
us." 

" Tell me about it," said Tad. 

" My dear boy, surely you have read — " 

" Oh yes ; I've learned lots of verses at Sun- 
day-school, and Uncle Josh reads the Old 
Testament every night, and picks out all the 
blood and thunder places ; but jest tell me, please 
— mebby it'll make me quiet so's I can sleep. 
I know what the words say ; but tell me they 
mean it, you know. I don't see how He can 



2U0 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



love me if I am born to be damned whether or 
no." 

" My child," said Ruth, " we have nothing to 
do with such thoughts ; the Saviour wants you 
to be good and obedient and cheerful." 

" Cheerful ?" repeated Tad. " That's laugh- 
ing ; and the Deacon and Uncle Josh says it's 
wicked, and when they talk about heaven they 
groan so you'd think 'twas worse'n the bad place 
they want me to go to." 

"But heaven is every body's home, Thaddy; 
we all want to go, and to do the best we can, so 
that we may not be too much out of place there." 

"But," said Tad, going straight back to the 
idea that had most impressed him after those 
years of gloomy teaching, "if some are elected 
to go to hell, how can they help it?" 

" Nobody is, Thaddy. Jesus died for every 
body — all the world — you and me ; he wants 
every one in heaven." 

"Does he ?" asked Tad, with a certain inflec- 
tion of doubt in his voice. 

" They baptize little children that they may 
be his children," said Ruth 

" I was vaccinated," said Tad hesitatingly, 
but offering the suggestion as if he thought it 
might be the next best thing. " The Deacon's 
sort, they don't baptize children as I know ; you 
have to wait till you get a new heart, and if you 
die afore that, you burn. Where be you to get 
one, and how can you if you was elected to be- 
long to Old Scratch afore you was born ? Pre- 
destined and fore-ordained — O Mrs. Farns- 
worth ! they're jest like two bells ringin' in 
each ear, and I do' know what they mean unless 
they're big doors to keep folks in the dark. I 
pretended I didn't care," continued he, unable 
to keep silent now that the restraints were 
broken; "I've bin bad, but I couldn't help 
thinking. Many a time when I've gone and 
stole old Spriggins's apples, jest to make him 
and Josh mad, I've set down and wondered why 
I was born if I was to be cuffed and huffed and 
put on here, and then burnt forever down in the 
pit. And you see I can jest remember my 
mother, and what she whispered as I set on the 
bed when she was a dying — 'Thaddy, I'll wait 
for you in heaven;' and I loved her, and now 
they say I can't go where she is." He clench- 
ed his hands over the bed-clothes and the tears 
oozed slowly from his eyes ; he was a reticent, 
hard-headed creature, but there were great ca- 
pabilities for loving in his heart, which, finding 
no vent, had centered about the memory of that 
lost mother. 

" You can go where she is, Thaddy; all you 
have to remember is to do the .best you can 
each day, and ask the Saviour to lead you on 
the road to heaven, for there is no one knows it 
but him, and he wouldn't have come down to j 
die for us if he had been willing to leave a por- [ 
tion behind forever." 

"If I could only think of something pleas- J 
ant," said Tad; "but they say God is mad at 
me, ' and they say I'm possessed, and sometimes : 
after they've prayed and howled and worried me , 



I've come up here to bed in the dark, and I 
couldn't lay still, and I've wished I could be 
good, and then felt wickeder than ever, and 
bumped my head agin the wall, and tore the 
clothes, till I didn't know but I was crazy." 

It was very difficult to know what to say, but 
those simple words revealed a kind of suffering 
so strange and terrible to come near one so young 
that they fairly tortured Ruth's heart. "See 
here, Thaddy," she whispered; "if you could 
think of Jesus — could remember that he loves 
you ; that even if you seem alone he is beside 
you ; that he would no more let any thing evil 
come near than your mother would have let 
some wild animal when you were a baby — if you 
could think that while he is all-powerful and 
good he was once a little boy like you ; that he 
knows exactly how you feel — " 

" Oh, it would be so good," interrupted Tad. 
"Tell me more — make me think so." 

Ruth wore about her neck a slender chain, 
and attached to it, hidden in her bosom, was a 
little gold cross. She did not know how to 
argue — she could not tell what more to say ; 
she took off the chain and held the cross before 
him. " See, Thaddy," she said ; " Jesus died 
on a cross for us ; if I put this about your neck, 
couldn't you remember more easily, when you 
felt its touch, that he loves you ?" 

"Oh, they say that's what the old priests 
and nuns have," replied Tad ; " ain't it wicked ?" 

" It can't be wicked, my child, when it is a 
sign of T^iat he did for us — when we can't look 
at it without remembering that Jesus loves us." 

"Let me wear it," said Tad; "you won't 
think I'm so much worse'n any body, will you, 
ma'am ?" 

"No, indeed I will not, Thaddy. Docs your 
head ache yet ?" 

"It feels as if it would split; but I don't 
mind it so much now." 

" I think I hear the doctor," Ruth said. 

' ' Oh," exclaimed Tad quickly, " I hain't half 
said what I wanted to. There's sumpthing I 
wanted to tell you, Mrs. Farnsworth, 'cause if 
I should get side of my head, or — or — you 
know — " 

"What is it, Thaddy ?" 

"Ain't they coming up stairs? I can't tell 
you now ; oh, please, ma'am, won't you come 
again ?" 

" I will come every day while you are sick, 
Thaddy." 

"Then to-morrow, please — 'cause I want to 
tell you ; and you won't let any body know?" 

"Certainly not." 

Clive came up with the doctor and Thad had 
no opportunity to say any thing more, but Ruth 
answered his anxious look with a smile that as- 
sured him she would not forget her promise. 
Aunt Prudence was summoned and made to 
understand about the medicines that were to be 
given, and, to Tad's delight, she was strictly for- 
bidden to administer any other remedy than 
those left, or to vary in the slightest degree from 
the rules laid down. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



201 



"And if old Granny Cumber comes," said 
Tad, " she's to be punched on the head, and 
Deacon Spriggins worse yet." 

" No one shall disturb you, my little fellow," 
the doctor promised, "although we won't resort 
to such harsh means." 

" Oh, I hope Taddy don't mean it, I hope he 
don't," said Aunt Prudence in apathetic voice. 

The doctor took her into another room and 
bo thoroughly impressed upon her mind the ne- 
cessity of being cheerful, and forgetting for the 
present that the sick boy had any thing but a 
body, that she came back wearing a poor at- 
tempt at a smile, and she trusted that the ex- 
igency of the case would be an excuse for what 
she could not help thinking the sin of being any 
thing but lachrymose and doleful when there 
was illness in the house. As Ruth bent over 
Tad to speak a few parting words of comfort, 
and to reiterate her promise of coming again on 
the morrow, he whispered — "I guess I ain't 
possessed, anyhow, for the doctor left just such 
looking medicine as he did for 'Melia Bump 
when she had the fever — I'm a going to sleep." 

The namesake of the remarkable young wom- 
an that dwelt in the Abbey and was exposed to 
such harrowing adventures, wherein her hair 
was never rumpled and her white gown never 
soiled, was stationed in the room below to utter 
her farewell thanks to Mrs. Farnsworth, and show 
Clive that at least one member of that house- 
hold was acquainted with the forms of ceremony 
fitting the occasion. "I'm sure Thaddeus'll 
be dreadfully chirked up by your visit, Miss 
Farnsworth," she observed, " and I suspect 
he'll be more reformable, though rcely they have 
aggravated him unintentional, and I couldn't 
much blame him when he called the Deacon 
shad — shad — bosomed." This elegant rendering 
of the phrase which Aunt Prudence had repeat- 
ed in Tad's honest English caused Clive new 
satisfaction. " Your good gentleman and me 
had quite a spell of talk," she continued, and I 
mentioned about that hairess, which I could 
wish you to repeat to Mrs. Ilackett if you'd be 
so good. I'm sure your kindness to Thaddeus, 
lemons and jelly and all, which I've took out 
of the basket you brought and it's in the phitton 
now, as your driver calls it, is what would move 
a harder heart than mine, for I am not adaman- 
tines for which I'm thankful, though I may not 
be a hairess, and know my rights and doos, 
as I shouldn't scruple to tell her wherever we 
met if she was forty hairesses with feelin's like 
stuns, for my fathers fit on Bunker Hill and the 
flag of the free is as much my dowry as hern." 

She drew herself up with extra rigidity, sat- 
isfied that her peroration had sounded like a 
Fourth of July speech, and that she could not 
increase its effect. She courtesied to Clive 
with great state, tempered by an engaging smile, 
and her pasteboard dress cranked in unexpected 
places, and she was altogether such a mixture 
of embarrassment and determination to support 
the dignity she felt proper to her, and so self- 
complacent at her success, that Clive vowed, 



after, she only needed the cap of Liberty on her 
head to be complete. 

The next day Ruth went to the house unac- 
companied by Clive, much to the disappointment 
and indignation of the scraggy damsel, who had 
put on the pink gingham dress, arranged her 
hair in stiffer ringlets, and perched the three- 
eyed comb higher on the fortification, in the 
hope of another interview with the author. 
Still she was gracious to Ruth, and took a long 
survey of her hat, wondering if it would not be 
possible for her to construct a head-gear in imi- 
tation of it. She really was grateful too on 
Tad's account, for- she was fond of the boy in 
her prickly, uncomfortable way, and had watch- 
ed by his bed nearly the whole night, as wake- 
ful and grim as if she had been a gray owl and 
he an unsuspicious chicken upon which she 
meant to pounce as soon as there was no danger 
of interference. 

Tad had been freshened and brightened by 
Amanda's own hands in expectation of this 
visit ; she had rubbed his face with a coarse 
towel till he looked as if spotted with scarlet 
rash, had combed the ends of his hair into his 
eyes and bolstered him up on the pillows in an 
uneasy attitude, all of which performances Tad, 
softened by his illness into letting his natural 
heart have sway, had tried to bear with compos' 
ure, knowing that she meant to be kind ; but 
the final shake with which she settled him, after 
rubbing his nose upside down and bringing the 
water to his eyes by the contact of stray locks, 
caused Tad to utter an immoral — "Gosh dern 
it, Amandy, you needn't haul me inside out as 
if I was an old flour-bag." 

And Amanda answered with much dignity — 
" Cursin' and swearin' and throwin' stuns is 
bad enough when you're in health, Thaddeus ; 
but stretched where you be, I'd ruther see you 
thinkin'of your latter end." 

" Oh, you git out," said Tad. "But there, 
Amandy, don't be blowy ; I didn't mean it cross." 

Ruth's opportune arrival put an end to the 
dialogue, and the damsel, after giving a labor- 
cdly correct account of his symptoms and con- 
duct during the night, and taking mental notice 
of Ruth's dress, retired with the remark that she 
would peregrinate down stairs and so be ready 
to assault the physician on his arrival. Ruth 
had her little comforting talk to Tad, then see- 
ing that the matter about which he had wished to 
speak lay heavy on his mind, and that he hesitat- 
ed over its utterance, said kindly — " Now, Thad- 
dy, you had something to tell me. There is no- 
body here; you can tell me any thing, you know." 

"Yes, ma'am, I believe I could," returned 
Tad ; " and I know you ain't a going to blame 
me, for I didn't mean to do no harm, only you 
see she went away afore I could make up my 
mind to let her know how it happened." 

He looked very anxious in his desire not to be 
blamed, so Ruth said in a general way — "^Yes ; 
I am certain of it." 

"I declare," said Tad, " I'm gitting as fool- 
ish as 'Mandy and Aunt Prudence, a beating 



202 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



round the bush. See hero, Mrs. Farnsworth, It's 
about something I've got that bolongB to iMiss 
Laidley ; you know, the gal that was up to the 
Castle:" 

" Something that belongs to her, Thaddy ?" 

" Vfs'm, ami I'll tell von how it happened, for 
you won'l breathe it, and l ain't a feller to let 
out Becrets, <li> you think 1 be t" 

'• l am sure not," said Ruth. 

'• l know'd you'd think the best you could of 
me, " returned Tad, with a gratified smile ; " you 
iiin'i like Uncle Josh and old Spriggins, allays 
readv to believe the worst of a chap. STou sit, 
it was give to me by a man at the hotel to car- 
ry to her law, L'vo been mail-carrier for half 
the fine folks hereabouts, 1 have- and 1 meant 
to carry that as Btraight as 1 had other things to 
her, but it was awful rainy and I fell in the mud 
and it got all stained — " 

" A in I you were afraid to give the note ?" 

" 1 pulled it out of my pocket and see tho 
onvolopor was all Bticky, and 1 tore ii off, only 
moanin' to save the letter, and it wasn't a letter, 
and ii was muddy and I come home with it, a 
thinking ['d let it dry, but indeed [ didn't want 
in be moan." 

"Of course not, Thaddy; and you were 
nfraid to give her the note after that?" 

" ii, wasn't a note," said Tad, in a whisper ; 
■• ii wms a photography ; it was- -hern and — " 

"Oh, if that was all, Thaddy, 1 will take it 
and send it to Miss Laidley with an explana 

lion." 

" Ws'iii," said Tad, but with hesitation. 

" Von Bee, it wau'l hern alom\ But there, it's 

the on'y way. Mrs. Farnsworth, it's hid in the 
bottom hook in that ere little chist in the cor- 
ner, if you'd please to gel it." 

Ruth searched the receptacle to which Tad 

pointed, evidently the stronghold of his treas- 
ures for it contained a singular medley of ob- 
jects, with a few dog-eared pamphlets under 

the other rubbish. "That's the book," said 
Tad, as she lifted Up a yellow volume the cover 
of which was decorated with a marvellous wood- 
cut. She carried it. to him, ami on his shak- 
ing the leaves out fell a card photograph which 
he picked up and handed to her. Ruth looked 

at it and gave a little start of surprise, The 

likeness of Miss Laidley was excellent, but, ill 
spite of its excellence hail probably not been in- 
tended for general distribution among her 

friends, inasmuch as it represented her with her 

head reclining on a gentleman's shoulder, her 
wa\\ tresses mingling with Ids dark whiskers, 

her eyes raised to meet those of the male image 

which regarded her with an expression that, in 

spite of its intensity and the undeniable beauty 

of the orbs, might not have been agreeable to all 
women. 

- Ain't she pretty P" said Tad, breaking the 

silence. 

" I suppose it is some one whom she is going 
to marr\ ," returned Ruth. 

"W'al, not axackly, l guess," said Tad, with 

a little chuckle which lie turned into a COUgh, 



"That fuller's Mr. Jack Ralston - 1 know him 
like it book " 

" I think you must be mistaken, Thaddy," 

returned Ruth; "I never saw Mr. Kalston, 
but he is — " 

" Married ; oh yes'm ! That's him ! J'.less 
\ on, he was allers sending notes to some — That 
hain't nothing to do with it." 

"No, "said Kuth, laying the photograph, face 
down, on the counterpane. " 1 am sorrv you 
kepi it, Thaddy." 

"Oh, so be I ! It's been like a nightmare to 
me ; but afore I could make up my mind she. 
was gone, and Air. Ralston he was gone, and 
there it's laid, till I fell sick. I got to thinking 
if I should die no knowing what would become 
of it, and 1 jest made up my mind to git you 
to lake it." 

There seemed no way of avoiding the com- 
mission, distasteful as it was, although the pict- 
ure did not strike Kuth in the way it might 
have done many people; she only thought it 
had been some freak of Miss Laidley 's in keep- 
ing with her childishness and the heedless ac- 
tions of which she had heard bo much, " I will 

take it," she said, "and will write to Miss Laid- 
ley exactly how it happened." 

" If you would, pleasel Tell her I didn't p;o 

to do it, and I'd ruther have broke my leg. No 
matter what old Spriggins says, I never was 
mean, and I'd cut mv tongue out afore I'd tell 
a thing; but you see here I am, and you'll do 
ifhettunki 1 can." 

"It was taken for sport, probably," Ruth 
said, " when there was a party sitting lor pict- 
ures." 

"lie give it to me the day afore he went 
oil'," observed Tad, "and told me to be. awful 
particular not to let any body have it but her, 
and to band it to her when she was alone out 
in the grove, where 1 allays give her things that 
was Bent. I do' know but I ought to send him 
back the monev he give me, hem' as 1 didn't do 

it." 

" I think you may keep the money," Rath 
said, "and there is no explanation necessary 

where Mr. Ralston is concerned; but, Thaddy, 

another time don't hesitate. She would not 
have been angry if you had told her it was an 
accident." 

"Oh, wouldn't she !" cried Tad. " I seen her 
gil mad at her old woman ouet, and she boxed 
her cars. But there, it's oil' my mind now and 
I'm as sorry as I can be, if you'll please to tell 
her, and that nobody knows about it but you 
and me." 

"1 certainly will. Thaddy ; don't let it trouble 
you any more," Kuth said, noticing that his ex- 
citement had brought up bis fever to a pitch 
which made the pulses in his temples throb 

painfully. 

Ruth's opinion iff regard to the taking of the 
photograph was more correct in its leniency 
I ban yours ^\' mine might have been, for we are 
given to harsh judgments in such cases, and 
should be inclined to believe that a voung worn- 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



203 



an who would sit for a picture of herself, lean- 
ing on a married man's shoulder, might bo in- 
duced to go very far ; and we should have been 
as much mistaken in this particular instance as 
Jack Ralston himself was. The affair happened 
during the Angel's first visit at the Idol's house 
in town. She had a serious flirtation with 
Jack, during the course of which, as I have 
mentioned, she contrived to keep that demon of 
jealousy, Mrs. Jack, quiet and amiable. Miss 
Laidleyhad not the slightest objection to Jack's 
being in love with her, and lie was greatly taken 
for the time ; she enjoyed hearing him bemoan 
his fate and descant upon the tortures he en- 
dured in his ill-assorted marriage. All that 
was like the things people did in modern novels, 
and had a spice about it wanting to the ordi- 
nary flirtations with men in a state of single 
blessedness. Jack had teased for her picture ; 
he wished her to have it taken on a plate with 
his, that each might possess a souvenir of those 
weeks in which her society had brightened his 
life. Now Jack's friend, the fat bachelor, 
among other harmless attempts at killing time, 
had studied photography, and had an ap- 
paratus set up in his rooms from which he 
turned out very creditable pictures. Thither 
Miss Laidlcy consented to go one day, near the 
close of her visit, when she had begun to get a 
little tired of Jack's devotion, accompanied as 
usual by Juanita. The bachelor was prepared 
for their call ; he was a little surprised to see 
how unhesitatingly Miss Laidlcy allowed Jack 
to exhibit his devotion before a witness, but he 
went about his task with the discretion of a 
plump partridge. Jack was hard to suit where 
the attitude was concerned: they would look so 
stiff sitting side by side; he must get on one 
knee and she must let him hold her hands. 
He was not unwilling that the Angel should go 
as far as she would before the fat bachelor, for 
Jack had taken fresh hope within the past few 
days, and thought his success was likely to be 
worth more than it ever would be. In the 
whim of the moment the Angel leaned her head 
on his shoulder and they were photographed, 
and that incident, which Jack, as any man 
would, thought a grand step gained, was the 
closing scene of their flirtation. Miss Laidlcy 
fluttered gracefully to safer ground in her inter- 
course, and Jack Ralston never got another be- 
wildering shower of yellow sparks out of her 
eyes. 

When she met him again in the spring the 
picture she was determined to have, and per- 
suasions failing, coolly told him she would go 
to his wife with a literal account of the whole 
affair if he did not restore it. " Every body 
knows how heedless I am," said she, cooing, 
" and oh, won't your dragon give it you well !" 
Jack actually believed she would keep her 
word, and he came out of that adventure with 
the admission to his friend the fat bachelor, 
that, well as he knew women, that girl was a 
fresh revelation. The pair wondered a good 
deal about the matter, and discussed a variety 



of theories in regard to it, which I may -omit 
here, but as both were honorable men in their 
way where women were concerned, the history 
of the picture was never divulged. Before Jack 
left the Lake House he thought it best to restore 
the photograph, for fear Miss Laidlcy should ab- 
solutely bring his dragon down upon him. He 
had employed Tad, knowing from experience 
that he was a trusty messenger, and poor Tad 
had fallen in the mud, and being afraid to offer 
the soiled card lest the fact of his having torn 
it out of the envelope in his alarm should meet 
with suspicion and contumely, had suffered 
more than any body from a consciousness of 
misconduct. 

Now to the boy's great relief the photo- 
graph was safely consigned to Mrs. Farnsworth's 
keeping; he had made a full confession which 
at least met with credence from her, and Tad 
could lie back on his pillows and regard this ill- 
ness, in spite of the aching limbs and throbbing 
head, as more agreeable than the usual sandy 
desert of his life, since it brought Ruth's com- 
forting presence. She was very kind to him 
while his sickness lasted, visited him often, sent 
him refreshing delicacies, and took care that his 
old enemy the deacon was kept aloof. Indeed, 
when Tad grew better and could get about he 
was rather inclined to look back on that season 
as the pleasantest he had ever spent, nor did 
Ruth's care end here. A comfortable home 
was found for him at some distance and he was 
sent to school, and Tad improved so rapidly in 
many respects that Aunt Prudence was greatly 
rejoiced, and even Uncle Josh and the Deacon 
were inclined to think there might be a faint 
hope for him ; a hope which they considered 
wholly due to their " wrastlin's and warnin's." 
Mrs. Sykes shook her head and sighed, but hoped 
he might do better in a doleful tone which 
proved that she feared this apparent improve- 
ment was only another wile of the Evil One, who 
wanted to get a firmer gripe on the degenerate 
boy. 

About this time came the meeting of delegates 
for a new Congressional nomination. Olive 
had paid little attention to the matter, and was 
at first somewhat astonished and in doubt when 
he learned that his party had again put forward 
his name as their candidate. Still it was not a 
case that admitted of much hesitation ; the duty 
seemed plain enough, so he told the leaders 
frankly that if the people saw fit to elect him 
he would serve them to the best of his ability, 
beyond that he did not greatly concern himself. 

The summer passed. Clive and Ruth made 
several trips to places of interest, but for the 
most part lived quietly in their home, into which 
no new shadow seemed inclined to intrude. 
Ruth was a little troubled by the possession of 
the photograph, and any species of secret which 
she could not confide to Olive, but she did not 
like to send it while Miss Laidlcy was flitting 
about, lest it should fail to reach her, and as 
Olive expected to go to town in the autumn, and 
she knew the Angel would be there, she decided 



201 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



to leave the card safe in its hiding-place until 
she could give it into the owner's fair hands and 
make her little explanation. Autumn came ; 
the only incident was the election, and at this 
contest Clivc's majority was so overwhelming 
there could he no pretext for any annoying cir- 
cumstances such as had followed the former one. 
The Thorntons were back at Alban Wood for 
a few weeks, hut after the election Tom could 
listen to Rgsa's request that they might go to 
town, as Elinor Grey was to be therefor a time. 
Clive was detained in the country, and the pho- 
tograph still troubled Ruth's conscience, though 
she rested in the hope of seeing Miss Laidley 
and restoring it to her before she went on to 
Washington ; these weeks of delay having made 
it more difficult then ever to write and explain. 



CHAPTER XXXIX. 

HOLLOW GROUND. 

Matters of importance — political matters of 
course, Elinor knew — made it necessary for Mr. 
Grey to sojourn in New York for a season, and 
she was glad to be there since he must; but I 
really think if it had not been for that induce- 
ment the incomprehensible young woman would 
have preferred the unmitigated dullness of 
Washington, which would not waken to life un- 
til the approach of the coming session of Con- 
gress. 

The Idol had reached town and brought the 
Angel in her train, for after the Newport trip 
they had paid a variety of visits together, and 
the Angel was again a guest at the Murray Hill 
mansion. The Idol was still very fond of her 
" gushing innocent," though she recalled periods 
when, if Miss Laidlcy's claims to angelic perfec- 
tions had not been so thoroughly established, 
she might have thought her not a little selfish 
and exacting. She was glad to have her pet 
with her, but expected that Miss Laidley would 
be anxious again to join Elinor and her guard- 
ian. She was undeceived, however; the Angel 
was seized with scruples before they arrived in 
town. " I can not think a hotel life convenable 
for a young girl, dear Duchess," she said ; "you 
can't fancy how I dread it! No ehaperone, no 
one to tell mo what to do. Elinor is wise and 
lovely, but she is not you, sweet Duchess ; she 
doesn't mind a hotel herself, but then she is so 
much older than I — she has such discretion. 
llclns, if I should do something very heedless, 
and people made ill-natured remarks about me, 
I should die at once — I am so sensitive." It 
was not to be permitted that she should be put 
ti> any such risk ; she was implored to accept the 
Idol's hospitality a little longer, and gracefully 
consented, to the wrath of the whole domestic 
stall', from the chief butler down to the lowest 
stallion, for whatever their mistress's faith in 
the Angel might be, they were unanimous in 
their opinion, expressed in various languages, 
that " she was a nasty young minx and her old 
yellow servant no better than a witch." 



Mr. Grey was more overpoweringly attentive 
than ever to the Idol, and held many secret 
consultations with Pluto. It seemed to Elinor 
that there was a change in her father ; she could 
scarcely have told in what it consisted ; perhaps 
it was only one of her fancies. He was much 
occupied, surrounded by New York politicians 
who came in swarms like the locusts of Egypt 
(it may be added that they resembled the lo- 
custs also in the fact that they seldom leave a 
green thing where they alight), and weighty 
matters of business pressed heavily on the min- 
ister. The presidential term would close a year 
from March; the whole country was already 
preparing for a grand convulsion ; party spirit 
ran high, and various names were beginning to 
be trumpeted about as probable candidates. 
Though the reigning President might from the 
popularity he enjoyed during the first half of his 
term have confidently expected a rcnomination 
had he desired it, there was a powerful clique 
of men of his own party who had become his 
mortal enemies, and these men were secretly 
gathering nearer and nearer Mr. Grey. It was 
necessary for him at length to return to his post, 
and Elinor found herself once more settled in 
Washington ; for the first weeks free from the 
encumbrance of Miss Laidley's society, as that 
young lady still lingered in the Idol's temple, 
perhaps because she hoped to make Rossitur 
anxious for her arrival, perhaps because she 
had a little mischief on hand that needed pres- 
ent attendance. 

Washington was not yet fully alive; it gave 
at intervals feeble starts toward consciousness, 
but they were spasmodic and soon died away ; 
moreover a certain pretty letter informed the 
Angel that Leighton Rossitur expected to come 
to town before a great while. So the Angel 
stayed, wheedled the Idol out of more presents, 
pulled Juanita's wool a good deal, the partitions 
in t lie Idol's palace being very thick, unfortu- 
nately for Juanita, and no hope of her wails 
piercing the heavily-curtained doors ; occupied 
herself with such flirtations as fate threw in her 
way, and growing very restless because Rossitur 
did not make his appearance. That astute and 
somewhat unscrupulous young gentleman had 
not entertained the slightest idea of so doing, 
but it did not suit him that Miss Laidley should 
enter Washington until he was certain what 
terms he stood on where Elinor Grey was con- 
cerned. 

Those weeks of waiting had been very long 
to him, and at their close he was no more resign- 
ed to lose his dream of happiness than he had 
been when the cloud broke. Since his return 
to the Capital he had tried to occupy himself 
with his duties, but they appeared more irksome 
than ever. His mind was a battle-ground for such 
hosts of contending feelings that the daily routine 
' of business was an almost insupportable drag. 
• He loved Elinor Grey still, loved her with a 
passion that was akin to hate in its fierceness, 
; and he felt that if she could any moment be in 
I his power, body and soul, it would be difficult 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



205 



to decide which would he uppermost. The dis- 
sipation in which he had freely indulged during 
those miserable weeks in the summer had left 
traces such as no similar indulgence had ever 
done. He had a new craving for excitement 
and stimulant, and though he constantly as- 
sured himself that when his mind was at rest 
either way, when the victory was gained or de- 
feat accepted as inevitable, he should regain the 
old power over his appetite, he could not at this 
time restrain the feverish restlessness that forced 
him to seek a comforter in wine and led him, 
O Cornelia, into many strange scenes and 
through clivers interesting experiences. 

But Elinor Grey had returned and he was 
sorely in doubt what step ought to be taken first. 
One thing was evident, Miss Laidley would be 
an unendurable nuisance just yet, and might 
do some harm besides, therefore a fresh letter 
went to her address containing a fresh promise 
and several prettily-worded paragraphs about 
the dreariness of the world while he travelled 
it beyond the light of his Consueto's smile. Be- 
fore he had seen either Elinor or Mr. Grey, Ros- 
situr was helped toward a plan of action by the 
appearance of a scout from the party of New 
York politicians, who knew the terms upon 
which he stood with the minister, and made 
choice of him as an assistant for coming nego- 
tiations. That he had been so confided in 
made a new bond of intimacy between him and 
Mr. Grey, and their first private conversation 
was turned to the best use by Rossitur, who 
bore his part so well that Mr. Grey said to Eli- 
nor that evening — 

"I saw Mr. Rossitur at the Department." 
Elinor was only civilly interested. "You 
told me that your decision was made, my daugh- 
ter Elinor — " 

"And unalterable, papa," interrupted she, 
not able to remember good manners sufficiently 
to let him finish his sentence. 

" So I suppose," returned Mr. Grey blandly; 
"that is, I am not supposed to know any thing 
about the matter. I hope, however, that your 
resolve will in no way interrupt our friendl}' re- 
lations; indeed, it is due to yourself that it 
should not ; and besides, in the position which 
he occupies it would be a real inconvenience to 
me." 

Elinor could not tell him that she had no 
faith in Leighton Rossitur, that she believed 
him unscrupulous and false, because in reality 
she had not, sufficient grounds whereon to base 
the assertion. The conduct which had lowered 
him in her eyes might have been the result of an 
ungovernable temper rather than a sign of a 
mean, coarse nature. It might be, but she 
could not believe it was, although she would 
not injure him in her father's esteem while she 
had only her own intuitions as a reason. For 
her part, she would have much pfcferred to re- 
gard her acquaintance with him as an episode 
done with forever, but it was in the books that 
she should not so conduct herself, and when she 
recalled his goodness and devotion she was sor- 



ry to find that time had not softened her judg- 
ment. On their first meeting the old sensation 
of personal repulsion came back as she looked 
in his pale, worn face, yet the sadness in it might 
have moved her had her perceptions been less 
keen ; they were stronger than her desire to be 
gentle and forgiving, in spite of her resolve. 

Some adventurous spirit had taken the initia- 
tive in the way of an evening reception, and there- 
at she encountered Rossitur. He made no ef- 
fort to approach her until such time as he could 
address her a few moments unheard. " I did 
not know whether I might venture to speak to 
you," he said after the first words of greeting. 

If they were to meet and exchange conversa- 
tion, Elinor had no mind that it should be on 
this footing. A constant humility on his part, 
and the opportunity of referring at will to that 
which was past and gone, was a kind of intima- 
cy that would be more unpleasant than frank, 
cordial intercourse. She did not reply to his 
remark. 

' ' May I hope that we are friends ?" he asked. 

"Certainly, Mr. Rossitur; that we may re- 
main so, we will not talk about the past." 

"Only you will let me say this — this one 
thing." 

"Do you not think it would be better to 
leave it entirely alone?" she asked coldly. 

" I am not going to weary you with protesta- 
tions, Miss Grey ; what I must bear, I bear. I 
shall not parade my sorrow ; but, in justice to 
myself, I must tell you how bitterly I repent 
those hasty words that lost me your esteem." 

"I am very willing to believe they sprang from 
temper, not deliberate wickedness," she replied. 
" It is like my frank, honest friend of last win- 
ter to make the confession." 

"Thank you for those words," he said ; "I 
shall not worry you any more ; you have given 
me great comfort." 

He saw that he had done the best possible 
for himself, and that matters for the present must 
rest where they were. He sat and talked cheer- 
fully to her, and she tried to think he was what 
he appeared, open and impulsive, and succeed- 
ed but poorly ; while in his heart the fierce emo- 
tions seethed, and he realized that he hated her 
with a hate which proceeded from a love so mad 
that he would have perilled his soul to gratify 
either the tenderness or the desire for retalia- 
tion. After that they met frequently, but it 
was always in the presence of others, and Eli- 
nor could avoid any conversation beyond that 
which was intended for the ears of the whole 
world. She owned to herself that he behaved 
J like a man of generous nature in unhesitatingly 
accepting his part, and that it was due to him 
no one should perceive any change in her con- 
duct from that of the previous winter. But she 
could not trust him ; she could not believe that 
either his penitence or his patience was real, and 
the personal repulsion grew so strong that she 
fancied she could tell the instant he entered a 
room and was watching her. She commenced 
the season by avowing a resolution not to dance ; 



'JOG 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



he had been her most frequent partner formerly ; 
she would not give occasion to remark by de- 
clining to permit him that pleasure now, but 
the idea of having her hand in his made her ab- 
solutely sicken with an undefinablc thrill, so she 
announced her resolution and persisted in it. 

Elinor at this time saw less of her father than 
ever before ; he was at the Department, or the 
house was filled with guests, or they were out in 
the world together. The whirl of gayety was 
his desire ; he requested Elinor to give numer- 
ous entertainments, and in what she termed her 
morbid moods it almost seemed that he did it to 
avoid being alone with her. When Miss Laid- 
ley heard of the gayeties, she appeared upon the 
scene at once ; and naturally, after her arrival, 
there was no peace whatever. She was inclined 
to be affectionate to Elinor, because in her heart 
she believed that she was wreaking vengeance 
by carrying off Leighton Rossitur. He often 
asked himself why in the name of every thing 
that was common sense, according to his creed, 
he did not ask her to marry him. Her wealth 
would afford him a life of complete ease and lux- 
ury, and he so loved both ; would help him far on 
in any political ambition ; and he cursed himself 
for a trilling idiot when he questioned and knew 
what held him back. He could not give up the 
hope that had taken such root in his soul ; he 
could not believe that Elinor was irnevocably 
lost to him. In every scheme of Mr. Grey's or 
of the clique who were rallying about him, Ros- 
situr kept looking forward to see if a chance 
might not arise which could be turned to his 
advantage. lie knew how absurd and imbecile 
it was, but he could not help waiting to discover 
if some move would not in some unheard-of 
way place the minister in his power, so that he 
might claim Elinor as the price of his discretion. 
He laughed outright in bitter scorn of his own 
insanity at expecting to live an incident out of 
a novel, but the thought would constantly come 
hack. Therefore Miss Laidley was still kept 
in suspense, and in consequence her romantic 
dreams knew no diminution in interest. She 
believed that he loved her; he did not hesitate 
to tell her that in the most impassioned language 
at every opportunity. Between his gradual ad- 
missions and her own fancies, she came to think 
that he had never been able to free himself from 
his entanglement with Elinor, and that he could 
take no decisive measures because there was 
some political project in which he required Mr. 
Grey's support. 

The Angel cordially detested her guardian 
whenever she thought of her failure in that little 
plot to delude him into making a moaning mon- 
strosity of himself, therefore the idea of suddenly 
springing a mine on both him and Elinor was high- 
ly agreeable to her. She felt that she was living 
a plot, and playing an exciting game, so she was 
constantly interested. When tho moment of 
success arrived, Mr. Grey would discover that 
he had been outwitted — he was of course aiding 
Rossitur because he expected and desired him to 
be his son-in-law — and Elinor's heart would be 



wrung by seeing her lover borne off in triumph. 
There was nothing solid whatever to make the 
basis of that belief, but it was none the less 
clear to the Angel on that account. What po- 
litical end Rossitur might have in view she did 
not know or think, but out of his artful revela- 
tions and her skilled imagination she built up 
a magnificent structure that was a perfect laby- 
rinth, wherein she played hide-and-seek with 
antagonists who were quite unconscious of her 
Cretan maze and her well-played game. She 
wanted some place where she could meet Rossi- 
tur without fear of Elinor ; he wanted that too, 
therefore she began to cultivate Indiana Tall- 
man with assiduity, thinking to make a little 
side annoyance for Elinor, while pursuing those 
grand schemes against her peace. 

Mr. Grey, in the midst of his occupation, was 
very anxious that every thing should be done to 
please his ward and make her comfortable, yet 
it seemed to Elinor that he positively disliked 
her : not that in word or manner did he show 
any thing but gallantry and respect, still she 
fancied that she perceived a great change. 
Miss Laidley did not think about it ; as I have 
said, from the day she arrived she was carrying 
out imaginary plots and counter-plots against 
Elinor and her guardian, and was so enveloped 
in mysteries, that she was excited and happy. 
Old brown Juanita was always creeping about 
on some spying expedition which the Angel be- 
lieved had an important aim, and was the car- 
rier of so many secret billets that she became 
quite a contraband post-office, delighting in the 
secrecy as much as her mistress. It. seemed a 
scarcely suppostible case that if Elinor loved 
Rossitur ever so madly, and was wrung by jeal- 
ous pangs which made her watch Miss Laidley 
as vigilantly as that damsel believed, she would, 
in her desire to discover whether letters passed 
between the Angel and Rossitur, covertly follow 
Juanita out of the house or assault her in the 
hall to obtain such missives by physical force. 
But Miss Laidley chose to believe there was 
danger of such attempts, and the artifices to 
which she and Juanita resorted to hide the 
notes were worthy the heroine and waiting- 
maid in an old-fashioned comedy. One morn- 
ing the epistle was concealed among the knots 
of wool under the brown witch's turban ; the 
next it was wrapped in tissue paper and placed 
in her shoe; sometimes sewed in the lining of 
her cloak or rolled in the form of a miniature 
cannon-ball in a layer of sheet-lead, and being 
held in her mouth, so distended her wrinkled 
cheeks that she looked as if gagged, and went 
about for hours after with a metallic taste on her 
tongue which was sickening. The getting her 
out of the house each morning was a perform- 
ance that exercised all Miss Laidley's powers 
and afforded an unfailing gratification. First, 
the Angel \»cnt down stairs and sent every 
servant likely to approach the hall on impos- 
sible errands, then she peered into the room 
where Elinor sat and quickly retreated, then she 
returned to the head of the staircase and wins- 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



207 



pcred to Jnanita to run for her life, holding her 
back to give an infinity of last directions, while 
Jnanita rolled her eyes, and, if she chanced 
not to be gagged, responded in unearthly gasps 
that could be heard as far as a sharp wind, or 
if she were leaded and loaded, so to speak, up 
to the muzzle, contented herself with winking 
fiercely and making frantic gestures which 
would have qualified her to take the part of 
chief lunatic in a mad-house. Having watched 
her down the steps, Miss Laidley flew to an upper 
window to see whether Elinor rushed into the 
street after her and to be certain that if her 
destination was southerly she started due north, 
so that any spy of Miss Grey's who might be in 
waiting would ho neatly puzzled. No matter 
whether the notes were for Rossitur or Indiana 
Tallinan, or for some secret despairing swain 
who excited a temporary interest, the same 
ceremony in sending them was preserved, and 
the reception of the answers was carried out 
witli as much form. Jnanita would enter the 
bouse as cautiously as if she had been a burg- 
lar with designs on the plate-chest, and Miss 
Laidley, hanging over the banisters while the 
brown familiar panted up them, would wringher 
bands, and at every sound utter strangled 
squeaks expressive of her fear that the jealous 
Elinor was hidden in some corner, ready to 
spring with ten extended lingers upon the mes- 
senger. Jnanita was caught in the Angel's 
grasp, hurried into her rooms, the doors locked, 
and the Angel would cry — "Quick, quick! 
Give it to me! Hark ! was that a step? Don't 
open the door — on your life — silence !" Jnan- 
ita would relate what perils she had run, what 
escapes had; tell of an imaginary man in a 
Spanish cloak who dogged her, and a sepulchral- 
voiced woman, with her face hidden in a veil, 
who boldly attacked her. She discovered that 
when she narrated a fable unusually wild and 
improbable Miss Laidley was so delighted that 
she sometimes gave her a reward on the spot 
instead of the old promises, and Jnanita possess- 
ing a talent for histrionics like her mistress, en- 
tered magnificently into her part and made her 
points in a very melodramatic manner. 

In the mean time, the rush of gayety went 
on, and Elinor in her undefined anxiety about 
her father would have given much to stop quiet- 
ly at home and leave Miss Laidley to waltz 
from house to house under Mrs. Copeland's 
guidance. But her father had requested that 
she would be very careful to keep her populari- 
ty in the ascendant, so she endured the mis- 
eries of party-going and party-giving, and bc- 
tween her restlessness and her duties had little 
thought to give the tremendous mysteries which 
Miss Laidley lived about her. 

To Mr. Grey, those were the most anxious 
weeks that he had ever spent, and as he review- 
ed his position, it seemed scarcely credible that 
such a strange jumble of actual power and daily 
dread of consequences, such opening hopes of 
new position and advancement, standing side by 
side with such possibilities of ababcrnent and 



shame, could lie real. There were more fre- 
quent communications than ever between him 
and the Bull, but they were growing of a differ- 
ent nature from those of the previous summer 
and autumn, when every tiling had prospered 
and promised so goldenly. The scheme on 
which Mr. Grey had built much was a failure 
— the Shi]) Canal was a bubble of the past, and 
several measures upon which he confidently 
counted had been hardly dealt witli at the hands 
of Congress; and the Bull, as much deluded as 
himself, had made several wrong moves winch 
had shaken the stock-market like an earthquake 
and startled him into the knowledge that he 
was not infallible. It was too late to retreat; 
he was pushed on by the force of circumstances 
and Mr. Grey was pushed on with him, igno- 
rant of the extreme peril in which Pluto stood, 
but understanding enough to be full of harass- 
ing fears which went beyond the dread of mere 
pecuniary ruin, went beyond the dread of in- 
jury to his political reputation, if indulgence in 
stock-gambling could be supposed to injure that. 
There was something behind it all. No 
wonder he avoided being alone witli Elinor ; 
no wonder he never had leisure to talk with 
her, as in the happy times gone by, of his am- 
bitious hopes, and hear her aspirations and 
delight at his increasing popularity. Why, it 
was the dread of being considered in her eyes 
capable even of a weakness that had led him 
into the maze : a request to her would have 
kept his feet at least in tolerably straight paths, 
certainly free from any trouble at the worst but 
what would have been confined to herself and 
him, and he had not been able to make it. He 
had not been able to cast the slightest shadow 
over her hero-worship, and when the need of as- 
sistance was absoluteand stringent he had taken 
his fatal step. It was a temporary thing ; the 
next week perhaps, certainly the next month, 
would not only right his affairs, but leave him 
with a private fortune secure which would am- 
ply atone for a lack of further advancement in 
political life. Connected with that, too, t here 
were new complications and fresh doubts, which, 
after they were stripped of their speciousness, 
amounted simply to these questions : Should 
he be true to the policy of the President, which 
from the opening of the Adminstration he had 
encouraged — true not only to the leader, but to 
the personal friend of long years — or should he 
desert him, and placing himself at the head of 
the Chief's enemies, sweep triumphantly into 
office on his downfall ? 

The measures which had excited the hatred 
of the party must soon come up; they could 
not be longer delayed, nor did the President 
shrink from the part he had resolved to perform. 
Congress was against him it was believed, though * 
the matter had not reached a vote; for in his 
indecision Mr. Grey had secretly been fighting 
like a tiger against the efforts of the opposition 
leaders to force the President into action. The 
great body of the press was howling against 
him, and the people were in that undecided 



208 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



state where either way he was likely to meet 
with blame, although in the end he would be 
sure to have right on his side, and be remem- 
bered as an unwavering patriot, probably when 
the recollection could do him no more good 
than the sun that might shine over his grave. 
To turn Mr. Grey had been the object of the 
New York politicians and their coadjutors in all 
portions of the country, and the bribe was not 
a small one. They wanted the President to 
find himself paralyzed by the opposition of his 
right arm, the Cabinet, but they wished the blow 
to strike him at the last moment, when he could 
not pursue his course without ignominy, or re- 
tract without being covered with opprobrium 
for his cowardice. Mr. Grey's reward for car- 
rying out their plans was to be the candidate- 
ship at the coming Presidential contest. If 
nominated, there was no doubt of his election ; 
the party was powerful, and dissension in the 
opposite ranks was leading to the breaking up 
of the old platform, the downfall of which would 
cast a host of men opposed to either extreme 
into its numbers. 

Of these things Elinor was in ignorance, for 
Mr. Grey knew very well that in her mind 
there could be no room for doubt ; she must be 
left unadvised until the storm burst. If he be- 
came a secret traitor and an outward patriot, he 
must trust to her being still sufficiently blinded 
by her love to accept his course as forced upon 
him by the exigencies of duty alone. He did 
doubt and lie did debate the matter uneasily; 
not perhaps so much in a conscientious point of 
view as from the fear whether, with the Presiden- 
tial chair gained, lie might not, before the term 
of his office expired, find himself so bound up 
with the party who would have bought him in, 
that his light would go out in a darkness which 
could never be lessened. He could not help 
feeling to what end their course pointed — how 
surely and insidiously the very foundations of 
peace and liberty were being undermined by 
their machinations. The question was wheth- 
er, if he gained the coveted honors, the consum- 
mation for which they were striving could be 
staved off during his four years of supremacy, 
and he be left with a record that would bear in- 
spection. With all these plans and plots work- 
ing in his brain, to be tormented about Wall 
Street ; to have on his mind one ceaseless rec- 
ollection which proved his nature kindred to the 
men who at this juncture were causing odious 
paragraphs in the newspapers and seeking shel- 
ter from their crimes across the sea, was enough 
to make him feel at times that the whole thing 
must be a bad dream. And this danger run 
that he might keep his elevation in Elinor's es- 
% teem ! Verily, those were not pleasant days to 
Mr. Grey, and, to add to the annoyances, his 
health during the past months had not been free 
from grave causes for alarm when he had leisure 
to study it. 

Rossitur was beside him during these weeks 
of mental questionings — Rossitur with his plaus- 
ible sophistries, his silken way of making things 



smooth, and his faculty of giving so fine a 
name and appearance to doubtful matters that 
they wore a lustre which concealed their origi- 
nal base metal. He was just now back from a 
hurried visit to New York, and he had seen the 
Bull, for Mr. Grey's transactions with him were 
no more a secret to Rossitur than these political 
moves. Indeed he had been a friend of Pluto's 
long before Mr. Grey knew him, and ever since 
he had held any position which could give him 
a clue to secrets worth having he had not scru- 
pled to employ the power in Pluto's service. 
It never occurred to Rossitur whether there was 
any thing derogatory in this ; plenty of other men 
did it ; any way he wanted money, and had 
nearly as extravagant tastes as Mr. Grey him- 
self, so he had fallen into the habit. On his return 
he did not tell the Secretary what he believed, 
from a variety of circumstances which had come 
to his knowledge, to be the fact, that Pluto was 
tottering on the verge of a precipice over which 
he might go in splendid ruin ; on the contrary, 
he gave the most hopeful account, and to Mr. 
Grey, who was no business man, it did appear 
incredible that any real danger could menace 
his Wall Street champion. 

Rossitur knew a great many things that he was 
not supposed to know — the Secretary's weakness 
for cards and the fact that he was most awfully 
dipped in Pluto's speculations ; but his penetra- 
tion showed him there was something lay heav- 
ier on Mr. Grey's mind than the fear of pecun- 
iary losses or the dread of blowing himself up 
among the fireworks of the politicians, and Ros- 
situr meant to discover what it was. A couple 
of emissaries had come on when Rossitur return- 
ed, with new treaties for Mr. Grey, and he de- 
sired Rossitur to be his agent in the business 
as he had in a great measure been throughout. 
Rossitur was going to meet them that morning, 
and he and the minister sat discussing the points 
upon which he was to touch, the way in which 
evasion was to be employed here, a meaning 
look there, art oracular answer at another point, 
for what Mr. Grey wanted was to hold aloof 
still and not compromise himself while it could 
be avoided. He had been very careful, and 
the whole affair was much more a secret than 
he dared to hope : there was not so much as a 
written note to bring up against him in case the 
matter came to nothing. Rossitur had been in- 
valuable, and indeed it was a relief to Mr. Grey, 
with those diverse questions on his mind, and 
that dreary dull ache which had taken up its 
abode in the back of his head, to have somebody 
with whom he could talk freely and whose art 
in making the doubtfullest subjects presentable 
was unequalled. 

' ' I don't think I'm quite clear about the last," 
said Rossitur suddenly, leaning back in his 
chair and holding the pencil, with which he had 
been making notes on a bit of paper, in his 
hand. ' ' I think I must give something satisfac- 
tory in the way of reply on that." 

" How satisfactory ?" asked Mr. Grey. 

" I ought to have said decided." 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



209 



" Ah ! but, my dear friend, that is just what 
I don't want to do. To make it satisfactory and 
not decided is the very thing; the more time 
gained, the better." 

"It needs one of your smooth, flowery peri- 
ods," said Itossitur, laughing. 

Mr. Grey gave several general hints as to the 
manner and method, but Rossitur still looked a 
little doubtful. The Secretary wheeled his 
chair to the table and wrote down several heads 
that must be touched upon, and elaborated an- 
swers in his graceful, easy style, while Rossitur 
leaned over him and read the page. " The very 
thing," he said, "and diplomatic enough in all 
conscience. I will copy it outright." 

Mr. Grey took a pinch of snuff and surveyed 
the paragraphs, well satisfied with their appear- 
ance. Rossitur hastily copied the page, put up 
his tablets and moved toward the hearth where 
Mr. Grey was standing. "Just tear up that 
specimen of my chirography, please," he said 
with a smile. 

Rossitur, before he had fairly begun to speak, 
threw a fold of paper on the coals. " There it 
goes," he answered ; " I have burned it." Mr. 
Grey turned and saw it blazing on the grate and 
nodded his head ; but the paper was one con- 
taining some lines of figures that Rossitur had 
taken up from the table— the page which the 
minister had written was hidden in his breast- 
pocket. 

"I think we have made every thing satisfac- 
tory for the present," Mr. Grey said, watching 
the paper burn and blacken to a shrivelled tissue 
which made a frantic effort to fly up the chim- 
ney and fell back in ashes, as one's best hopes 
often slip down from a short flight. 

"Yes," Rossitur said, "but I tell you hon- 
estly, Mr. Grey, one way or the other, your de- 
cision will have to be made before many weeks. 
Falcon himself will come on, and there is no 
parleying with him ; he will know where he 
stands with everybody." 

" A coarse man," Mr. Grey said ; " I often 
wonder at the power he wields, and the stran- 
gest thing is 'it is not confined to his set in New 
York ; it spreads far and wide." 

"We can at least say for him that he is 
faithful to his enmities," said Rossitur; "he 
does hate the President with a bitter hatred, 
and so he is certain to serve you. He and his 
party offer you every security ; you can't mil. 
I own I only wonder at your hesitation." 

If Mr. Grey had spoken frankly he would 
have admitted that he had also many times 
wondered since the first glimmer of the project 
was made known to him in the autumn, but I 
may say here what one could not say in history, 
because in novels we often tell truths the writ- 
ers of history are ashamed to state through a 
fear of being considered puerile — his daugh- 
ter stood in the stead of a conscience before Mr. 
Grey ; his love for her was the one pure light 
of his life, and he had not yet seen how he was 
to make his course, if he yielded to the bribe, 
clear in her eves. There was too the dread i 
O 



which I have already mentioned, that if elected 
he might not be able to keep aloof during his 
administration the catastrophe for which he felt 
that party was secretly working. The better 
reason for hesitation was one of which he could 
not bring himself to speak, but he did mention the 
latter and Rossitur had a quick answer for that. 

" When you are President, if you find that 
the leaders of your party desire to carry out ends 
which they had kept secret from you, cut adrift 
from them. You don't want re-election, I 
fancy ; you can afford to be patriotic." 

" And I should be, Rossitur, if the case I am 
supposing arose." 

"Very right, Sir; but that is a thing a long 
way in the future ; let us leave it there." 

"Let us leave it there," repeated Mr. Grey, 
musingly, not thinking of the future, but of his 
conscience in the form of Elinor. It was a 
plausible sophistry to offer. With his far-sight- 
edness he foresaw the danger that might menace 
the country if this unscrupulous party brought a 
man into power who would favor its machina- 
tions ; therefore he heroically threw himself 
into the gap at the expense of appearing a trait- 
or to his old friend, trusting to time and the 
patriotism of his motives to set him right. 

He remained looking in the fire, and Rossitur, 
covertly regarding him, knew that his thoughts 
had left the subject altogether and slipped away 
to other questions or regrets, nearer and more 
oppressive. The keen-eyed watcher was not 
deceived ; Mr. Grey was thinking of the other 
side of his life, that which had nothing to do 
with political aims or greatness, the weaknesses 
which had brought him such losses at the card- 
table and the visionary turn of mind which had 
led him so deeply into Pluto's schemes, and 
into schemes of which Pluto in his practicality 
did not approve, although, having stated his ob- 
jections, he was willing to be the agent therein. 
His thoughts dropped lower than those plans 
which had glittered so brightly a few months 
since — dropped down to a level which he could 
not bear to contemplate, and from which he was 
daily hoping to be released by some favorable 
turn in Pluto's fortunes. He had been led to 
commit his fault by the need of a moment : a 
large sum must be raised on the instant to make 
the future secure, and Pluto, overburdened, 
turned to him ; he had supplied the necessity,and 
since that he had known no peace, trusting each 
week that he should be able to set himself right, 
and seeing the poor round of days give place to 
fresh ones, still fettered by that loathsome rec- 
ollection. 

"I think," said Rossitur carelessly, as he 
took out his cigar-case, "our tremendous old 
Bull is getting straight again." 

Mr. Grey did not exactly start, but there 
was change enough in his demeanor to make 
Rossitur sure he had hit the ground of his 
moody reflections. " You have no doubt ?" 
he asked. 

" Oh, no ; I told you how clear he made it. 
Wonderful head on those very high shoulders. 



■•Ill 



MY DAIKiiri'I'.li klinoi;. 



Will v"ii smoke? These are vour favorite deoelvod by tl asoofhiinji erorthenat. 

Ri [inns." But Mr, Grey had a pinch of snuff oral Languor of the tone in which he said — 

in in. fingers i he watohed Rossitur placidly " An earthquake indeed | it would have made 

lighting hit Havana, apparently not Intending the whole Board totter, I fancy, A.t what hour 



in follow up iii i chance remai h 
hard linei for those follow! In Wall Street," 
Ro , 1 1 n i added, blowing a series of white rlngi 
with greal i ill Into the air and regarding them 
us If hli life held nil more Important thought, 
"My own opinion Ii, there will be a terrible 

oi i h within the ii iii. The houiei already 

down make n line beginning, and those men 
i;ii e .1 pi ■ like loai lei fever." 

'• ( >i 1 1 friend I tacketl itandi on a very differ 
nil, bail) from the greater portion of them." 

Rossitur made another white ring and tent a 
■mall cloud through It with the dexterity of a 
oonjurei " Very different," he answered, and 

he ii ".iii If Mr, Qrey knew exactly what he 

had learned during his visit to New Sfork the 
bland minister might not regard the difference 
as being in Pluto's favor, 

" v ipressed upon him the Importance of 

those last securities being returned to me with 
the leasl posi Iblo delay P" M t < Irey asked, lin- 
i liing his plnoh of snuff, 

"(Ml, yes; lie, mentions i|. in your Irllrr. T 

should sav this lasl turn In Dove [eland stuff 
would give liim control of any amount of the 
m\iiI\ i foi gol j "ii detest slang 

" i fbrgh a It," said Mr. I Irey, smiling, " In 
consideration of the good news It conveys of 
din' friend, 1 should be sorrj i" see his ship 
itrlke q rock; Indeed, as you know, I have been 
oi ome little assistance to him; I maj say I 
hould be sorry to meet with anj loss myself," 

Rossitur knew him Ibr the verj ooolosl hand 
he had evor encountered, but that touch <liii 
itrlke liim us sublime the man musi bo acous- 
tomed i" show Ing hi i thoughts to each other In 
full dress, When Rossitur knew thai ho was 
heavily Involved when there was between them 
the no1 altogether creditable seoret of aiding tho 
Bull's apparont gift of second-sight by any 
amount ofprivate Information it oerfalnly ^\ , as 
stupendous But there was mere back, thai 
was whal filled Rossi tur's mind; an anxiety 
which ho had not probed, and winch wonl be 
yond the fearofmonej losses, [f he only had 
tho oluo i" thai in his hands ho mlghl make n 
reality of the absurd fanoy whioh he had ln« 
dulged of humbling minor through his hold 
upon her father, He blew another ring of 
white smoke, and bofore it broke welded a fresh 
unr i" it iii ii very artistic manner, and as he 
ii ii\ w ttohed the pair mell Into one and float 
off In a wide, eooentrio clroleover the minister's 
bead, ho ohsorvod 

" \\ iiai o foarful jar it would have made if 
Pluto had chanced to smash, it would have 
been like an earthquake." 

Tins time Mi' Grej did start j the idea of 
what would have Mind In his faoe had that 
•■ 1 1 1 in ii \ arrived was too horrible, 1 1 <^ took 
oul his snuff-box i In an Instant he was himself 
again, but Rossltur's eyes were too quiok to be 



were you to meet those men P" 

"Twelve," roplled Rossitur, looking at his 
watch; "almost thai now, I must be off, 
Well, I believe I am prepared at every point 
for the enoounter," 

" t think so. I may not be here when nm 
gel back , i promised to see-Sloane's Commit- 
tee in duv," Mr. Grey said, rising as Rossitur 
did mid standing with in* baok to tho fire. 
" 'i ou dine at < lount Treville's, don't you 
day, i bolieve?" 

" JTes | I shall see you there," Rossitur said, 
ami after a little more Indifferent conversation 
went out. 

Mr. Grey walked up nod down tho room in 
silenl meditation, and It was a worn, troubled 
face thai i" 1 carried, apparently forgetful of tho 
committee whioh awaited him, <>r the buiinesi 
close at hand that might easily have bad a 

claim on his itl Icnl ion. 

Rossitur hailed a carriage and drove off on 

his mission, biting the end of his cigar viciously 

between his tooth, and at lost taking it out of 
his mouth to mutter " There's where ii Is, you 
old fox some move you've made In that Wall 
St red business, i fancy l shall see bottom be 
fore I am through, Turning off the talk with 
questions about dinners! Bah I do yon think 

I'm ;i mole ?" 

lie threw his cigar out of tho window and 
flung himself back In his seal , stai Ing moodily 
before him and thinking the wild thoughts that 
had been bo long In his mind, and finally set- 
tling his reflections wholly upon Elinor Grey, 
ami that love which was hate, and that hats 
winch was the most, burning portion of his mad 

love. 



CHAPTEH M>. 

KINGS v N D '.> r i, i: \ m. 

Tin season hurried on and bore every body 
near the consummation ofthoir destinies, whal 
ever that consummation was to be, and with 
several of those with whom I have to deal it re 
mained doubtful where It would leave them. 

Leighton Rossitur was helping Miss Laidlo^ 
live her romance. ,', i ill Insanely looking forward 
to some, event which should place Elinor Grey 
in his power, and in the life outside of that \^~ 
was serving to the best of his nbility tho party 

which had bOUghl him; he had been boughl for 

a special purpose, that in regard to Mr. liiev, 
and he Wai doing ihcni food service. 

The idol came to Washington when the see* 
son was at Its height, and her grandeur was be 
yond any thing that even she had attempted In 

previous days. Some accommodating widow 

who owned a stylish house and had money 
enough to make her a lawful prey tor tortune- 

hunters, though her years might haVO taught 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



211 



Iier discretion if they ever did teach any body 
that apocryphal virtue, saw fit to fall in love 
with a scape-grace sufficiently young to Iiavc 
been her son, married him and bore him off to 

( luba as a fit resting-place during the brightness 
of the honey-moon. She was an acquaintance 
of the Idol's, and the Idol being aware of her 
intended folly, engaged the house for a couple 
of months, and when the well-mated couple de- 
parted in search of happiness, came on to dazzle 
Washington, bringing her retinue with her and 
even various fresh decorations for the mansion, 
that it might be made more worthy to be her 
shrine. She gave dinners, she gave balls, and 
the expense she was at could only be equalled 
in the Arabian Nights, or in a country gone mad 
Hfter speculation. 

Indiana Tallman and the Angel had become 
such fast friends, and the Banger bud been so 
obliging in regard to the yielding up of her li- 
brary as a whispering-ground for Miss Laidley 
and her supposed adorer, so faithful a confidante 
every way in the Angel's numerous plans, that 
she felt she ought to have a little return ; some- 
thing more tangible than the vague and mag- 
nificent promises which the Angel lavished 
upon her as freely as she did on the rest of her 
friends. Indiana desired to go to the Idol's 
balls, and the Idol did not wish her to display 
herself thereat, so the Angel, with a view to fu- 
ture whisperings in the friendly seclusion of the 
library, had to be mediator and soften the Idol. 
What was not a difficult task, in spite of the 
[""id soul's aversion to the Banger; Miss Laid- 
ley, having brought the matter artfully into the 
conversation, had only to embrace the Idol and 
say— 

" For my sake, dearest Duchess, for my 
sake!" 

" My love, any thing that I can do for you is 
a guerdion to me ; but that odious woman — how 
can you tolerate her?" 

"Oh, indeed I only feel sorry for her because 
she can't be agreeable. That is a gift; you 
must know that, sweet Duchess, yon who have 
it, in such perfection. J'm such a foolish little 
tiling! I can't bear to sec any body disap- 
pointed — and she must feel heart-broken at not 
being invited. If you would, for your poor lit- 
tle Angy's sake, who hasn't many pleasures, 
who can't often do the least thing to. make any 
human being happy." 

" Enough, my pet — she comes; sweet child, 
ever filled with sympathy for others ! But I 
would not sec you intimate with her." 

" Mercy, no ! I never go there, hardly, only 
she begs me sometimes, and — she was very kind 
— but no, I won't tell that, because it would 
seem like praising myself." 

"To mo you may confide it," returned the 
Idol, "who understands your gentle spirit. 
What kindness could she do you ?" 

" Only I wanted to give a lot of money to a 
poor family without any body knowing it, and 
she helped me. I wouldn't tell any one but 
you ; don't think me vain." 



" So like you ! Ah, it is rcjuveniscencc to 
watch such purity!" 

" They were orphans," said the Angel, plaint- 
ively; "how could I help pitying them? Four 
helpless young creatures, with only a lame, 
feeble elder sister to care for them." She be- 
gan the falsehood without having any idea 
whither it would lead her, but the lame sister 
presenting herself to her imagination, she could 
not help elaborating the picture. The Idol was 
touched and wanted to aid the distressed family 
also. "But they are gone," continued the An- 
gel ; "they had some relatives in Kansas, or 
somewhere — I sent them off so happy. And 
you will invite that dreadful Tallman woman? 
I want every body to have pleasure. Isn't she 
just like a giraffe, dear Duchess? I always 
have a fancy when I look at her long neck that 
she must have her luncheon put at the head of 
the stairs, while she stands below in the ball 
and stretches up to it. Oh, that's wicked ! 
Never mind, I didn't mean it ; and since we 
are going to be good to her we may laugh a 
little between ourselves." 

She went off satisfied with her success, not 
only because it was for her interest to oblige 
Indiana, but she liked to think she turned peo- 
ple about her finger, and sought the Banger to 
describe the absurdities of the Idol and amuse 
Indiana by imitating her walk and exaggerated 
speech. "The nasty old thing made me give 
to oncof her charities," said she; "a large sum 
too, for some abominable orphan family with a 
lame sister; but I couldn't refuse, because I 
wanted to keep her good-natured." 

In certain ways the Banger was as much 
duped as any body by the Angel, and having 
conceived an intense hatred to Elinor Grey, 
was ready to believe the stories Miss Laidley 
told of her tyranny, and was always persuading 
the victim to take some decisive steps which 
should make Miss Grey's evil conduct publicly 
known. The Banger's husband and the min- 
ister were no longer friends ; something the 
Califomian had wanted for somebody was in 
Mr. Grey's gift and had been refused ; as it 
was to have been for the gratification of one of 
the Banger's favorites, naturally she was furi- 
ous, and strengthened the anger of her spouse 
by her outcries. The rumors that Mr. Grey 
would probably be a nominee for the Presidency 
nearly drove her mad ; the thought of seeing his 
daughter queen it at the White House, Indiana 
felt was more than she could endure: if the re- 
ality ever came to pass, she really must die out- 
right. It was not to be expected that her wish- 
es could have much effect ; if he did become a 
candidate she could not go about the country on 
electioneering tours, but it occurred to her that 
she might plant a thorn in his side which would 
prick him severely when the electioneering du- 
ties should be undertaken by other people. The 
Banger knew very well that if she could per- 
suade Mr. Grey's ward to leave his house and 
seek her protection, the fact could easily be pub- 
lished far and wide, and would make a beautiful 






MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



handle whereon fco hang the blackest asperaions 
when the speech-making Jays arrived, Not 
onlj against him; Miss Grey's name would be 
dragged into the affair, and she bad heard too 
many " stump " orations in her time not to know 
how ruthlessly opposing politicians would assail 
it, and how it would be bandied about by coarse 
men in a fashion that would be worse than death 
to H delicate minded woman. 

The bare idea was delightful to Indiana; she 

i iod the things that would bo written and 

said, the cutting paragraphs and the miserable 
jokes, and sin- felt that she could cheerfully give 
her right hand to do so inurli for her country ill 
her day and generation. Consequently she 
helped by everj possible means to keep alive in 
.Miss Laidley's mind the fiction that Elinor was 
m love with Rossitur and secretly devoured by 
jealous pangs of the most poignant sort. But 
although tin; Angel would have been delighted 
with the notoriety arising from an open quar- 
rel with her guardian, and would have enjoyed 
acting the Bcene to the utmost, even to the ex- 
tent of rushing in her stockings at midnight to 
the refuge of the Banger's anus, she. was suffi- 
ciently afraid of Kossitur to hesitate. She was 

still too doubtful of the extent of her power over 

him to run any risks of spoiling her romance 

and mystery, so she contented herself with 
pouring the. recital of her wrongs into the Bang- 
er's ears, and being as annoying to Elinor as 

Circumstances would admit. Indiana was too 

energetic and impatient to he satisfied with such 

half measures, and vowed that Miss kuidley 
: liould do something desperate anil ahsurd ; if 
in the end that young female's reputation was 
injured thereby, the Banger could not help it; 

any means was justifiable which could bring 
calumny against the Greys; the matter became 

a patriotic scheme and not a private vengeance, 
and Indiana, fell that she was working for her 
Country and her country's good. 

At Length events that had hcen looming in 
(he distance gathered into the near horizon 
ami made ready to hurst, and in a degree, Eli- 
nor Grey'S own conduct, helped to precipitate the 
storm. The Idol gave a grand fancy hall, an 

affair so magnificent that it seemed even she 
could never go beyond the triumph of that night. 

All the world was there; the Banger was an 

Eastern queen, of what country or age did not 

appear, and wore an odd mixture of dress, some- 
thing between that of a ballet-dancer and a 
Russian empress. The Angel was sylph-like 
in a gauzy raiment, and Elinpr, who had gone 

about for days loathing the thought of the whole 

thing, made herself beautiful in a costume that 

She chanced to have by her, which it seemed a 
mockery to put (>n, reniemhcrin^ how and when 
she had worn it across the sea at a hall while 
balls were pleasant to her and there was an 
agreeable excitement in investing herself ill its 

loveliness, she was firm as ever iii her resolu- 
tion not to dance, and the night was as dreary 
to her as if she had been a k'host compelled to 

do penance by haunting scenes that had once had 



a charm for her. She could not forget how the 

worn, strange look in her father's face hud deep- 
ened during the past days, or rid herself of the 

feoling that some great trouble was close at hand 

which any moment might reveal. The sensa- 
tion came with her to the hall and took I he 
sparkle nut of the scene, Seeming to endue her 
with an inner sight which made her Bee how 
listless and tired most of the faces looked, in 
spite of their smiles and gaudy trappings. The 

Idol herself was Queen Elizabeth for the occasion, 

and the splendor of her toilette might have sat- 
isfied the overblown tastes of that royal old 

virgin, who has been raved over in history, pa- 
raded in novels, swept in gorgeous pageants 

across the starve, and represented at fancy halls 
till one is sick of the very thought of her, and 
has an unchristian hope that some old Papistic- 
al reprobate like Philip the Second is torment- 
ing her without merev in a very hot purgatory 
at tin! present moment. Mr. Grey was there 
in a dress that made him look as the Idol said 
more like " RicholOO " than ever, for I he fiat had 
gone forth that nohody, whatever his or her 
quality might he, must appear unless in some 
species of costume similar to thegorbsin which 

people made, themselves niicomfortahle centu- 
ries ago. 

It, was as idiotically Stupid as fancy halls in- 

variably are, no matter where given. The wom- 
en went about encumbered by stiff draperies or 
discomposed by a. lack of them ; the men drop- 
ped plumes Off their hats as if they had heen a 
collection of ostriches at the moulting season, 
and the hashful man, who had held Klinor's hou- 

quet on one memorable evening, dove among 
people's feet impressed with the idea that, everj 

plume ho saw on the lloor had just dropped from 
his heaver, ami sticking them in the jjohl hand 
without looking, Was remarked at one lime tO 

have no less than eight feathers of different hues 
fluttering over his head. 

" I don't see that old deal' woman," said In- 
diana, as the Angel and Kossitur stood by her 
for a moment ; " I expected her to he here 

masquerading in the white opera cloak ami blue 

feathers." 

fi Here comes the Idol," said Miss kuidley; 
" 1 must ask her." 

The Idol, for the time her gracious Majesty 

of doubtful memory, Bailed up so magnificent 
that the Bight other lacerated the Banger's feel- 
ings and made her long to throw decency to the 
winds, to assault the Idol and scatter her deco- 
rations and pull her hair down. The Angel 

propounded her question, hut the Idol could not 

tell whether she was there. " I am sure," said 
she, " I would have asked her if 1 could reinem- 
ber her name. She is w ell connected, you know. 

though peculiar; hut indeed, I should have 

hcen at a loss where to scud her a card." 

••Oh, round the corner; people always do," 

said the Angel. 

" Artless prattler," said the Idol, and Indi- 
ana laughed so at a private motto of the Angel's 

that Kossitur roused himself from a gloomy con- 



MY DAUGHTER EL1NOE. 



213 



templatlon of Elinor Grey in the distance and 
asked of whom they were speaking. 

"Th': old deaf woman ; I never can recollect 
her name," said the Banger. 

" I told Queen Elizabeth she ought to have 
sent an invitation round the corner for her," add- 
ed the Angel. 

" Further than that," said he. 

" Why, she comes usually," observed Indi- 
ana, " whether she is invited' or not." 

" She may come now," returned ltossitur, 
" but I suppose it would he a long journey. I 
wonder if she would bring her ear-trumpet." 

"What do you mean?" asked Miss Laidley. 

"Why, she's gone round the last corner," 
said Kossitur. 

" Deceased?" cried the Idol in horror, while 
Indiana and the Angel laughed heartily. 

" At last," said Eossitur ; "it was supposed 
that she would have gone long before, but Death 
couldn't make her hear." 

"Oh, jest not upon such a theme," said the 
Idol, and rustled away, while the others stood 
laughing at her. 

Rossitur was in a mood to say or do any tiling; 
lie had already many times found his road to the 
punch-room, and he delighted the Banger with 
his satirical speeches, and entranced the Angel 
by his whispers as they Hew through the dance. 

Elinor Grey stood about and walked about, 
find listened to absurd speeches and made an- 
swers that were equally unmeaning, until she 
could endure it no longer. Wherever she 



turned her back on the inquisitive Moorish fe- 
male with an irritated feeling as if something 

alive and sentient were watching her, and sat 
looking straight before her, wondering from 
whence proceeded the restlessness which had 
beset her for weeks and kept growing more 
strong. The change that to her vigilant eyes 
was apparent in her father, despite his labored af- 
fectation of his usual manner ; the rumorswhich 
had come to her, she scarcely knew how, that he 
too was likely to turn against the President, 
which rumors she treated with scorn, while con- 
cerning them for some undefined reason she 
could not bring herself to speak to him; all these 

things troubled and perplexed her. At, I lie 
same lime, her faith in her hero was so entire 
that she would not admit: to her own mind I he. 
possibility that he might err even in judgment, 
and altogether she wondered at the, varying fi ni- 
cies which oppressed her pence, and demanded 
sternly why it was that, she could never let, her- 
self be at rest. She tried to think that the fears 
and uneasiness were wholly caused by her alarm 
about her father's health, concerning which I- ■ 
had many times essayed to question him, hut 
had been obliged to cease because be so evident- 
ly was annoyed by her solicitude, the possibility 
of ill-health being a weakness that Mr. Grey 
never could bear to contemplate or hear men- 
tioned. 

The opening of the door made Elinor look 
up; Leighton Rossitur stood on the threshold, 
and in her nervous state it, seemed as if he were 



moved she felt Leighton Kossitur's eyes follow- I the; living realization of all her vague fears. He 
ing her, till she bud an absolutely superstitious ' uttered a little exclamation ;it, the sight of her, 
tremor come over her. She would have been though he knew very well that she was there 
glad to go away, but she knew if she ilid her fa- and had followed for the express purpose of 
iher would accompany her, and as he seemed ', speaking to her alone, with what intention or to 
sufficiently amused with a bedizened foreign what end he could not have told. The passion 
embassadress who looked like some strange bird ' in his soul made him absolutely mail to-night; 
with a hooked nose, ugly feet, and brilliant plum- I he could not longer support the r6k of patience 
age, stupid from long confinement in an aviary, | and humility which he had been enacting dur- 
she would not be unnecessarily selfish. [ ing the past weeks, lie had noticed Elinor go 

Up iu the region of the dressing-rooms there out, bad seen that the Angel was safe in the 
was a small chamber where card-tables had been arms of a Highland chief with false calves to his 
set out for the convenience of elderly people who legs, doing double time to a fast waltz tune, and 
might get tiiied of having their toes trodden had followed Elin< r, determined to speak, to 
upon in the ball-room. Elinor found her way force her to answer, if it were only to meet her 
thither; fortunately it was empty. To watch a scorn and wrath— any thing to break the ice of 



large portion of mankind absurd in fancy-dress 
had proved more attractive than whist to the 
elderly people, and they were enduring (he corn- 
trampling somewhere below with such equanim- 
ity as long experience might have given them. 



decorous indifference which she had kept be- 
tween them. She, saw him standing in the 
door-way and had that quick thought about his 
being the embodiment of some approaching evil, 
then declined to lake such a stilted view of his 



The bronze woman holding a torch at the end importance and gave; a iittle gesture of annoy- 
of the sofa, and the monstrosities depending ance at the intrusion. 



over the card-tables, had all the gas turned low, 

and the shade, after the glare of the apartments 

she had left, was particularly acceptable. Eli- 
nor closed the door and sat down on the couch 
with a sensation of relief, and the bronze wom- 
an eyed her curiously ; indeed as the light 
from the torch flickered about her face she 
seemed to wink with her left eye, and there was 



"Miss Grey!" he exclaimed wonderingly. 

" J believe it is," she answered, trying to speak 
with civility. 

"I was so astonished that I thought it might 
be fancy." 

" I think I must, look tolerably real in this stiff 
dress," she replied; "and seeing me here, eon 
sidering that I have been in the hou 8 these two 



a grin on her mouth which reminded Elinor too hour-, can scarcely he a matter for astonish- 
much of brown Juanita to he agreeable. She ment." She could not help it; she was vexed 



214 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



at his words, which had been meant to imply 
that his fancy expected her at all seasons and 
beheld her in all places. 

"I beg your pardon," he said drearily; 
" have I offended you?" 

"Not in the least, Mr. Rossitur; I am tired 
and I dare say rude," she answered, wishing 
she had restrained her first speech, yet extreme- 
ly annoyed by his melodramatic starts and the 
deep gloominess of his voice and aspect. 

"In the old davs you used not to think it 
necessary to apologize to me for any exhibition 
of your real feelings," he said, with an inflec- 
tion upon the personal pronoun that irritated her 
afresh. 

"I thought we had gone back to the oldest 
possible days," said she, touching her dress; 
" I'm aged two hundred years and more, and 
you to the full as old, I am sure." 

" If I were to judge by my feelings," he said, 
"I might have been old when the pattern of 
these dresses was new." 

He was gotten up in some sort of black-velvet 
costume that might have answered for Hamlet 
or a tragic Spanish cavalier ; any way it was 
very becoming, heightening his natural pallor 
and giving him the look of some character of 
romance, which had filled the Angel's soul with 
delight. His appearance did not strike Elinor 
in the same manner ; she thought as he stood 
there that he would have answered for a hand- 
some Mephistopheles. She did not answer his 
last remark, and remained waiting for him to 
bow and go away, but he kept his position. 

"You look very tired," he said softly, in the 
voice that had once sounded kind and earnest 
to her, but only seemed artificial and importu- 
nate now with its low, pleading tone. 

" I am," she replied ; " as you go back, please 
don't say to any one that I am here ; I really 
want to rest before enduring the glare down 
stairs again — I was nearly suffocated with the 
heat." 

The hint was politely enough delivered, but 
plain as it was it did not have the effect of send- 
ing him away. Her words and manner, her 
evident effort to be courteous, filled him with a 
hot rage, and at the same time her pale beauty, 
increased by her costume, brought the passion 
up hotter than ever as he looked at her leaning 
languidly back in the shadow. With a quick 
movement he closed the door and advanced a 
few steps toward her. He did not know what 
he meant to say, whether to plead or upbraid, 
but her name broke from his lips witli a smoth- 
ered vehemence that was positively startling in 
its unexpectedness — 
"Elinor! Elinor!" 

She drew her head slowly back in the old 
proud way he knew so well, and regarded him 
with a quiet fixedness that was more overwhelm- 
ing than the angriest reproof could have been. 

"You let me call you so once," he exclaim- 
ed; "O Elinor, Elinor!" 

There was real suffering in the voice, yet it 
seemed to her that she could detect the smoth- 



ered rage under that imploring sound. " If I 
did once allow it," she said coldly, " the recol- 
lection shall help me to think this was a lapse 
of memory, not an intentional fault." 

"For God's sake, don't speak to me in that 
tone!" he cried. "Can't you see that I am 
almost mad?" 

After the variety of things in regard to him 
and Miss Laidley which had come to her knowl- 
edge of late, this last appeal sounded like a bit 
of repulsive acting too unworthy to be gently 
met. "That I may not think you wholly so, 
Mr. Rossitur, have the kindness to go away," 
she said. 

" Have you no pity, no heart ?" he exclaimed. 
" You sit there like a beautiful statue and know 
you are crushing my heart in your hands, and 
are utterly unmoved." 

"I beg your pardon," she could not resist 
saying, " I have nothing in my hands but my 
handkerchief." 

The instant the words were uttered she felt 
that they were ungenerous and was sorry, but 
the Angel by incessant repetition had so dis- 
gusted her with every exhibition which looked 
like private theatricals that she was difficult to 
move Avhere she doubted the sincerity of the 
speaker as she did his. Rossitur gave a short, 
bitter laugh ; eyen in his excited state, with his 
brain whirling from passion and wine, he could 
control himself enough to know that he had 
been making a spectacle of himself. 

"You are right enough to sneer at my high 
tragedy," he said very quietly, "but it is scarce- 
ly generous, Miss Grey, for yon know that if it 
is absurd it is terribly earnest to me." 

"If so, I am sorry for my words," she an- 
swered. " Please go away now, Mr. Rossitur.'" 
"Let me stay a moment — give me a mo- 
ment," returned he. 

" Not for conversation of this sort," she said ; 
"it is worse than useless, and as painful to me 
as it can be to you. " 

" How do you mean useless?" he asked.. 
" I think you know, Mr. Rossitur." 
" I know that to speak to you at all, to hear 
you speak even those cold words, is heaven to 
me," he said rapidly, in a voice that carried the 
ring of truth in it. "I have suffered so ! These 
weeks have been torture to me. Let me speak 
now. If ever man atoned for a wrong, I have. 
Elinor, Elinor, look at me! Don't sit there 
like a block of marble ! Tell me there is a lit- 
tle hope left — give me the faintest safeguard 
against utter misery and desperation." 

She was moved now, and very sorry for him ; 
the scene was inexpressibly painful to her, but 
his face and voice showed too plainly what ter- 
rible earnest he was in for her to remember aught 
but her pity. "If I could say any thing that 
would be a comfort, Mr. Rossitur," she replied, 
" believe me, I would do it, but I can not — " 
"You can give me a hope," he interrupted. 
" You know that it is impossible ; I beg you 
for both our sakes to say nothing more, to let 
this subject end forever." 



MY JJAUUHTKK KL1JNUK. 



215 



"I can't be silent any longer, Elinor — I must 
call you so this once — I have waited till I am 
almost mad. I thought you would relent; I 
thought, knowing how I suffered, you would 
pity me." 

"I do," she said, "but I told you that my 
decision was irrevocable. O Mr. Rossitur ! I 
could not have made my meaning more plain — 
vou understood it so — you could not have help- 
ed it." 

"All for a few angry words! You are so 
unforgiving that you break my heart as a pun- 
ishment for giving way to a fit of temper." 

"Not for that; you know there was another 
reason ; I told you that though I was angry at 
the time, there was another reason. I do be- 
lieve that you are sorry — I have no unkind feel- 
ing toward you." 

"Then retract your resolution." 

" You know I can not." 

"Why?" he asked sullenly. 

"You know why," she answered. "Mr. 
Rossitur, it is cruel to yourself and me to force 
me to say things that sound harsh. I entreat 
you to end this conversation here." 

" I must speak. I must — " 

"No," she interrupted kindly, but in a firm 
voice, " I can not hear you — I beg you to be 
silent. You force me to tell you that unless I 
need run no risk of similar scenes in future, we 
must be strangers." 

" And this is the end !" he exclaimed. " You 
take my heart for a plaything — for months you 
amuse yourself with my devotion — you let me 
be your blind slave, and when your caprice 
changes, you coolly tell me that I must submit 
without a word." 

The gross injustice of his speech stirred an 
angry emotion in Elinor's mind, but she con- 
trolled it ; she saw that he suffered greatly, and 
believed that the words might have been wrung 
out of his suffering and would be repented after 
without reproof from her. " If I am to blame," 
she said, ' ' I beg you to pardon me. You know, 
when you reflect calmly, that I dealt honestly 
with you from the first. I did not treat your 
love lightly." 

" You allowed me to lavish it upon you ; you 
gave me hope." 

" Oh, look back, Mr. Eossitur, and injustice to 
both see what the truth was. I told you that I 
could not think it right to permit you to care for 
me, to hope, and you said then — " She hesi- 
tated in compassion ; she could not bear to 
wound him by recalling the difference between 
his generous protestations of that time and his 
persistence now. 

"What did I say?" he asked in a voice so 
harsh and stubborn that her pulses quickened 
again. 

" I think you must remember, Mr. Rossitur." 

"I choose to hear you say it: so much you 
owe me." 

"Sir," she said, " I owe you nothing when 
you address me in that tone — not even an an- 
swer. Since you will hear me repeat it, you 



said that so far from being unjust I was gener- 
ous, because you must love me." She began 
angrily, but his face changed so under her 
words, the hard smile turned to a spasmodic 
trembling of such exquisite pain, that her voice 
faltered over her last words. 

"I did love you ; I do !" he groaned. 

" And I ask you to forgive my share in your 
unhappiness," she said. " I was wrong to be per- 
suaded ; I ought not to have allowed you to wait, 
but you do know that I meant, that I tried to 
do right." 

He raised his eyes toward her with a strange 
look and said — " You would have married me 
if it had not been for that accursed day's work 
— that one day." She did not answer. "That 
was your reason," he continued ; " own it." 

" I shall not deny that it was one reason, Mr. 
Rossitur, but there was a stronger still." 

"What was it?" 

" I gave it to you at the time." 

"I want to hear it again. I have a right to 
ask and I will!" And his voice more than his 
words stung her pride like a blow. 

" I did not love you, Sir !" 

He gave an odd, panting breath and pressed 
his hand hard against his chest, but again he 
regarded her with that defiant smile. "And 
now," said he, "you hate and loathe me." 

" I am going away that this conversation may 
end before I do," she replied, moving toward 
the door. 

" Elinor, Elinor!" he repeated in a voice of 
such wild entreaty that she could no more have 
left him without another attempt to soften his 
pain than she could have left some drowning 
wretch to drift off a plank before her eyes with- 
out making an effort to aid him. 

She went toward him, holding out her hand 
with such truth and earnestness in her face that 
a noble-minded man, remembering how con- 
scientious she had been from the first, would 
have been at once subdued. " Let us part kind- 
ly," she said ; "let us part friends — only I think, 
Mr. Rossitur, that it would be better for us not 
to meet for some time to come. In your heart, 
you must do me the justice to own that from the 
beginning I tried to be perfectly frank and hon- 
est ; you must know how I suffer in your suffer- 
ing, and reproach myself for having consented 
to delay my answer." 

She told the truth and he knew it : she had 
been more generous to him than to herself, for 
in her dread of making him unhappy she had 
come very near wrecking her own peace. He 
knew that, but at this moment his demons had 
full possession of him and he could only feel 
horrible wrath at the consciousness that he had 
lost her, that this conversation was the seal to 
the defeat which he had refused to accept, and 
that if he had only worn his mask one day long- 
er in that past summer she would have been 
his. 

He looked at her as she stood holding out her 
hand, and returned her glance of sympathy with 
a regard which revealed his emotions. " I do 



21G 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



not forgive you!" he exclaimed; "I will not 
take your hand ! If these were my last words, 
I would pronounce you a false, perjured wom- 
an!" 

" They are your last to me," she said, walk- 
ing toward the door again, more astonished by 
such fierce capabilities of rage than angered by 
what he said. 

He was too insane to reflect ; the tornado 
was sweeping over his soul in its full fury. He 
stepped suddenly between her and the door with 
a gesture that was a menace. One woman 
would have been frightened, anoth*r enraged ; 
Elinor stood still and looked at him in a kind 
of wonder if it could be real that an insult had 
come so near her pride and the life that to its 
minutest detail had ever been guarded by such 
knightly courtesy. "They are not the last!" 
lie exclaimed; "I have more to say, and you 
shall hear ! I said you were a false, perjured 
woman — doubly so — you loved Clive Farns- 
worth." 

She was looking at him still, and the expres- 
sion of cold surprise on her haughty features did 
not change. "It might have been," she said 
slowly ; " he was a gentleman." 

Rossitur's two hands crossed each other and 
tugged at the lace about his wrists, tearing it 
into tatters ; it was like looking into fire to look 
in his eyes, and his voice was like nothing hu- 
man. "I have shown you how I can love — I 
will show you how I can hate, Elinor Grey ! 
This shall fall on your father's head. I hold 
that in my hands which I will use if it ruins me 
body and soul — which shall show him a paltry 
trickster, trying for office by selling his friend. 
Go, tell him I said so !" 

"You shall tell him yourself," said Elinor. 
" You have been insolent, but I would not will- 
ingly expose a disobedient greyhound to the 
punishment of the lash. Let me pass." 

Quick as the insane fit had come it died un- 
der her icy words. " Oh, I must be mad !" he 
groaned. As he moved aside, she swept past 
him out of the room before he could speak again, 
if indeed he could have found any words. In 
the hall she encountered Miss Laidley rushing 
along with her gauzy draperies flying out like a 
cloud. 

" What have you been saying to Mr. Rossi- 
tur ?" she demanded. "You have been talking 
to him ever so long. You disgraceful creature, 
shutting yourself up in a room with any man at 
this time of night!" 

"Be quiet," was all Elinor answered, in the 
subdued tone and with the impatient feeling she 
would have had toward a pug dog that insisted 
on barking inopportunely. 

" I won't be quiet ! I'm not a bit afraid of 
you — not a bit ! Every body knows how you 
have treated me and is talking about it. I don't 
mean to endure it any longer." 

Elinor passed on without reply ; as she de- 
scended the staircase she saw people standing at 
the foot, but apparently no one had heard Miss I 
Laidley's remark, though it had of course been i 



intended for the public benefit — no one unless it 
might be the Banger, who was coming up the 
stairs and treated herself to a malignant sneer 
which Elinor unfortunately did not observe, and 
Indiana was more angry still to think that her 
facial contortion had been wasted. 

Elinor wanted to get home, and tried to make 
her way through the crowd in search of her 
father, stopped each instant of course, and com- 
pelled to take somebody's arm in the crush. In 
the entrance to the ball-room she found him, 
but before she could speak he bent over her and 
whispered — "I am obliged to go away ; I have 
had a telegram of importance." 

She looked at him and saw that he was very 
pale, but the light touch of his hand on her 
glove warned her that was not the place to make 
any sign. " Let me go too," she said. 

"I can not stop ; 1*11 send the carriage back. 
You must not go ; it is early yet." 

He was perfectly composed, but there was 
something in his eyes Elinor had never seen 
there before, the meaning of which she could 
not read ; it struck her like a strange fear and 
horror which was reflected in her own heart. 
But she was leaning on the arm of somebody, 
and somebody was leading her on, and the crowd 
pushed along more thickly, and the music sound- 
ed again, and it was no time to think or feel. 

Eor Mr. Grey to get out of the house and into 
his carriage was like the work of a dream, but 
it was done in a quiet manner that arose from 
habit. He had been fearfully anxious all day ; 
in hourly expectation of a telegram from New 
York, and had left orders with his faithful Hen- 
ry that if any came it was to reach him even at 
the ball. There had come a message and Hen- 
ry had managed matters with his customary 
tact. He had gone to the house, and being on 
confidential terms with the Idol's chief retain- 
ers, had told one of them that he must see his 
master, and the man, not surprised that the 
statesman should be troubled with business at 
any hour or in any place, had put Henry in the 
empty supper-room and succeeded in informing 
the minister that he was wanted. Mr. Grey 
left off flattering the jewelled embassadress and 
got into the supper-room and read his letter, 
written in a cipher that was only too plain. 
There had been another grand crash : the burst- 
ing up of a projected telegraphic line somewhere 
in the West. Some lucky sinner had decamped 
with money enough to gild his sin and wretch- 
edness in a foreign land, and Pluto had to give 
the news, because the sale of Mr. Grey's shares 
had been a thing under negotiation ; but there 
was nothing to sell now. 

Mr. Grey sat in his private room writing let- 
ters to be sent by the earliest train, looking back 
over the events of the past year, and feeling the 
back of his head swell and throb as if the pain 
that had been abiding there for weeks found the 
quarters too confined and had gone to work at 
the outer walls with a hammer and chisel, to 
make a breach in them preparatory to enlarging 
the domicile. He was glad to go to bed at length 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR, 



217 



and get away from thought. Pluto still had 
great hope : this must be the last blow ; if so- 
and-so happened, something wonderful would 
be the result, and if it did not, the storm could 
be weathered by keeping sails close. In short, 
Mr. Grey's head, never of the clearest where the 
details of business were concerned, though he 
had a great faculty for seeing in theory how 
visionary successes might be arrived at, was 
completely muddled, and he could only leave 
things where they were and cling to the belief 
that no irremediable evil would arrive. — We 
never any of us believe there can. 



CHAPTER XLI. 

THE MIDNIGHT EXODUS. 

As Elinor passed down stairs Miss Laidley 
hurried into the room where Leighton Rossitur 
still stood trying to realize that he had at last 
leaped the final gulf, and that its blackness 
swept between him and every hope or dream 
which was worth rescuing from the poor wreck 
he had made his youth. She rushed up to him 
and exclaimed — 

"What were you saying to Elinor?" 

He could have felled her to the floor, the 
sight of her was so odious to him at that moment. 
" Nothing," he said. 

" You were; she was here ever so long ! I 
will know ! I'll not be treated in this way by 
you or her any longer." 

To have told her what a miserable, transpar- 
ent, abominable compound of idiocy and artifice 
she was, would have been a great relief, but he 
had been sufficiently sobered by Elinor Grey's 
last words to regain a slight possession of his 
senses. The fullness of defeat had come ; at 
least he need not throw aside the promise of 
ease and wealth offered by Miss Laidley's ro- 
mance. " I hear your favorite galop," said he ; 
"come and dance." 

"I shall not," she replied; "I'll not be 
treated like a child any longer! What were 
you saying to that woman?" 

"I will tell you all about it to-morrow," he 
urged. 

"I shall not wait! I'll never speak to you 
again on earth if you don't tell me this minute," 
exclaimed Miss Laidley. 

He had a mind to tell her to go — to lose 
every thing; but he made a wonderful effort 
and said — "I told you I must have one conver- 
sation with her." 

" You are always talking to her," retorted 
Miss Laidley, and it was doubtful whether jeal- 
ousy or curiosity was the stronger emotion in 
her mind. "You take every opportunity in 
spite of the things you say to me — things I'll 
not believe." 

"I never shall again," he answered; "you 
may be certain of that." 

" Have you quarrelled with her? Did you 
tell her that you hated her?" demanded Miss 
Laidley eagerly. 



"Yes, I did," he said between his clenched 
teeth. 

"I am so glad, so glad !" she exclaimed. 

He could have found a sweet enjoyment in 
choking the life slowly out of her as she spoke ; 
but one is not permitted such modes of relief in 
this prosaic age. "You ought to be satisfied," 
he answered ; " I did it for you." 

" Is every thing over?" 

"Every thing." 

"I wonder if you ever cared for her?" 
questioned Miss Laidley, somewhat annoyed at 
his not acting the scene with more spirit. 

" You know that from the moment I saw you 
first I have been your slave," he said, and the 
words were so difficult of utterance that he could 
scarcely restrain himself from rushing out of the 
room. 

"You have given me very little reason to be- 
lieve it," pouted she. 

" Great heavens ! Genevieve, what more 
would you have?" he exclaimed, trying to make 
a show of earnest. " I have been on the verge 
of madness — ready to cut my throat because I 
could see no way out of the toils — because I 
thought you were lost to me — and now you can 
sav such things ? Oh, these hearts of women 
—bah!" 

That sounded more like the speeches to 
which she was accustomed ; the sneer at the 
close had its effect. "Ah !" said she. 

"Now you reproach and suspect me," he 
continued; "I might have been prepared for 
it ! Fool that I was to trust any woman." 

" No, no ; you may trust me — you know what 
I feel!" 

He might as well end it — as well secure his 
prize then ; but oh, how Elinor Grey's face 
came up and looked at him across the gulf! 
He had not much more faith in a Hereafter 
than he had in things human and mundane, 
but at that instant there was a quick thought 
in his mind of something he had read years ago 
— was it in the Bible ? — of some soul in torment 
looking up at the happy spirits in heaven ; so 
he, out of his hell, looked across the impassable 
gulf at the image of the woman he had loved 
and lost. Only the lightning-like fancy of an 
instant that is so long put in words, then he was 
holding Miss Laidley's hands and saying — 

" Tell me that you love me, Genevieve." 

" Have I not told you already?" she asked. 

" That you will marry me?" 

Those last words were such as she had been ea- 
ger to hear for weeks and weeks, but to play the 
coquette was absolutely necessary even when her 
feelings were more deeply interested than they 
had ever been in her life. " Ah ! that is quite 
another thing," she said, drawing back. 

Rossitur could bear nothing more ; it had been 
horrible to try to make love to her at that mo- 
ment ; to be treated to such baby play was more 
than he could endure. Ten to one if she felt 
the power in her own hands she would draw 
back ; she was no more to be trusted than a 
young kitten with some stray drops of tiger-blood 



218 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



in its veins ; any way he had borne all he could 
for that time. He flung out his hands with a 
tragic gesture of repulsion and exclaimed in a 
hollow voice — " Genevieve, farewell !" 

"Leighton, Leighton!" she cried ; but he was 
out of the room, and when she reached the door 
had disappeared wholly. 

With the fear that she had lost him came back 
her love ami romance in full force, and she was 
dashing herself on the sofa in a paroxysm of de- 
spair when the Banger looked in. "All alone, 
my dear?" she asked. "Where's the Black 
Knight ?" 

"Gone !" moaned the Angel. " He has left 
me forever!" 

"Nonsense !" returned Indiana. " Have you 
been quarrelling ?" 

" I said such cruel things to him," sighed the 
Angel, " and now he is gone — gone forever. 
Helas, won reve, won bonheur!" 

"Well," exclaimed the Banger, "if you do 
let Elinor Grey get him after all that's been clone 
you're a greater fool that I took you for ! Why, 
that man is worth twenty of the ordinary sheep 
girls have about them." The Banger prided 
herself on her straightforwardness, and blunt 
speech was as much her forte as sentiment was 
the Angel's. 

"He's gone — gone — ah, ?>iajeunesse!" moan- 
ed Miss Laidley. 

"Not so far but he can be found," replied In- 
diana, whose consolations were not offered with 
sufficient poetry to be satisfactory to the Angel. 
" Do you know what he had been saying to Miss 
Grey?" 

"They quarrelled, and he told her that he 
hated her," replied the Angel, composing her- 
self in a new attitude of misery. 

" So far, so goo J. But what did you act like 
a fool for just after it? You must have, you 
know; tell me what he said." 

" He asked me to be his wife." 

"Very well ; you want to be, and you mean to 
be, don't you ?" questioned the terrible Banger. 

" I love him," sighed the Angel, behind her 
fan. 

" And if you marry him, you stand as good a 
chance as any girl I know of being embas- 
sadress or ruling up at the White House," said 
Indiana. " I don't talk much poetry, but 1 talk 
sense, and call things by their names, and I know 
the world. I tell you that man will go very far 
— very far." 

" He is so noble, so handsome," sighed Miss 
Laidley. 

" What did you say to him ?" demanded In- 
diana sternly, not to be turned from her purpose 
of being practical. 

" I answered him evasively — with a jest. 
Oh, what made me — how could I? Cruelle; 
cceur de marbu /" 

"Because you're a woman," said Indiana, 
" and women must upset their milk-pans just as 
the cream has risen. Well, what did he say then, 
if I must get it question by question as if I was 
pumping it out of you ?" 



"He only said — 'Genevieve, farewell!'" 
quoted the Angel, imitating his tragic gesture 
and falling back on the sofa with another moan. 

"Oh! merely a lovers' quarrel," said the In- 
diana with strong-minded contempt for such 
weaknesses; "I dare 'say he has gone off in a 
rage, but he'll come back soon enough." 

"If Elinor does not come between us again ! 
Oh, what shall I do ? She is capable of murder- 
ing me; you don't know how violent she can 
be ! When I passed her in the hall she called 
me dreadful names." 

"Do?" cried Indiana, in a voice that sound- 
ed as if it came from a throat of brass, and with 
a look that would have answered for the queen 
of the Amazons. ' ' Why, come to my house and 
marry Rossitur before she has time to make you 
more trouble. I wouldn't stay under the same 
roof with her another night if I were you." 

"But couldn't Mr. Grey make me go back 
or keep my money?" demanded Miss Laidley. 

" No ; didn't you show me a copy of your fa- 
ther's will ? The moment you are married your 
husband can claim your fortune — Grey is obliged 
to give it up. I tell you plainly, Genevieve, if 
you don't want to lose Rossitur — if you really 
love him — " 

' ' As my life," broke in she ; ' ' better, far bet- 
ter!" 

" Then you had better show it by taking some 
step in earnest, instead of quarrelling and doing 
high tragedy." 

" I will do what you tell me," said Genevieve, 
who was always somewhat awed by the Banger's 
thews and sinews, and thought that where there 
was so much physical force the counsel offered 
must be proportionably valuable. " Advise me 
— I will obey." 

" You won't," returned Indiana with a sneer; 
"you'll go back and be pushed and browbeaten 
by Elinor Grey, and let her marry Leighton Ros- 
situr before your eyes, while you wring your 
hands and moan." 

"I'd stab her to the heart first!" cried Miss 
Laidley. 

" That's pretty — in a play," said Indiana. 

"Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?" 
moaned the Angel. " I am the most wretched, 
helpless creature in existence." 

"If you will follow my advice, I'll 'give it," 
continued Indiana; "but I don't intend to 
waste my breath en a girl obstinately determined 
to let her peace be ruined by the haughtiest 
woman that ever tried to walkover every body's 
neck." 

" I will follow it — I promise — I swear!" cried 
the Angel. 

"Don't; I never believe a woman under 
oath." 

" Ah, you can jest when my heart is break- 
ing." 

" Ta, ta ; broken hearts have gone out. I 
can't cry with you, tears are not in my line ; but 
I can help you. Do you come home with me — " 

"But my clothes — all my things!" interrupt- 
ed Miss Laidley. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



219 



" Bless me ! money bought them, money 
would buy more," replied Indiana ; ' ' but there's 
no talk of losing them that I know of. You 
don't suppose people in the Greys' position are 
going to be put in the papers for keeping a wom- 
an's duds?" 

" Well ?" questioned the Angel submissively. 

"For the matter of that, we'll drive round 
that way ; get what you want for morning, and 
have Juanita pack the rest up. I'll wait in the 
carriage while you do it." 

" But if thev stop me — if they try to lock me 
up?" 

" Then you scream till you rouse the street. 
I'll bring help enough, I promise you. I'll teach 
that old smooth-tongued Secretary and his touch- 
me-not daughter !" exclaimed the courageous 
Banger. 

The matter began to present itself in the light 
of an adventure to the Angel and pleased her 
accordingly. "I will do as you tell me," she 
said ; "you are my only friend." 

" Very well ; now get up, shake your dress 
out, come clown stairs, and behave like a sensible 
girl," replied Indiana, who had no mind to lose 
her due share of the festivities, and was in high 
spirits at her success. " Give me a woman that 
can show a little courage and I'll go through 
fire and water for her." 

" I have no heart to dance, to be gay," sighed 
the Angel. 

" You don't dance with your heart," retorted 
Indiana. 

" Ah, how hard and stern you are," shivered 
Miss Laidley ; "you can bear every thing ; you 
are always ready to act ; you are granite — les 
nerfs d'acier." 

" I represent common sense and you romance, 
that's all. Romance is very well, but it would 
be apt to go to the wall if there weren't a few 
peoplelike me left in the world," said the Bang- 
er, speaking as if she were one of the last sur- 
vivors of a race of Anakims or other rare creat- 
ures of a superior mould to ordinary human nature. 
" Hark ! Good Lord ! they're going in to sup- 
per and here we are wasting our time." 

She seized Miss Laidley by the arm and rush- 
ed her down stairs, captured some luckless man 
and forced him to make way for them among 
the motley gi-oups that were streaming into the 
supper-room, for the Banger required a good 
deal of solid food to keep her powers of practical 
judgment in working order. One of the Angel's 
victims saw her and was happy to take cbarge 
of her and she was led along in the wake of In- 
diana, who, clutching her prisoner, looked as 
warlike as if she were marching in her regal robes 
at the head of an army and panted to meet the 
foe. Genevieve glanced about for Rossitur, biit 
he was not to be seen, therefore she thought she 
was like tbe heroine of a novel, standing flower- 
crowned with death in her heart, and was so in- 
tensely wretched that she enjoyed it thoroughly. 
By and by Elinor came up to her and the An- 
gel shrank visibly from her touch and was mind- 
ed to quote in an audible whisper something 



about a basilisk — not that she knew what the an- 
imal might be — but had no opportunity. 

" The carriage has come," Elinor said quiet- 
ly, instead of muttering imprecations or dis- 
playing a dagger as the Angel would have pre- 
ferred. " Are you ready to go, Genevieve ?" 

It was aggravating to be brought down to 
such common ground when she was giving free 
rein to her fancy. "No, I'm not," snapped 
she, forgetting to answer after the models afford- 
ed by numberless heroines with whose expres- 
sions she was familiar and often employed with 
good effect. 

"Go!" repeated Indiana, overhearing, and 
speaking with a large bit of pate in her mouth ; 
"of course the poor child doesn't wish to be 
dragged away yet ; she is young enough to en- 
joy the thing." 

"I will send the carriage back for you, Gen- 
evieve," continued Elinor, without noticing the 
Banger. 

"I will see you safe home, Miss Laidley," 
interposed the Banger fiercely, nearly choking 
herself in her rage that she could not force Eli- 
nor to be conscious of her rudeness. 

" Oh, I don't wish to make any body any 
trouble," said the AngeMn her most martyr- 
like voice. 

"It will be no trouble to me," cut in the 
Banger ; "I may be unpolished, but I am not 
selfishness incarnate." 

" Oh, no, no, thank you, Mrs. Tallman," re- 
turned the Angel, in a timid way. " Dear El- 
inor, if you wish to go, of course I am ready — I 
would not make trouble for the world." 

"I will wait for you," said Elinor, seeing 
that Miss Laidley had a disposition to make a 
scene, and that the Banger asked nothing better 
than to help her. 

She went directly away to avoid further dis- 
cussion, and endured patiently another two 
hours, while the Angel waltzed and flirted with 
scores of men and indulged in dark thoughts and 
smothered sighs under laughter, and was in an 
agony of happiness that would end in a fit of 
hysterics before she could get back to the level 
of ordinary life. At last Elinor thought she 
had waited long enough, and meant to go unless 
Miss Laidley was desirous to stay and see the 
gas put out, but as she was about seeking her, 
the young lady came up and said rudely — " You 
needn't have waited to watch me ; you'll gain 
nothing by it ; I am going back with Indiana 
Tallman." 

Elinor bowed courteously, asked somebody to 
see that her carriage was called, and made her 
way to the dressing-room, wondering how much 
longer it would be necessary for her to endure 
these daily increasing impertinences. She had 
not complained to her father because the annoy- 
ances were so petty that she had been ashamed 
to cry out under them, as she would have been 
ashamed under the prickings of a gnat, but of 
late the young creature had been worse than a 
whole swarm of the musical insects. She did 
think that when Miss Laidley's majority ar- 



L'20 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



rived, which it mercifully would in the course 
of a few months, she should be justified in an- 
nouncing that the same roof could not cover her 
and that restless specimen of the angelic race 
any longer. She drove home and forgot Miss 
Laidley in the remembrance of the inexplicable 
trouble she had seen in her father's eyes. Hen- 
ry was up and met his mistress, as wakeful as 
if all the poppies in Persia could not surprise 
him into Blumber, 

"Do you know whether my father has gone 
to bed ?" Elinor asked. 

Henry was certain that he had. He begged 
to inform Mademoiselle that Monsieur had been 
oblige to answer some dispatches ; had request- 
ed a cup of tea, and desired that he might not 
be disturbed. 

She had seated herself in one of the reception- 
rooms to hear theso details, and as Henry fin- 
ished the Banger's carriage drove up. The 
Hungarian Hew to open the door for Miss Laid- 
ley before any impatient ring from a cross foot- 
man could disturb his master. The Angel, be- 
tween her trouble about Rossitur, her fatigue, 
Indiana's sneers and persuasions, and the hys- 
terical emotions which had become a positive 
disease with her, was ready for a scene of the 
most sensational kind. 

" Mademoiselle is still down stairs, Mees 
Laidley," said Henry, who to the Angel's dis- 
gust always gave her that commonplace desig- 
nation in contradistinction to the title which he 
bestowed upon his mistress. 

" Where is she ?" asked the Angel. 

Henry waved her toward the reception-room 
and she dashed past him before he could get to 
the door, which with his usual exalted manner 
he would have Hung wide open for her passage. 
"What are you waiting here for?" demanded 
she, sweeping up to Elinor. " Do you want to 
spy and watcli me always ?" 

This was too much in keeping with Miss Laid- 
ley's manner and tone during the past fortnight 
to excite any surprise on the part of her listener. 
" I believe I shall say good-night, Miss Laidley ; 
it is very late," said Elinor, rising. 

The Angel stood still, not knowing exactly 
how to continue, since her opening attempt at a 
scene had failed signalty. " I am absolutely 
afraid to sleep in the house with you !" she ex- 
claimed, bursting into hysterical sobs. " I bc- 
lievo you mean to murder me this night, and 
have laid your plans." 

Henry had remained in the hall waiting for 
the young ladies to go up stairs that he might 
put out the gas and make all things secure, and 
naturally stood open-mouthed at th;it remarka- 
ble speech. Elinor walked toward the door 
without making any reply. 

"Help ! help !" cried Miss Laidley. " She's 
going to lock mo in here ! I won't bo locked 
in! Help! help !" 

Scenes equally exciting Elinor had so often 
passed through that she was not in the least 
alarmed for Miss Laidlcy's sanity, as a stranger 
might have been by her words and gestures. 



"Henry," she said calmly, "go to Juanita'.* 
room and send her down." 

The Hungarian rushed noiselessly away, dis- 
cussing in hismind whether the young heiress was 
a little tocquee or grisee — he thought in French, 
and I put the words in that language because 
the last was not a pretty term to apply to an an- 
gel ; but that wicked old Henry had known hu- 
man seraphs of high degree capable of such very 
queer freaks and indulgences that he sometimes 
held improper thoughts in regard to them and 
their actions. 

" I won't be left here with you !" cried Miss 
Laidley. "You shan't kill me! What are 
you hiding your hand in your dress for ? I be- 
lieve you've a dagger there ! Do you mean to 
stab me ?" 

"Don't scream, please," said Elinor; "my 
father is probably asleep, and you would not 
care to treat him to one of these scenes." 

" I would ! I will ! I won't be murdered ! 
Scenes, indeed ! Am I to be stabbed without 
resistance? Help! help!" repeated Miss Laid- 
ley, making a rush forward as if she meant to 
tear through the halls and rouse every sleeper in 
the house, 

" Positively, Genevieve, if you don't stop this 
instant I will lock you in here," said Elinor, 
losing patience ; " you are too absurd." 

" Wretch ! Fiend ! Vile murderess !" moan- 
ed Miss Laidley, giving full vent to her hyster- 
ics, and rapidly getting beyond power of self- 
control. Elinor was afraid of her getting out 
on the staircase and screaming till every soul 
under the roof would be wakened and rush down 
in terror that the dwelling was on fire at least. 
She wanted to keep her where she was till 
Juanita appeared, trusting that the old woman 
could soot he her as usual, and having compassion 
enough on the girl to desire that she should not 
make herself utterly ridiculous in the eyes of the 
servants. "Hush, I beg; Juanita will be here 
in a moment," said she. 

" Let me out ! Let me out !" screamed Miss 
Laidley, making a dash at her as she stood in 
the door-way and pushing her aside with such 
violence that she hurt her. 

"Miss Laidley, this is insupportable," ex- 
claimed Elinor, putting her handout to prevent 
herself being jammed against the door-post. 

Miss Laidley bounded aside and managed to 
tear her gauze raiment to a deplorable extent. 
She ran through the hall and flung open the out- 
er doors, and Elinor, beginning to think she had 
gone mad at last, ran after her and tried to hold 
her back from rushing down the steps. " Mrs. 
Tallman! Mrs. Tallman !" called the Angel 
despairingly. Elinor became conscious that the 
carriage was still before the entrance, and that 
the Banger's head was thrust out of the win- 
dow. She comprehended at once that the whole 
scene had been arranged between the pair, re- 
leased Miss Laidley, and stepped back into the 
vestibule. "Mrs. Tallman!" cried the Angel 
again. "Help! help!" 

The Banger, who had been eagerly waiting 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



221 



for some catastrophe, was overjoyed at a sight 
like that. Out of the carriage she sprang, up 
the steps she flew, dashed into the vestibule and 
clasped Miss Laidley in her arms, exclaiming — 
"You are safe — I am here! What does this 
mean ? Miss Grey, I saw you push this un- 
fortunate creature out-of-doors." 

"Look at my dress," sobbed Miss Laidley; 
" she has almost torn it off me ! She pushed me 
and struck me — I do believe she had a dagger 
in her hand ! Take me away — if you have any 
mercy, take me away!" 

" At once ; come, poor child," returned Indi- 
ana. " Miss Grey, I leave explanations for to- 
morrow." 

In spite of her anger the absurdity of the 
whole thing struck Elinor so forcibly that she 
laughed. "I hope Miss Laidley has them to 
offer," said she. "Excuse me if I close the 
doors." 

"Notonme!" cried the Banger. "Youcan't 
frighten me ! I'll call my servants. You can't 
shut me in your murdering house!" 

"I should be sorry to do so, Madam," said 
Elinor. " Good-night, Miss Laidley ; of course 
you must consult your own pleasure whether you 
go or stay." She walked back through the hall, 
and meeting Henry and Juanita on the stairs, 
bade him follow her and motioned the old woman 
to go on. The end was not what the Angel had 
expected ; both she and the Banger felt a good 
deal sobered by finding themselves clasped in 
each other's arms in ba.'l-dress and standing in 
a windy vestibule at that time of night with no 
enemy to confront. 

"You must go with me, my love; you can't 
stay in this house," said the Banger in a high key. 

" Oh, take me away, take me away !" sobbed 
the Angel. 

" What'e matter — what'e matter?" cried 
Juanita, running to them. " Come in'e house, 
young Senora — catch her death. Come to Juan- 
ita, poor dear — got'e nerves again ?" 

"It is not a case of nerves, my good creat- 
ure," said Indiana, "but of fright and ill-treat- 
ment. Look at her dress, half torn off her." 

"Oh, de Lord, de Lord!" groaned Juanita. 
" Come in, young Senora, come in. Oh, de 
Lord!" 

Miss Laidley gave free vent to her sobs, and 
Juanita, not knowing what to make of the scene, 
or what she was expected to do, stood muttering 
and flinging her arms about. 

" Go pick up your mistress's cloak," said the 
Banger; "that has been torn off her too. Come, 
my poor child ; I couldn't answer to my con- 
science if I left you here alone ; Heaven only 
knows where this would have ended if I had not 
chanced to wait, stopped by a foreboding of evil." 

" Oh ! oh !" sobbed Miss Laidley. 

" De Lord, de Lord !" muttered Juanita, con- 
scious there was a play being acted and certain 
that her mistress expected her to take a part, 
but from not having been instructed at a loss 
how to perform, so she danced about and uttered 
monkey cries. 



" The cloak !" ordered the Banger, and Juan- 
ita ran and picked it up from the hall floor 
where the Angel had thrown it, and wrapped it 
about her mistress. 

"My servants witnessed the outrage," said the 
Banger, in an elevated voice ; ' ' when witness- 
es are needed they will be ready. Come, love." 

"She tried to murder me," gasped the Angel. 
Oh, my clothes — I can't leave my clothes," she 
whispered. 

"I'll bring some in a bundle 'fore morning," 
hissed Juanita; " I'll getout'e window." 

The idea struck Indiana as a telling one — she 
to rescue the sufferer and the faithful serving- 
woman to follow in the late watches of the night, 
escaping at the risk of her life from the house, 
with a change of apparel for the mistress whom 
she idolized. The coachman and footman seat- 
ed on the box had not the slightest idea what 
was going on, only that their mistress and the 
young woman seemed in a "great twitter " about 
something when nobody was visible. "James !" 
called Indiana. James sprang from his perch 
and opened the carriage door ; the Banger per- 
ceiving there was no hope of Miss Grey's re-ap- 
pearance, and no design on that lady's part to 
notice them in any way, led the moaning Angel 
down the steps and they entered the carriage 
and were driven off, obliged to look to the telling 
of the story for success. Juanita flew up stairs 
to her mistress's rooms and bolted the doors upon 
herself; Elinor sent the stupefied Plenry down 
to settle matters for the night, saying only — 
" See that Juanita goes early in the morning 
to Mrs. Tallman's with some clothes for her mis- 
tress." 

" Certainly, Mademoiselle," Henry answered. 

Elinor's first thought was to waken her father 
and tell him what had happened, but it could do 
no good, and she would not disturb his rest. By 
morning Miss Laidley would probably have re- 
turned to her senses. She knew that the Banger 
would spread the most horrible reports abroad, 
but after all, Miss Laidley, in decency and out 
of regard for herself, must either return to the 
house or go back to Jamaica. Her father would 
arrange it — this time she could not spare him 
the annoyance — but indeed the whole thing was 
too miserable to think about. It had been an 
evening of such disgusting events : as the rec- 
ollection of them came up, Elinor's cheeks burn- 
ed to remember the words Leighton Rossitur 
had dared to utter. Of that scene she must also 
tell her father — at least so much as would con- 
vince him concerning the man's real character. 
The coarse threat he had employed she would 
not give a place in her mind ; it was too con- 
temptible as applied to the parent whom all her 
life she had regarded as much removed from the 
weaknesses of ordinary natures as if he had been 
a god. That he had anxieties which he con- 
cealed from her she was certain, though of what 
nature she could not divine. Perhaps only the 
troubles inseparably connected with his duties ; 
and that made her reflect that unless MissLaidlcy 
chose to come to her senses and show the falsity 



00<> 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



of the reports by returning to the house, there 
might be no end to the gossip, the newspaper 
hints and allusions which would be spread from 
Indiana Tallinan's stories. Indefinitely she con- 
nected Leighton Rossitur with this matter too; 
she was confident that he had been holding a 
secret correspondence with Miss Laidley, and 
probably by his conduct had excited her to this 
last step. But the whole matter was a weari- 
ness, and of no importance beyond the fact that 
it might annoy her father ; what her own share 
in the reports would be she could not pretend to 
care, other than as it made an added annoyance 
for him. 

She went to bed at last and fell asleep. Hav- 
ing of late somewhat relaxed her rigid discipline 
in regard to hours, Coralie. the devoted, peeped 
in, and seeing her asleep did not disturb her. 
The consequence was that she did not wake till 
what she deemed a preposterous hour, and sum- 
moning the maid desired her to go at once and 
beg her father not to leave the house until she 
had spoken with him. The first thought in her 
mind had been Miss Laidley's performance, for 
the young woman had haunted her dreams and 
acted melodramas in costumes that varied with 
every move she made, while Indiana Tallman 
looked on approvingly from a lofty throne where 
she sat with a square gold tower on her forehead 
for a crown, wearing a harlequin's dress instead 
of the regal robes which might have been expect- 
ed to accompany the chair of state and diadem. 
Leighton Rossitur had been there too — it was 
Rossitur, but it was Mephistopheles also — and 
very handsome he looked, only Elinor saw that 
he had a forked tongue as he laughed at Miss 
Laidley's antics. The Idol was there; the old 
deaf lady who somebody had told her was dead 
was present, lying in her coffin, and by mistake 
the coffin was taken for a supper-table, and the 
corpse sat up, a grinning skeleton, and pointed 
at her father who suddenly appeared on the scene, 
lie was so white and changed that at first she 
hardly knew him, and then she was thrown into 
an agony of terror by his clinging to her and im- 
ploring her to save him from a gulf that opened 
where the ball-room had been, looking down 
which, she saw only a horrible blackness, from 
whence came up the sound of the waltzes the 
orchestra had played. It was all as mixed and 
absurd as dreams usually are after excitement, 
but somehow it made Elinor shiver to recall it, 
and, plainer than any sight, she beheld her fa- 
ther's white face as his head sank on her shoul- 
der in that helplessness which, in her dream, she 
had heard a voice from the black gulf call a liv- 
ing death. 

In answer to her request, Coralie said that 
Mr. Grey had already departed. He had risen 
earlier than was his habit and gone out directly ! 
after drinking his coffee, and had desired Cora- 
lie to say to her mistress that he was so much 
hurried by business he could not wait to see her. 
If Mademoiselle pleased, Hungarian Henry 
wished to speak with her as soon as she could 
conveniently so far honor him. 



Elinor was annoyed at this fresh delay, and 
in doubt what course to pursue in regard to Miss 
Laidley. " Bring me my chocolate and tell 
Henry to come up," she said, when the toilet 
process was over and she had at length estab- 
lished herself before a sunny window in her 
dressing-room. 

Henry appeared, taking advantage of the op- 
portunity to bring the chocolate himself, for he 
and Coralie were always waging an amicable 
warfare as to which should have the felicity of 
ministering to their mistress's wants. 

" Coralie said you wanted to speak to me, 
Henry," said Elinor, as he set the tray on the 
table before her. 

"Since Mademoiselle is so good. If she 
pleases, the waiting-woman of Mees Laidley left 
the house by a back window, and it was open 
till the cook went down stairs." 
" Do the servants know, Henry ?" 
"No, Mademoiselle; I said nothing about 
the mulatto, though the moment they told me I 
knew it was her work and not a thief's. If 
Mademoiselle pleases, she came back quite early, 
and as good luck would have it, I saw her first." 
" Did she say why she went out ?" 
" To carry clothes to the Mees, she said. At 
present she have made up the boxes of the Mees, 
and is clamoring to have them taken down 
stairs and put on a coach that has come." 

" Very well, if Miss Laidley has ordered her 
to do so." 

" It was why I wished to speak to Made- 
moiselle." 

"Did you tell my father that Miss Laidley 
had gone home with Mrs. Tallman ?" 

"Pardon; I was not able. Monsieur sent 
me out with letters that no other might deliver ; 
Monsieur bad borne himself away before I was 
of return." 

It was a very tiresome piece of business al- 
together, and really there seemed nothing to be 
done at present. Her father Avould be back in 
the course of the morning, and he alone could 
go and learn what might be the meaning of this 
remarkable conduct on Miss Laidley's part. 
"You will say to the servants, Henry, that 
Miss Laidley has gone on a visit to Mrs. Tall- 
nwn," was all she said. 

"I have made so already, if Mademoiselle 
pleases." 

" Thank you; that is all, I believe." 
He bowed and retired, a statue of propriety to 
the last, but as soon as he had seen Juanitaand 
the boxes safely out of the house, he and Cor- 
alie fell into a wonderment and discussion that 
they would not have betrayed to the inferior 
domestics for the bribe of twin annuities. 
Coralie had kept watch over Juanita from the 
moment of her return, to see that she did not 
talk to the other servants, though what was the 
matter neither she nor Henry had the least idea. 
To speak of the matter to Miss Grey was some- 
thing neither would have dreamed of doing, so 
they went about devoured by a very natural 
curiosity, and only abLj. to decide that Miss 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



223 



Laidlcy must have had a worse fit of lunacy 
than usual. 

" She must have been ill to the utmost when 
she could rend her robe," said Coralie, when 
Henry described the state it had been in. 
"Many of the hysterics I have regarded her 
do, but the robe was well defended at the 
worst." 

Henry did not hesitate to confide his suspi- 
cions that she had indulged too freely at sup- 
per, but Coralie being young yet, and not hav- 
ing such experience as the Hungarian, was 
somewhat shocked thereat. However, they 
united in the opinion that she was a small 
deviless of the most atrocious description, and 
that the patience with which Mademoiselle had 
supported her follies, retaining them even from 
Monsieur himself, was a proof of goodness such 
as no human creature except their ravishing 
Mademoiselle could have exhibited. 



CHAPTER XLII. 

MARRIED LIKE A HEROINE. 

The night had not been the bearer of fairy 
dreams to Mr. Grey, nor had his bed been of 
roses, though, metaphorically, he had during his 
whole life been much accustomed to strewing 
his couch therewith. The time was come when 
he must take a stand and deliberately choose 
whether his place should be by the President's 
side or chief among the ranks of his enemies. 
His plans had been kept sufficiently secret for 
him still to stand upon apparently open terms 
with the President, but it was impossible that 
this state of affairs should continue longer. The 
malcontents believed themselves sure of him, 
the time had come when they desired him to 
act, and the pledges he held were such that to 
take no positive step toward their ranks would 
bring the fury of the whole set upon him. In 
joining them the promise of success was as 
certain as any human event could be, but still 
the remembrance of that daughter who stood in 
the place of a conscience kept between him and 
the ability to be at rest. Many times he had 
gone over the sophistical view of the case which 
had presented itself to him during that conver- 
sation with Rossitur ; he had prepared a series 
of fine-sounding periods with which to convince 
Elinor that his course was that of a true patriot ; 
had even thought that to his old friend the be- 
trayal might be softened by offering his convic- 
tion that he must step forward and accept the 
hands of the plotters in order to save the country 
from the full effects of their evil designs. But 
when he had gone the round, and elaborated 
every point, it was no easier to do than before. 
It was not long since he and Elinor had been 
dining alone with the President, and during 
some discussion, in answer to those sweetened 
persuasions of Mr. Grey as to the expediency 
of temporizing and awaiting the course of 
events, the old man had persisted in his opin- 



ions, and Mr. Grey had seen by Elinor's kin- 
dling face how she honored his courage and 
shared his belief. He recollected how at some 
speech of hers his old friend's hand had been 
laid caressingly on her head as it so often had 
in her childhood, and he exclaimed — "Ah, 
Mr. Grey, whatever befalls you, here is your 
comforter ; and, unlike most women, she knows 
on what her sympathies are based." Perhaps 
that was the last time they three would ever 
hold such friendly talk, and Mr. Grey wonder- 
ed if the tender words the old man had spoken, 
and the confidence he had expressed, would be 
one of the prominent recollections in Elinor's 
mind should he be forced to tell her that he had 
left his friend to bear the tempest alone. Any 
day, almost any hour, might force him to a de- 
cision ; if certain proposed measures came up 
before the House, the next Cabinet council 
might show the President that even in that cir- 
cle he stood surrounded by opposition, and Mr. 
Grey might go forth, certain one day to stand 
in that very room holding the reins in his own 
grasp, a perjured man to his conscience. 

Down from those doubts and waverings he 
had come in the stillness of the night to sharp- 
er stings, more present troubles, growing out of 
those business dealings with Pluto, and his mis- 
erable secret with himself. But the dismal news 
the Bull had sent was softened by an exposition 
of his hopes and arrangements, for the man still 
believed in his own powers and the possibility of 
tiding over the peril. He wanted now the 
earliest information possible of the report con- 
cerning a certain bill that the Senate had placed 
in the hands of a committee ; to be certain wheth- 
er it would be rejected or passed when it was 
brought up, as it would be very soon. What 
he asked was a little start of Wall Street in 
general, that he might know whether the great 
heaps of stock were to be called in or dexterous- 
ly disposed of, or in some way transformed be- 
fore the result should be common property. 
The means thus placed in his hands would help 
him very far along ; Mr. Grey's anxiety should 
be set at rest. 

Driving toward the Department, Mr. Grey's 
carriage was recognized and stopped by some 
messenger who had a note for him which he 
had been charged to deliver with all speed ; as 
the carriage was driving on again Mr. Grey 
caught sight of Leighton Rossitur descending 
the steps of his hotel. " The very man I want- 
ed to see," said he, as Rossitur approached in 
answer to his gesture ; " I was afraid you would 
not be on hand. I have forty different things 
to do at once." 

Rossitur had seen him and come up with 
something of a tumult in his heart, but Mr. 
Grey's manner and words proved that he was 
still in ignorance of the scene of last night. 
Did Elinor mean to keep his threat a secret? 
Had she thought it too contemptible to repeat? 
Those were his first thoughts ; then he steadied 
himself and tried to appear as usual, which was 
not easy, as it would not have been for any man 



22-1 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



who had only found time to wash bis face after 
a night's revelry. " I suppose I can help you 
with a few of the forty ; but you are very early," 
he said, "or I am very late." 

" I am early," Mr. Grey answered, opening 
the carriage door. " But you don't look well 
this morning ; did you keep up the ball too 
long ?" he continued, as they drove off. 

" Dancing till near day-light, and having 
some work to do after, is not likely to make a 
man wear the look lie would wish preserved in 
bis portrait," said Rossitur, laughing. 

"Not exactly," replied Mr. Grey absently, 
looking at the note be held. 

" How are the ladies this morning?" Rossi- 
tur asked, desirous to discover whether Elinor 
bad withheld any revelation or it had been post- 
poned from lack of opportunity. 

" Still in bed and asleep, I fancy," replied 
Mr. Grey ; " at least neither of them were visi- 
ble when I left the house." 

"And no wonder," Rossitur said, glancing at 
his watch. "I think you can not have had 
much sleep yourself." 

"I am greatly perplexed, Rossitur," said 
Mr. Grey. " Here's a note from Falcon — he 
got here last night. Those men have a meet- 
ing this morning and they insist on my coming." 

"The conspirators calling for Cataline," re- 
turned Rossitur with a sneer ; he could not keep 
the words back. Mr. Grey never gave way to 
temper, but at that malapropos remark he put 
the note in his pocket and took out his snuff- 
box. "That is," added Rossitur, so quickly 
that it seemed the continuation of his first sen- 
tence, " according to the view you will take of 
the case. Now, you know, I think the Presi- 
dent a miserable old fogy, without brains 
enough to discover that what he calls patriotism 
is tyranny and hard-hcadedness, and I only 
wonder that you have hesitated so long about 
playing the part of Brutus." 

Mr. Grey took a pinch of snuff and endeavor- 
ed to forget the former unfortunate comparison, 
which was very unlike Rossitur. " I have 
avoided meeting them in full conclave," he said. 

"Yes; and they begin to complain loudly. 
I assure you I had great difficulty in keeping 
the red-hot ones quiet yesterday." 

"I owe you much for all your trouble and 
patience in this business," said Mr. Grey ; "I 
could not have kept matters undecided so long 
without you ; but you won't find me forgetful, 
Rossitur." 

"There is no need to assure me of that, 
Sir," Rossitur answered, and thought — "I'd 
like to see you try it, even if dame Elinor tells 
her tale." Then in the same breath be added 
aloud, " I do assure you, Mr. Grey, it will be 
simply impossible to hold off any longer." 

" I know, I know," he answered hastily. 
Then the knowledge that of all the world this 
was the one man to whom he could speak free- 
ly, made him add, " But this is a weighty mat- 
ter, Rossitur." 

"It is as clear as a map, Sir! They are 



bound to support you, and there isn't another 
man in the country so certain to run in on their 
platform." 

"I was not referring to that," said Mr. Grey ; 
"the doubt of success has not kept me unde- 
cided ; I want to be certain that I am right." 

Now Rossitur did not believe that any human 
being would have such scruples at a time like 
the present, nor bad the minister stated the 
feeling in his mind fairly ; what he wanted was 
to hear Rossitur's specious arguments repeated, 
that they might come to' him like an echo of 
public opinion, wherewith he could strengthen 
bis courage to face his friend and his conscience 
— that is, Elinor — with the truth. 

"If the President persists in that Spanish 
business, you can't stand by him," Rossitur said. 

"And he will," replied Mr. Grey. 

"Then that settles the whole and makes your 
course perfectly plain. Your decision will be 
forced upon you, and after that he can't be in 
any way a question in your mind. The voice 
of the people, Sir, must go with you, and you 
will only be praised, as you ought, for having 
tried so faithfully to cure his blindness and ob- 
stinacy." 

The carriage stopped at the Department as 
Rossitur finished his little speech and he fol- 
lowed Mr. Grey into the private rooms, smiling 
at the false ring of it, and the Secretary's will- 
ingness to accept it for the silver voice of 
Truth's trumpet. " Are you going to Falcon ?" 
he asked. 

Mr. Grey was breaking the seal of a note 
that had been handed to him as he passed 
through the offices, and began to read it with- 
out having heard the question. The letter 
was from the President, asking for a private 
interview without delay ; not an official mes- 
sage from the Chief Magistrate to his minister, 
but a few honest lines from the man to his trust- 
ed comrade. The rumors of Mr. Grey's defec- 
tion had reached his ear and be asked him to 
answer; he wanted before the Cabinet meeting 
took place on the morrow to know upon what 
he had to depend. He would not believe that 
the counsellor whom he bad summoned to his 
side, that he might have not only the support 
of apolitical coadjutor but the advice of a friend, 
was about to desert him, seduced by the bribe 
of the chair of state that had proved so thorny 
a seat to himself ; but he desired him to come 
that they migbt converse freely together and see 
exactly where they stood. 

Mr. Grey read his letters and said — "Fal- 
con must wait ; they must put off that consulta- 
tion till to-morrow." 

" Really, Mr. Grey — excuse me, but I do not 
see how you can ask further time — every moment 
is precious now." 

"I can't meet them this morning," he re- 
plied, in a voice that showed more irritation 
than be often displayed. "The French dis- 
patches are in — I have to go to the President." 

" Do you wish me to see Falcon ?" 

" No, I will write. Stay a moment." 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



225 



He stood thinking ; somebody tapped at the 
door. It was a message for Rossitur — two let- 
ters. One he put in his pocket after glancing 
at the superscription ; as he opened the other 
he said — "This is from Hackett;" and glanc- 
ing down the page, added, " he wants to know 
about the bill." 

" Ah ! that is what I wanted you to do for 
me," returned Mr. Grey. "He is greatly put 
about — the committee will certainly bring in 
their report before night. If you will find out 
what it is to be and which way the Senate will 
go — Simmons will tell you ; get to him if he is 
in the committee-room, find out to a certainty, 
and telegraph." 

He had forgotten the minister in those other 
anxieties, and Rossitur, curious to see how 
much he could be moved, said — "My opinion 
is, that if he can't stand up to this he'll go over 
the bay." 

Mr. Grey's face, though firm and cold as ever, 
looked as though something had suddenly flung 
a pale shadow across it. "You've no news 
that I have not heard ?" he asked, yet with a 
kind of denial of the interrogatory in his tone. 

"No ; I was only speaking my thoughts." 

"But you brought every confirmation of suc- 
cess yourself from him," said Mr. Grey, looking 
up with sudden sternness, as if wondering what 
this unusual manner might mean. " A down- 
right failure to him would be next to impossible ; 
you might almost as well expect Wall Street to 
sink bodily." 

" That is true," Rossitur answered ; "I spoke 
carelessly. Well, Sir, I will attend to all that 
business ; there is nothing but to send him the 
figures one way or the other. I'll get at Sim- 
mons." 

" That is all ; there is no doubt the bill will 
pass — he seems provided for either way ; what 
he wants is correct information in advance. I 
confess I don't quite see how all his plans hinge." 

" I imagine that no created being but a New 
York broker could," replied Rossitur. 

" I dare say not. Any way, I am thankful 
he is righting ; I was exceedingly anxious for 
a while." 

" And a few extra hundred thousands will not 
come amiss toward election time," said Rossitur, 
laughing. 

Mr. Grey glanced at his watch ; it was al- 
most the hour the President had appointed ; he 
must go. He was strangely beset by a feeling 
of haste, a sensation such as we have often in 
dreams ; trying to think how he was to bear 
himself in the interview ; if the best thing to do 
was so far to admit that he was wavering as to ask 
till the Cabinet council for time to deliberate ; 
he was worried beyond measure by the Pluto- 
nian dispatches, and his desire to impress upon 
Rossitur the necessity for expedition and exact- 
ness, without betraying his great anxiety. 

"If you will write Falcon I shall be obliged," 
said he. " Write in your own name as usual ; 
say that to-morrow you will be prepared to give a 
definite answer. That ought to be satisfactory. " 



"Yes ; but it will have to be given then." « 

" Very well, very well. And, Rossitur, you 
will see Simmons at once ; there is no telling 
but the bill may come up to-morrow." 

" I will do it ; you may depend upon me." 

"Yes, I know; an error now might be fatal 
to him." 

" It might — to him," returned Rossitur, curl- 
ing his mustache. "There shall not be any. 
Is that all ?" 

" Yes, I believe so. Upon my word, Rossi- 
tur, sometimes I wish that I had kept the em- 
bassy and stayed away from all this rush and 
worry." 

"You are not thinking of Wall Street now, 
I suppose," replied Rossitur; "you mean po- 
litical worries." 

" Of course," said Mr. Grey, giving him that 
half-wondering look again. 

"Still," pursued Rossitur, "after the first 
open step, it will not be unpleasant looking for- 
ward to the next inaugm-ation day." 

"And yet that will be only the beginning of 
the real trouble," said the minister; "those 
men are a set of harpies." 

"Yes," replied Rossitur lightly, "but one 
can't quite go in for the Idol's dream of bliss — 
being a shepherd with a crook." 

They both laughed a little ; Mr. Grey was 
unlocking drawers and looking into them in 
search of some papers he wanted. " Ah, here," 
he said, "just enclose these to Hackett; they 
ought to have been sent several days since." 

There were a few more hurried questions and 
answers ; Mr. Grey's time was up and he took 
his departure. Rossitur sat down at a desk, 
wrote a note to Falcon and dispatched it by one 
of the messengers. It was necessary then to 
go in search of Simmons. Oh, the papers for 
Pluto ! He took them out of the drawer which 
Mr. Grey had left open ; they were not of a 
nature, of course, to tell him any thing that he 
was not to know ; there was nothing to do but 
enclose them in an envelope, lie was not think- 
ing much of what he was doing; his hand 
trembled and his head was dizzy, though he 
had made his breakfast off two cocktails to 
steady himself. Business of any kind was a bur- 
den which caused him to curse it, instead of lay- 
ing the blame of its heaviness on his own folly. 

He was thinking of Elinor Grey and the over- 
powering scorn which had flashed upon him out 
of her eyes; he was madder under that reflec- 
tion than from the effect of his night's revel. 
He thought that when she did make her revela- 
tions there was an end to personal friendship be- 
tween himself and Mr. Grey. If the Secretary 
accepted the Falcon proposition, neither he nor 
the party could throw him, Rossitur, over ; if he 
did not, his anger was a matter of no moment — 
he would go out of power with the present Ad- 
ministration. It was all disgusting ; political 
advancement a miserable humbug. He would 
take a foreign appointment — if Mr. Grey be- 
came President he could not refuse him that, 
whatever his feelings might be ; he would ac- 



22G 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



cept it and get out of the turmoil of the next 
four years, which would be better avoided by a 
man who had a whole political life before him. 
He would marry Genevieve Laidley, and her 
money would gild the foreign life in which he 
could deaden the sense of disappointment and 
defeat. Her name reminded him that a note 
from her lay in his pocket. How he sickened 
at the recollection of her while thinking of Eli- 
nor Grey, and that which he had lost. The 
varying emotions concentrated in a fierce rage 
against the woman who had overwhelmed him 
with her contempt. He hated her with the hate 
of a fiend ; at that instant he would have sold his 
soul for revenge upon her. He remembered how 
during those weeks of waiting he had solaced 
himself by the thought that if the worst came, 



look of scorn into humiliation and fear. He 
understood every thing — that a downfall to 
Pluto was ruin to Mr. Grey ; that it was Gene- 
vieve Laidley's money he had used in the re- 
cent strait. Fool that he had been, with his pre- 
vious information, not to have comprehended at 
once ; with his knowledge of what the stocks be- 
longing to her were, with those fatal letters sev- 
eral times written upon his notes, to have need- 
ed this last clue — why, the wit upon which he 
prided himself had grown dull indeed. No mat- 
ter ; before now the revelation could have done 
no good — he must have waited ; nay, it had come 
at the most fitting moment, as if Destiny had de- 
sired to put revenge in his hands. He, scorned, 
defeated, made to know that he was stripped of 
the last shred of his false colors, his baseness 



and he was obliged to accept his dismissal as fully comprehended — and this in his hands — 



final, in some way he would have vengeance ; 
it was to have been made ready for his hand to 
deal if he desired. The crowning abasement had 
smitten his plans and he was powerless to touch 
the woman who had humbled him. Why, what 
a pitiful dreamer he was ! — what a wretched 
driveller! — only fit to rave and tear at his own 
heart, instead of having the means of reprisal 
in his clutch. But he had no time to spare for 
reflection ; he must curse himself and admit 
that he was powerless. No turn of events now 
could give him the least hold upon her ; she had 
gone completely out of his world — no, worse 
than that, she had convicted him of baseness and 
cast him so far below her height in her scorn 
that he could not reach up to her level again. 
Curses, treble curses on her, himself and fate ! 
Ah well! lie must leave it there and send off 
those letters to Hackett and hunt up Simmons. 
He went back to the papers. A memorandum 
upon one of them caught his eye ; he started at 
it— muttered something — suddenly flung the 
document on the table and started to his feet as 
a man might who had been groping about in 
the dark and had caught a glimmer of light in 
the distance. He opened other drawers and ex- 
amined the papers they contained ; he searched 
in a private desk of his own for certain memo- 
randa that he had made in regard to diverse 
matters which had come to his knowledge in 
helping Mr. Grey in that business ; each tiling 
the merest trifle by itself, but linked with things 
discovered at other times, equally trifling in 
themselves, the. whole made a copy that was 
plain to him. Scraps of information in regard 
to the investments of Miss Laidley's fortune ; 
notes concerning a score of apposite details. 
He was unfolding them — peering into them — re- 
calling Mr. Grey's excitement — words Pluto had 
let fall, puzzling at the time — suddenly coming 
upon that which made the whole, conversation 
and papers, clear to him, though they would 
have been heathen hieroglyphics to another. 
He stood there breathing hard — not seeing the 
place or aught about him — not summoning the 
image of the man whose steps he had tracked 
at last — in fancy standing before Elinor Grey, 
confronting her with his tale, changing that 



the vengeance he had sworn should be his if the 
culmination of events showed him that his love 
was slighted — nay, a sharper sting than he 
could have hoped for ! And this whirl in his 
brain — these fierce thoughts tugging like hot 
hands at his heart — O Elinor Grey, Elinor Grey ! 

He sat down and took out of his pocket the 
letter Miss Laidley had written. It was full of 
contrition for her cruel words, begging him to 
forgive and come to her ; telling him that Eli- 
nor had so ill - treated her in Mrs. Tallman's 
presence that this good friend had taken her out 
of the house in the middle of the night. Now 
she was frightened nearly to deatli and implored 
him to come; she would do whatever he told 
her ; there should be no hesitation, no delay ; 
she loved him, heart and soul ; only he must 
come at once — come before her guardian could 
get there. He crumpled the letter in his hand 
and laughed aloud. More revenge : a bitter, 
biting wind of gossip to fan the flame of ruin. 
Wait, let him look clearly. He had wanted to 
see Elinor Grey in the dust at his feet : the 
thunderbolt that should strike her was in his 
own grasp. He walked up and down the room 
— came back — took up the papers Mr. Grey had 
left, and glanced carefully down his own notes 
and ciphers. Gradually, as if some unseen 
hand had mapped it out upon the pages before 
his eyes, the course became plain. If Pluto 
passed this danger Mr. Grey was safe ; those 
stocks had been used as a temporary help, they 
would be replaced on the first occasion offering. 
If Pluto failed suddenly, with a terrible crash, 
which Rossitur knew he had been so near doing, 
Mr. Grey was powerless to hide the defalcation 
only until his ward reached her majority. If 
she married, he could not conceal it for a day. 
By the terms of her father's will her husband 
could demand on the instant the rendering up 
of the guardian's trust. 

Wait ! Was it not all arranged — had he 
any thing to do but follow the pointing of Fate's 
finger ? Miss Laidley was more likely to mar- 
ry him in secret, at an hour's notice, than if she 
were given time to get weary of her novel by an 
engagement. She would snatch at any chance 
so romantic as an elopement ; the wilder the 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



227 



reason given for its necessity the more eager 
and excited she would be. If Pluto failed the 
money was lost — half her fortune ; but there 
were four hundred thousand dollars left — that 
amount left and the power to call Mr. Grey in- 
stantly to account. Rossitur knew well what 
Miss Laidley's fortune was ; he knew the exact 
terms of the will — Indiana Tallman had once 
shown him a copy of it. Why, it was ruin in- 
evitable and of the most horrible kind ; a story 
to be a theme for tongues and books during 
years to come — a man within a step of the Pres- 
idency proved an untrustworthy guardian to an 
innocent girl ! And all to come home to Eli- 
nor Grey — to smite her pride in one fell swoop 
— the daughter of a man so disgraced that he 
could never hold up his head again. If old 
Hackett failed ! Every thing turned upon that. 
If one error occurred now, if there were one false 
step, Hackett must fail ; he was so cramped and 
encumbered that in spite of his wide-spread re- 
sources he must go overboard if a fresh blow 
struck him too suddenly for him to be prepared. 
If he failed, and at one sweep the news of the 
broker's downfall and a letter from his ward's hus- 
band, demanding the instant delivery of the 
charge in his hands, came upon Mr. Grey, where 
was Elinor Grey then ? With time given she 
might help him. Well, that would be ruin to 
her. But there should be no time ; the ruin 
should come like lightning, and Elinor Grey 
know that he had kept his oath, that he had 
shown her how he could avenge. 

The moments were passing. The shock that 
should let the tempest burst, he saw what it must 
be ; he could not think of that, only of his re- 
venge. He scribbled a passionate note to Gene- 
vieve Laidley ; he told her that if she did not 
desire to be parted from him forever she must 
be prepared to act at once according to his de- 
cision. He could not explain ; they were beset 
by dangers and wily foes ; within two hours he 
would be by her side. He sent the note, seized 
his hat, and before his brain had done reeling he 
found himself in the Senate room. Every thing 
was dolefully quiet there, and matters proceed- 
ing with their usual dull precision. Some old 
venerable was speaking upon some subject, his 
spectacles on nose, and a flag of foolscap with 
piratical-looking black lines on it in his hand. 
Only a decent number of Conscript Fathers were 
present. One Senator was nodding behind a 
newspaper, perhaps he had been among the il- 
lustrious shades at the Idol's ball ; another was 
absorbed in rapt contemplation of his own boot- 
heels ; two or three were gathered in a knot 
about one desk and were evidently listening to 
and telling funny stories in turn ; several sat 
upright and resignedly despairing in their places; 
others looked miserable in other attitudes, but 
miserable enough all such as made a pretense 
of listening looked, while the merciless old soul 
that had the floor droned on with his — "And 
thirdly, Mr. Speaker, and lastly, Mr. Speaker." 
But nobody was deceived by that lastly, which 
was the three hundred and fourteenthly at 



least ; not a Senator present goose enough to 
have any faith therein, while the foolscap flut- 
tered in fresh folds. But he did stop unexpect- 
edly — as if he had not been sufficiently wound 
up. The dozing Senator shook himself; the 
admirer of his own boot-heels put them out of 
sight for future contemplation ; the story-telling 
men stopped in the exercise of their talents ; 
two or three Romans who had been out im- 
bibing morning potations appeared ; two or 
three others straggled in from somewhere else, 
looking as seedy as if the somewhere had been 
a place they ought not to have been at, and the 
Speaker rapped lustily for order. More noise ; 
more debate ; a trio of men eager to catch that 
functionary's eye that they might shout "Mr. 
Speaker," and he avoiding such catastrophe with 
the dexterity of long practice ; cries of " Ques- 
tion, question ;" really some hope of an end to 
something. 

There Rossitur stood till the room and its oc- 
cupants reeled before his eyes, and the rows of 
faithful guardians of the public weal seemed to 
be trying to dance jigs on the ceiling, and the 
hum of voices was like a loud wind in his ear. 
What was he there for ? why was he waiting ? 
He felt dizzy, he wanted air; why wasn't he 
off? He captured a wandering Roman : where 
was Simmons — in the committee-room ? Yes, 
he was there safe enough, and thither Rossitur 
went, wondering why he could not make haste, 
why he was held as by a nightmare. Mr. Grey's 
potent name brought out the desired man. He 
could give a certainty as answer : the bill was 
sure to come up at once and to pass, there was 
no shadow of doubt; there were names, any 
thing to oblige Mr. Grey, and Simmons not 
asking or caring for reasons. What more was 
Rossitur waiting for? Something tugging at 
him on every side till it seemed to him that he 
must be staggering like a drunken man. He 
ought to be in the telegraph office. It was only 
a matter of sending a couple of figures — it was 
like making 14 instead of 24 — that was all he 
had to do ; those operators made such blunders 
every day. Simmons going off; something 
stronger pulling and dragging at Rossitur ; Eli- 
nor Grey's eyes full of scorn gazing at him 
and through him as they had gazed on the pre- 
ceding night, blotting out every thing but the 
hate and his oath. He was out of the anteroom, 
he was in the air ; it was all like a nightmare 
still. The next thing he realized he was making 
his figures; perhaps he should wake before he 
finished writing the address of Hackett's pur- 
blind old clerk, superannuated long ago, whose 
name even was forgotten in the office, hut who 
could faithfully discharge the part assigned to 
him. The heading written — the figures ; Ros- 
situr was watching the preparations for their 
being flashed over the wires. He had swallow- 
ed a glass of brand}*, the nightmare oppression 
was gone, it seemed to him that his head was 
perfectly clear ; he was like a man under the 
control of hasheesh rather than the influence 
of drink. So much of his work done, and he 



228 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



had simply telegraphed the truth — " Doubtful." 
How long to be so was another matter. After 
all, he had done nothing. Were he brought 
face to face with Mr. Grey and Pluto, at the 
most he had only blundered in a figure ; not 
he either. There was nothing to think about ; 
a wrong — a crime was different from that. He 
might not have been able to forge a name ; 
there would have been a deliberation about that 
from which even in his frenzy he would have 
recoiled. This was an error, no more than 
that. He could not realize any reality in the 
matter, with hundreds of miles between him and 
its consummation. When the Caliph in the 
Eastern story cut the rope he was safe in his 
luxurious chamber, beyond the power of feeling 
what he did. Coil by coil it swept away under 
ground ; miles, leagues. He could not hear 
the great stone drop ; the horrible death caused 
by the fall could not be his causing. 

Rossitur had more -brandy, then he drove to 
the Banger's house and was received by that 
strong-minded female, who informed him that 
Miss Laidley had cried herself to sleep an hour 
before. 

" Did she get my note ?" he asked. 

"Yes; it was a little comfort to her, and 
glad enough I was when she went to sleep. I 
never had any nerves myself, and I don't know 
what to do with the young females of this gen- 
eration. Nerves, indeed ! What you want in 
this world is blood and bone !" 

" She wrote me so confusedly," Rossitur said, 
" that I could make nothing of it, beyond the 
fact of your having brought her away from her 
guardian's house in a strange way — " 

"In the dead of the night," broke in the 
Banger; "with her dress half torn off her by 
that amiable Miss Grey ; and if the story isn't 
spread far and wide, my name is not Indiana 
Tallman." 

Now furious as Rossitur was with Elinor Grey, 
he could not be idiot enough to believe the 
narrative with which Indiana followed up her 
exclamations, but he chose to think that he did 
for the moment and lashed himself into a new 
rage ; that was easy enough to do. " The hell 
cat!" he exclaimed. 

"Exactly what she is," replied the Banger 
approvingly, "That's the most sensible word 
I've heard you speak in a month, and if it would 
be any relief to swear, don't let my presence stop 
you. There's nothing abominable but I could 
hear with pleasure about that creature — with her 
airs and her queening it." 

Rossitur laughed bitterly. " I think there's 
a little blow in store for her," said he. 

"What is it? What do you mean?" de- 
manded the Banger. 

Rossitur collected his senses ; it would not 
answer to be premature in his exultation. Sure- 
ly he had not drunk enough to be an ass ; if any 
thing, he needed more to steady himself. "This, 
of course ; what you're saying." 

" Oh ! Now look here, Rossitur," said Indi- 
ana. "I'mawomanofsenseanddecision; what 



I think I say, and when I have to act, I act. I 
hate shilly-shallying." 

" So do I," said Rossitur. 

"Humph!" retorted she. "Well, never 
mind ; only I must say I think you've done a 
good deal of it during these last weeks." 

"It has been forced upon me, Mrs. Tallman." 

" Perhaps it was. No matter ; there's one 
thing certain now: if this girl goes back to Mr. 
Grey's house you'll never get her — witch Elinor 
will see to that — and I shouldn't think you were 
the man to throw away near a million when it's 
between your fingers." 

"I am not likely to be thinking about the 
money — " 

"There," interrupted the Banger, "that'll 
do ; keep that for Genevieve. I represent Com- 
mon-sense ; I've no taste for heroics whatever. 
I should call you a fool if you didn't think about 
it." 

This style of dialogue was very disagreeable 
to Rossitur at that moment. He could easily 
work himself into a theatrical enthusiasm and 
make mad love to the Angel, but he did not wish 
to be brought back to the commonplace. "Let 
me see Genevieve," he said ; "please tell her I 
am here." 

" Of course," returned the Banger; "I'm 
not an ogress. I brought her for you — I like 
you ! I dare say ten years ago I might have 
loved you, as so many of these women have. 
Bah ! I'm not afraid to call things by their names 
— I'm Common-sense." 

Rossitur thought of something she was more 
like, but he could not mention it ; besides she 
looked very far off, the room seemed to grow 
larger ; through the rattle of her voice he heard 
the click of the telegraph wires, he saw Elinor's 
face changing from pride to fear ; heard, saw, 
and felt as he had once done when the revela- 
tions contained in a wonderful book made him 
essay the power of the strange Eastern drug. 

"Good gracious!" exclaimed the Banger. 
' ' You are as pale as a ghost, and your hand 
shakes like a leaf." 

" I am a good deal excited by this news." 

"You must drink a glass of wine," said the 
Banger, who prided herself on always having her 
wits about her. "When I say wine, 1 mean 
brandy ; wine's cat-lap, where real benefit is to 
be done. Come into the dining-room ; I dare 
say luncheon is up." She took him into the 
dining-room, poured him out brandy in a way 
that proved she understood the need of a good 
deal of a good thing being necessary, and while 
he drank it and forced himself to eat a crust of 
bread, she went on: "I have been expecting 
old Grey here all the morning. I wish he'd 
come ! I'd like nothing better than to tell him 
what I think of him and his daughter. I'd shake 
his blandness and his smoothness and his hypoc- 
risy — I've no patience with it !" 

"He doesn't know Miss Laidley has left his 
house ; I saw him early this morning." 

' ' Very well ; he'll find it out soon ! Let him 
come to me — let Madam Elinor come if she 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



220 



likes ! I think I am Indiana Tallman — I be- 
lieve I am acquainted with myself," said the 
Banger, with a fine show of scorn and irony. 

Yes, he would find it out soon ; that reminded 
Rossitur there was no time to be lost. He want- 
ed to be married before the news from Wall 
Street could reacli Mr. Grey ; that and the ti- 
dings that he was required to deliver up his trust 
must come together. 

"Will you tell Genevieve I am here, Mrs. 
Tallman? Indeed I can not wait; there is a 
great deal to be done. Let me see her, then I'll 
explain every thing to you. " 

"Act first, explain after," said the Banger, 
who thought that sounded as pithy as one of Sol- 
omon's proverbs. She rushed away— that is the 
only expression which gives an idea of her style 
of locomotion — to rouse and prepare the angel- 
ic martyr, and very soon the fragile creature was 
arrayed and established in the Banger's dressing- 
room. 

She was pale and trembling, very much fright- 
ened, very much in earnest ; but even her deep- 
est emotion had such a leaven of romance about 
it that it was like a play. She had been afraid 
Rossitur was gone forever, and she loved him 
more wildly than she had ever done ; she was in 
mortal terror lest her guardian should come and 
force her back ; she was enough excited by sal- 
volatile, laudanum, and every- other species of 
restorative that the Banger had recklessly pour- 
ed down her throat each time in the night she 
opened her mouth for a hysterical shriek, to be 
ready for any thing that resembled an adventure. 

"Genevieve! Angel!" cried Rossitur burst- 
ing into the room, and had her in his arms, call- 
ing her by every tender name, and pouring out a 
llood of lofty rubbish. But there was method 
in his madness, or rather the instant his lips 
touched hers he was not mad at all, except to 
think that this girl was in his embrace instead 
of the woman he loved and hated. It was a 
very dull business the love-making, and he was 
thankful for the fresh stimulant the Banger had 
offered. He went through the necessary scene 
with due spirit, and still with that hasheesh-given 
power to see and hear so much at once ; scenes 
and faces far away were a fuller reality to him 
than the actual surroundings. 

Genevieve told him that she loved him, that 
she would live or die for him as he saw fit, and 
lie had to explain that if she wished to live with 
him there was no time to be lost. They were 
in imminent danger of being separated forever: 
if she were once back in Mr. Grey's power there 
was no hope for them. — Never ! She would stab 
herself first ! — There was a way : they must be 
married at once secretly. — An elopement ? a se- 
cret marriage? Genevieve was delighted with 
the idea. — Very rapidly but clearly he laid out 
his plans. They would go to Europe. — Anoth- 
er charm ! but most delightful it was to be like 
one of the stolen matches in books. — They coidd 
not sail just yet ; indeed, he had an important 
[dot against Elinor to carry out. — Here he grew 
very vague and more melodramatic. — They 



would hide themselves for a few days in a house 
near the city owned by a friend of Rossitur's, 
which fortunately at this time had nobody but 
the servants in it. 

The truth was, Rossitur had no idea of sailing 
until what was left of her fortune should be in 
his power ; the concealment in the friend's house 
he pi-oposed because it would please her fancy 
and he wished to be on the ground when the dis- 
aster reached Mr. Grey. The Angel was in a 
state of excitement too intense to think collect- 
edly about any thing. Rossitur went to Indiana 
and unfolded his designs, which met with her 
warm approval. There was not much to ar- 
range ; he had only to go in pursuit of a clergy- 
man and of the friend who owned the house he 
wanted and get his possessions packed. If Mr. 
Grey appeared while he was gone, the servants 
were charged not to let him in ; he was to be 
told that Mrs. Tallman and Miss Laidley had 
gone out to drive and would not be back till dark. 
The Banger would have preferred to meet the 
guardian if he did come to claim his ward— her 
soul was eager for a fray — but Rossitur showed 
her the necessity of deferring it until matters 
were made secure. He hurried away to find his 
friend, who was happy to oblige him and cared 
very little whether he wanted to take a wife or 
somebody else to the house that had held more 
than one inmate, and wherein Rossitur himself 
had mingled in revels which perhaps he would 
not care to recall as he led his bride over its 
threshold. 

Married in church Miss Laidley would be — 
the runaways in English novels always were — 
and in a white dress ; fortunately the latter 
need was easily supplied from her countless 
stores. Rossitur returned with every thing pre- 
pared. A messenger had been dispatched to 
the bouse with orders t<f have it in readiness, and 
the trusty group of domestics were too much ac- 
customed to hasty descents upon the quiet of the 
domain not to be prepared. A clergyman had 
been warned, and luckily, for appearance' sake in 
Miss Laidley's eyes, his church was a sombre, 
shadowy place that made one shiver. The An- 
gel was dressed when Rossitur arrived, so lovely 
in her nervousness and her rich satin which she 
had had made from some caprice and never worn, 
that under the influence of more potations it oc- 
curred to Rossitur he had not done so ill for 
himself. Little short of half a million was not 
to be despised ; he could afford to give the rest 
for his revenge. As the click of the telegraph 
wires sounded anew in his ears he began to be 
fiercely glad. There was great haste and con- 
fusion ; not that there was the slightest reason, 
but such attendants seemed necessary to a sbcret 
marriage, and Juanita and the Banger flew about 
discoursing in unearthly whispers that would 
have been more in place in Mrs. Ratcliffe's Cas- 
tle of Udolpho than in a modern dwelling. 

The wretched travesty of romance and a run- 
away marriage took its course. The pair stood 
in the shadowy church and uttered those vows, 
awful in their solemnity, with about as much 



230 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



thought as nine couples out of ten do in this 
remarkable age. Genevieve kept glancing nerv- 
ously about, expecting each instant to see her 
guardian appear with a troop of myrmidons at 
his back — having last seen him at the fancy-ball, 
she pictured him in the attire he wore there — 
but no such interruption occurred. The Bang- 
er and Rossitur's friend were the only specta- 
tors besides Juanita, and they were neither of 
them people likely to be moved by the imprcss- 
iveness or the romance. The Banger was think- 
ing how delightfully she had punished the 
Greys*; the reckless-faced man was thinking 
what a deuced good thing Rossitur had made of 
it, and wondering whether he was the sort of 
fellow likely to be useful when another fellow's 
debts became so pressing that little luxuries 
like secret houses, and unlimited poker, and 
race-horses, and other healthful pleasures should 
be difficult of obtainment. 

They were married. As they turned from the 
altar the bride flung herself on Indiana's Spar- 
tan breast and murmured her thanks, whisper- 
ing for the fiftieth time that day that the instant 
she reached New York there would be sought a 
gift, the splendor of which, great as it might be, 
could feebly express her love and gratitude. 
She did this because people are true to their 
characteristics even in the agitation of being 
married or dying, and gave way to fresh tears. 
Then she looked about again for her guardian 
in mediaeval costume, followed perhaps by men 
with halberds ; then up rushed Juanita to kiss 
her hand and chatter like an aged monkey 
troubled with colic. There were hurried fare- 
well words ; attempts at pretty speeches from 
the reckless man, which seemed damp and limp, 
and smelled of cigar-smoke and juleps and a 
gambling-house ; then Rossitur hurried her im- 
patiently down the aisle And their three compan- 
ions followed. 

It was not an enlivening sight as they reach- 
ed the church porch to see a hearse, followed by 
a short train of mourning-carriages, drive up 
and their vehicles forced to give way thereto ; 
a typical show of how every thing, even wed- 
dings, must give way to the grim Summoner. It 
really appeared for a moment that the marriage 
and funeral trains were about to meet ; the cof- 
fin be carried into the church past the bride 
coming out. Genevieve shrieked aloud and 
shrunk back, and the Banger whispered to the 
reckless-faced man — 

" Good heavens ! how unfortunate." 

" Ya-as," drawled he, not to be disturbed or 
surprised ; " they're not going in that, are 
they ?" 

It appeared there was some mistake. Out 
rushed the man who had been helping the cler- 
gyman get his robe off, and interchanged a few 
words with the driver of the hearse, while Ros- 
situr drew his new-made wife back into the ves- 
tibule and she hid her face in his bosom, too 
sorely frightened for an instant to remember 
that there was a tragical romance about the en- 
counter. The hearse and funeral-carriages 



drove slowly on, the hearse creaking somewhat 
as if it had expected to engulf new victims in 
its maw and felt a sense of injury in not being 
permitted, while the mourners stared at the bri- 
dal-party over the handkerchiefs, which they had 
remembered somewhat late to put up to their 
eyes. 

"It was a mistake," whispered the sexton to 
Mrs. Tallman and the reckless man ;" twasn't 
our funeral at all ! Belongs to a Baptist meeting- 
house round the corner. Some folks can't even 
go out of the world straight." 

" Who was it, anyhow?" asked the reckless 
man. 

"Upon my word, I forget the name. It's an 
old lady every body knew — I've seen her lots of 
times; deaf as a post. Odd, I — " 

"Why," whispered Indiana, "it wasoldMrs. 
— what was Jier name? — that always came to 
parties. I heard last night she was dead." 

"Trying to get in where she had no business 
to the last," returned her companion. "Upon 
my word, that's being consistent; now, isn't it? 
Ruling passion strong in etcetera, isn't it ?" 

"Hush !" said Indiana. 

The hearse and the carriages disappeared 
round the corner ; and as the meeting-house 
was near, probably that was the poor deaf lady's 
final mistake in a world that had been for so 
many years little more than an immense cav- 
ern of indistinct noises to her. It was to be re- 
marked that she could not get her name pro- 
nounced even at the last juncture in which it 
was likely to come up. The relations in the 
carriages were bestowing original and unpleas- 
ant epithets upon her, none of which could have 
been put on a visiting-card or a coffin-|>late, be- 
cause they had discovered that the little hoard 
to which they had looked forward during the 
long siege of shouting themselves hoarse at the 
end of her ear-trumpet, and sometimes getting 
puffs of snuffy wind in their eyes when she blew 
through it instead of spoke, as was her habit in 
moments of agitation, had been disposed of be- 
yond their reach years and years ago, and there 
was nothing left unless it might be the blue 
feathers and opera-cloak ; and even those treas- 
ures were at the scourer's and his charges must 
be paid before they could be got out of his pos- 
session. 

Rossitur had much difficulty in soothing Gen- 
evieve, who was quite upset by the mischance 
and looked as if she expected to see her bride- 
groom turn into a grim skeleton and force her 
into the hearse, like a modern version of the 
melancholy fate that befell Imogen the Fair. 
Juanita began to wring her hands and moan, 
but her the Banger quieted by a fierce look and 
a private pinch so sharp and artfully dealt that 
it proved she must have been in the habit of 
practicing on some unfortunate. The reckless 
man caught her at it, and wondered if it was the 
tough skin of the Californian she had nipped 
till she reached that perfection in the art, and 
he was so charmed with Juanita's grimace and 
bound that he wished he might put her in a cage 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



231 



and keep her down at the secret house as a rare 
specimen of the gorilla tribe, to amuse his va- 
ried guests. The poor bride was comforted at 
last and persuaded to look up ; her fright had 
been earnest, therefore she came quickly out of 
it and was prepared to rush to the other ex- 
treme and be recklessly gay. They were in 
the carnage at length and dashed off at full 
speed, and Juanita followed in a vehicle loaded 
with trunks and packages, so much bewildered 
by the hurry of the whole thing, the awful mys- 
tery, and the crowning misadventure, that she 
did nothing but utter monkey cries in the soli- 
tude ofiher carriage and brandish a bronze pa- 
per-cutter which she had concealed in her dress 
and carried to church as a neat and useful weapon 
wherewith to assault the guardian if he made 
his appearance. 

It was late in the day before Mr. Grey return- 
ed home, and Elinor was uncertain what to do, 
having twice driven to the Department and been 
unable to find him. His interview with the 
President was long and not satisfactory to either, 
though they had come to no open rupture; Mr. 
Grey had stood firm on the ground that he must 
have time for reflection, and uttered several elo- 
quent periods about not being able to force his 
sense of duty to bend in obedience to the dic- 
tates of friendship, to which the old lion had list- 
ened with a grim smile. After that there had 
been several committees to meet, and diverse 
troublesome affairs. When he returned to his 
office there was a telegram which the Bull had 
sent off on receipt of his morning's tidings, and it 
said a few words which meant " I am all right," 
which was such a weight off the minister's mind 
that the declining day seemed to brighten. 

Elinor went into the hall to meet him as he 
entered the house, drew him into the library, 
and said — "Papa, Miss Laidley is gone." 

She told her story from beginning to end, 
briefly and clearly ; never repeated a statement 
or rambled in any way, which was wonderful 
for a woman. The matter was annoying, but it 
did strike Mr. Grey as very absurd, and his 
spirits were so much elevated by the telegraphic 
message that he laughed a little. 

"She wants a scene," he said. 

"But what is to be done, papa?" 

They decided that the best thing would be 
for him to write a kind note to Miss Laidley, 
saying that he would see her that evening, and 
plainly pointing out to her how much, annoy- 
ance she would bring upon herself, as well as 
him, unless she returned. Henry was dis- 
patched with the missive, and, as it chanced, 
met the Banger herself entering her house on 
her return from the church. He gave her the 
note and she handed it back with the informa- 
tion that there was no longer any lady owning 
the name upon the letter — Miss Laidley was 
married to Mr. Rossitur, and gone. 

Henry, never to be betrayed into so weak an 
emotion as surprise, only said — " Where shall 
I tell Monsieur they are gone ?" 

" You shall tell him to find out by his diplo- 



matic skill," said the Banger, " and give him 
my compliments and congratulations." 

Indiana thought she had been sarcastic and 
went into the house triumphant, and Henry 
having called her by a very long name in his 
native language— a sign of anger with him — and 
by an appellation in French which I must not 
write, though people are permitted to say pecul- 
iar things in that language which our national 
modesty could not suffer in the vernacular, 
and having rounded his interjections by a third 
terse English word which was more expressive 
than the others, returned to Mr. Grey. He de- 
livered the Banger's exact message, with an 
apologetic wave of the hand, as if to intimate 
that nothing but a desire to make matters per- 
fectly clear could have induced him to repeat it, 
and left the father and daughter looking at each 
other in silence. 

"Not a word to say?" asked Mr. Grey, 
smiling. 

" I don't think I am astonished," Elinor re- 
plied. 

" I believe she has done us a favor," said he. 
"But it seems like a dream. I saw Rossitur 
this morning. Why, my dear, I did not imag- 
ine he was looking in that direction." 

" It is in keeping with his character," return- 
ed she ; " his duplicity is only equalled by hers." 
" It is a good thing for him," pursued Mr. 
Grey ; "but why they need have made an elope- 
ment of it puzzles me. Nobody would have 
wished or been able to hinder their marriage." 
"My dear father!" expostulated Elinor, 
"when you know Miss Laidley so well ! Why, 
the mystery is what pleased her ; it explains her 
going off last night and every thing else." 

"And prevents any annoyance for us," said 
Mr. Grey, " which will be an annoyance to that 
strong spirit, the Tallman." 

" Poor girl, she is to be pitied," said Elinor. 
" Papa, that man's conduct is inexcusable — aft- 
er your confidence." 

' ' I am not prepared to say. Don't be shock- 
ed, my daughter Elinor ; if she would have the 
romance, what was lie to do ?" 

Henry tapped at the door again and came in 
With a letter for Mr. Grey. It was from Rossi- 
tur — a resignation of his position ; on the other 
half of the sheet a few hurried words to say that 
within a very few days he could offer full explana- 
tions. Mr. Grey, remembering the telegram, 
the certainty that all was right, could smile 
again and let Elinor read the note. 

" You don't know him, papa. Let me tell 
you-" 

"To-morrow; forgive me, but let us forget 

the whole thing for the present ; I am tired. 

Let me see — haven't we some people at dinner?" 

"Yes, papa; the Hewlands and General 

Mansfield." 

' ' I suppose we need not go in mourning be- 
cause Miss Laidley has eloped. The story may 
as well be told to-night as ever." 

The guests came, and several of them having 
heard already the rumor of the elopement, which 



232 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



the reckless man was frantically spreading about 
in bis desire to be first to tell the tale, were anx- 
ious to listen to the unvarnished story, and the 
bride might have been disappointed could she 
have known how little surprise her romance 
excited, and not flattered at the remarks con- 
cerning its being in accordance with their ideas 
of her character in its useless mystery and theat- 
rical gloss. 

Every now and then Mr. Grey repeated to 
himself the mystic words of the message, and 
was so brilliant and gay that he charmed the 
whole circle into thinking tbat delightful as he 
had always been, he appeared to have developed 
new powers in the art of being agreeable. 



CHAPTER XLIII. 

THE DARK HOUR. 

The next morning, after her father had gone 
out, Elinor had leisure to perceive the new sense 
of quiet that pervaded the house, and to find a 
great enjoyment therein. No monkey cries 
from Juanita in contention with the other serv- 
ants about something in which she had no busi- 
ness to interfere ; no rushing in of the Angel, 
overpowering from high spirits or a sudden re- 
vulsion toward spasms ; and no whispered con- 
fabulations between mistress and attendant on 
the staircase or in the halls or any other place 
where they would be likely to attract attention. 
It was delightful to sit down and enjoy the free- 
dom, and Elinor was glad also to remember 
that Leighton Rossitur had passed entirely out 
of reach of her life. The feeling of insecurity 
which the sight of him had given her for weeks ; 
the vague fear, which her pride would not permit 
her to own, that in some secret way he was 
trying to disturb her N peace through his influence 
upon her father — all this was gone, and Elinor 
could breathe freely. By the contrast, she com- 
prehended how oppressive the neighborhood of 
those restless spirits had been, the while a cer- 
tain commiseration for both, knowing them as 
she did, mingled with her sensations and kept 
her from any harsh recollections toward either. 

In the course of the morning the Idol drove 
up to the house in great excitement, having 
heard the report of Miss Laidley's elopement, 
and fearful, if it were true, which she would not 
believe, that some annoyance might have been 
caused Elinor arid her father. She met Elinor 
with outstretched hands, exclaiming — "My 
adorable Miss Grey, is it veritable — has she 
gone? I would not credit it, though my in- 
formant said she had it from Mr. Hilton — that 
sad man — who witnessed the ceremony." 

"It is true," replied Elinor calmly, escaping 
from the embrace, which owing to the Idol's 
heavy draperies was a somewhat suffocating op- 
eration, and settling her visitor in a chair. 
*«*" Gone?", repeated the Idol. "Married to 
Mr. Rossitur?" 

" So he wrote to my father." 

"But I can not elucidate," exclaimed the 



bewildered Idol. " Why elope ? What pre- 
vented a reasonable and decorous marriage, prop- 
er to her station as the ward of our Richalooan 
minister ?" 

" That I am unable to tell you," Elinor an- 
swered. " You know Miss Laidley was fond 
of romance ; she may have thought the ordinary 
course on such occasions too tame and hack- 
neyed." 

" I am so grieved, so disappointed in her ! 
My dear, it was so inappropriate — a style that is 
obsolete. Why, my love, elopements have not 
been fashionable for the last twenty years." 

" Perhaps she wished to revive the fastrion. 

" Such ingratitude to your noble father — such 
duplicity ! And I thought her the soul of inno- 
cence and truthfulness ! You must be shocked 
and pained beyond measure." 

" I am sorry to appear hard-hearted, Mrs. 
Hackett," said Elinor, "but personally I can 
not pretend to feel any regret. I suppose the 
step will be the cause of much gossip, but I fear 
that in the end it will recoil more upon her than 
any one else." 

"Indubitably," replied the Idol. "They 
told me that dreadful Tallman woman had aided, 
and was attempting to say that you and your 
father's persecutions were the cause." 

" I should doubt any of our friends easily 
crediting that statement," Elinor said with a 
smile. 

" My love, it was too puerile to repeat — not 
worth an answer. But give me the details. 
You know, my sweet Miss Grey, it is not idle 
curiosity on my part ; you know my affection 
for you, my admiration for your transcendent 
parent ; and I was very, very fond of her — I 
grieve, my dear." 

Elinor told her what she knew, beginning 
with Miss Laidley's return from the ball and 
plunging into a frenzy which ended in her leav- 
ing the house guarded by Indiana Tallman, 
who played the part of St. George rescuing the 
Angel from the claws of the dragon. There 
was nothing approaching acrimony in Elinor's 
account, but it was only justice to her father 
that the story should be told exactly as it hap- 
pened ; besides she had no wish to hear Miss 
Laidley accused of any thing beyond flightiness 
and a somewhat exaggerated love of scenes. 

The Idol could not so easily forgive the very 
apparent effort to make mischief, and she had 
possessed such faith in her Angel that she was 
deeply shocked and grieved, only able to relieve 
herself by long and amazing quotations which 
were supposed to be Shakespeare or translations 
from the classics ; but whatever they might 
have been originally, they were transformed in 
true Plutonian style. She would not leave 
Elinor alone, persisting in her belief that she 
must be unstrung after such excitement; and as 
Elinor knew that she could not gratify the good 
soul more than by allowing her to remain, she 
was willing enough to accept her society. But 
unmitigated wonder and bewailing became some- 
what tiresome, so sho led the conversation to 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



233 



other topics and the Idol regained a moderate 
degree of composure, though broken at intervals 
by renewed exclamations and blank verse, when 
such poesies as seemed applicable to the late 
adventure recurred to her mind. 

" My love," she said, after having indulged 
in a reminiscence of one of Juliet's speeches, 
which, if she had known it, suggested the idea 
that in her mind she regarded Mr. Grey as a 
kite or a vulture, "do you know the Farns- 
worths are coming to the Capitolian shades?" 

"Rosa Thornton wrote me that they were 
to be here for a week, but she did not say when. 
I am glad." 

"They come instantaneously. I had a mis- 
sive from the dear wife of the poet. I had 
taken the liberty — but it matters not. I only 
meant they are so kind, she is such an angel — 
no, I shall eschew that word henceforth ; it 
will awaken echoes in my soul of that which is 
past and ne'er may be again, howe'er ye wreathe 
the fragile bowl, as says the poet." 

She had completely lost the thread of her re- 
marks in that species of parenthesis, and looked 
bewildered ; to afford her a little light, Elinor 
said — "You had a letter from Ruth." 

"Ah ! yes. In answer to my request — they 
are so very kind. I told her I could venture 
to trouble her, knowing the urbanity of her 
heart ; and indeed, my love, she is indeed — I 
lack words — Elysian — the very term, and he is 
such an Apolloite, so bayed with fresh laurels — 
I jubilate to reflect upon them." Elinor was 
glad to have Ruth appreciated, though she might 
have bargained for the praise to be chanted in a 
more intelligible strain. ' ' She indited me a let- 
ter so sweet, to say she had heeded my slight re- 
quest. This dreaiw winter, my love — one could 
not help remembering those wretched beings in 
South village — I say it \iot for glorification of 
self, you will be my sponsor." 

" I know you do not," Elinor said, nor did 
she ; certainly the Idol had not neglected her 
stewardship where charity was concerned. 

"Thanks; always wide-seeing, always Olym- 
pian in your judgments — what says the poet? — 
and sermons sparkling in her mind like stones 
that run in brooks and good in every thing. 
And that fair Hebean creature does so much — 
never weary — never oblivious of common mor- 
tality in the pryamidical shrine wherein the 
poet's love enwraps her." This last burst was 
so fine that she was a little astonished at it her- 
self and paused for breath. " Excuse me," she 
said, "but that theme always inspires me. 
When I dilate upon her devotion during my 
illness — her serenity of patience and her cornu- 
copia of wisdom — lam overpowered." 

"You can not think too highly of her," Eli- 
nor said. 

• " Nd, no ; feebly ' my wildest praise could 
syllable ecstatic lays, as warbles the song-bird — 
is it Mrs. Hemans ? And they are coming — 
such joy to greet their garlanded brows ! My 
love, I must devise some tournament to do them 
honor." 



" I think they both love quiet." 

" Yes, yes ; hut the world craves its meed. 
Ah ! fame and state are only gilded jailers aft- 
er all." 

It was a somewhat heavy morning to Elinor, 
but at least there was a sincerity under the 
Idol's grandiloquence and absurdity which was a 
relief after the unmitigated selfishness and trans- 
parent hypocrisy with which she had been so 
long housed. She congratulated her visitor on 
the success of her ball, and the Idol went off in 
explosions of thanks, admiration of her, praise 
of the good-nature of her friends in general, 
and regrets that she had not known the Farns- 
worths were coming that she might have defer- 
red her festivities. She stayed to luncheon, and 
some delicacy on the table reminded her of the 
Angel, who had been fond of it, and she leaned 
back in her chair and apostrophized the dish in 
a strain, which she believed to be something 
Shakespeare had said, so wild and incoherent 
that Henry had some difficulty to preserve his 
equable mask and not appear to see or hear any 
thing beyond his immediate duties. 

Long before the usual hour of her father's re- 
turn Elinor heard his voice in the hall and 
hurried out to meet him, for though his im- 
proved appearance the evening before had made 
her hope that her late fears were without foun- 
dation, it required little to rouse them anew. 
" Are you ill, papa ?" she asked. " Why, how 
pale you look !" 

" I believe I am not quite well," he said, and 
the admission was almost unheard of with him. 
" I have come back to rest, for we have a Cab- 
inet meeting to-night and I must get rid of this 
languor." 

Elinor was alarmed at his appearance, but lie 
would not suffer her to think that any thing be- 
yond fatigue ailed him. He was however sen- 
sible of very strange feelings ; the ringing which 
had been in his ears for weeks, the peculiar sen- 
sation in the back of his head, now a numbness, 
now a sharp pain that spread and tingled to his 
very finger-ends, had so much increased that he 
found it insupportable torture to go through 
with his routine of duty, and, after making sad 
confusion in every thing he attempted, had been 
obliged to return home. He had a horror of 
illness, and could not bear to admit that it 
might come near him or that the years had left 
him less strong than in his youth, therefore he 
treated Elinor's fears lightly. 

"I think instead of lamentations," said he 
with a smile which only made his face look 
more worn and ghastly, "you might congratu- 
late me on having leisure to sit with you, my 
daughter Elinor; it will belike old times." 

"O papa," she whispered, "Mrs. Hackett is 
here — too bad !" 

Mr. Grey was very glad to hear it, he would 
have returned an hour before only he had sat 
waiting in the hope that he should receive ti- 
dings from Pluto, and had been made so anxious 
by their non-arrival that he was forced persist- 
ently to repeat the satisfactory telegram of the 



234 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



previous day to keep clown the throbbing in his 
head which the least indulgence in thought in- 
creased till it made him blind and sick. " I 
will go in and see her," he said ; and putting Eli- 
nor's hand on his arm with the old caressing 
tenderness, he led her into the room where 
the Idol was ready to greet him with her usual 
fervor. 

" This is a startled pleasure," she said ; and 
by consulting a mental glossary which the Idol's 
friends needed to keep open while listening to 
her conversation, he decided that she must mean 
unexpected. 

He said complimentary things to her accord- 
ing to his wont, and allowed her to give free 
vent to her surprise in regard to the elopement, 
which he was still inclined to regard as a mat- 
ter for amusement. He listened and talked, 
and though each moment of delay in discover- 
ing whether she had news from her husband 
was mental and bodily agony, the habit of self- 
control and concealment was too strong to be 
outwardly shaken. Not till the fitting opportu- 
nity offered, and only in the most natural man- 
ner, to evince simply a friendly interest in Eli- 
nor's eyes, did he say — 

" Mr. Hackett was quite well when you heard, 
I hope." 

" Indeed," replied the Idol, " I have had no 
tidings in several days ; I expected letters this 
morning. Mr. Hackett is so hurried — so over- 
whelmed — so deeply buried in the busy mart." 

" I regard him as a seconll Atlas,'' said Mr. 
Grey. 

" Thanks ; he needs an Atlasian brow indeed 
to bear his weight of occupation. But though 
so much engrossed, he is always thoughtful, al- 
ways attentive. I marvel that I have at least 
no hasty message." 

"You will doubtless receive letters to-day," 
returned Mr. Grey. 

" Oh yes ; I should be absolutely alarmed 
else." 

"I dare say the last mail brought them," 
continued he; "I will send some one to your 
house that you may have them at once." 

The Idol could not hear of his taking the 
trouble, and Elinor wished that he would not 
protract her visit by removing the only reason 
she could have for a speedy departure, but he 
persisted in his gallant way. "The soul of 
thought ever," said the Idol, as he rang and 
ordered Henry to send to Mrs. Hackett's house 
for any letters that might have been brought 
since she came out. "The very essence and 
aroma of delicate attention in every slightest 
act. All ! admirative Crichton, how you unfit 
us of the fragile sex for the society of common 
mortals." 

He would answer blandly, and appear per- 
fectly composed, and Elinor watched him with 
growing fear at the increased pallor which gath- 
ered over his face, certain that he was very ill, 
but obliged to seem unconscious lest she should 
annoy him. The message sent, he grew hor- 
ribly anxious ; the moments dragged like lead- 



en weights through the heaviness of his brain, 
and the outpouring of the Idol's talk sounded 
like a torrent ; the numb sensation crept slowly 
about his head, dissipated at brief intervals by a 
stinging pain that quivered like a snake down 
the spinal nerves. Henry opened the door 
again and advanced with his customary delib- 
eration ; there was a letter on the little salver 
which he held, and the sight brought back the 
quick pain with such violence that fiery sparks 
absolutely danced before Mr. Grev's eyes. 

" For Mrs. Hackett ?" he asked. 

" Yes, Monsieur;" presenting his offering to 
that lady. "It did not come by mail; a spe- 
cial messenger was just of arrival at the house." 

Mr. Grey sat still, holding his snuff-box in 
his hand ; not a muscle of his face changed, not 
a quiver was apparent. 

"A special messenger?" repeated the Idol, 
not in surprise but pleasure that her husband 
showed so becoming a sense of their dignity, 
being somewhat forgetful thereof, as a rule, in 
his daily habits. She held the letter in her 
hand and regarded it with a satisfied smile, 
while Mr. Grey remained motionless, conscious 
that if he so much as stirred a finger he should 
snatch the packet from her hand and tear it 
open. " So weighty a missive," she said com- 
placently ; "I can not think what it may con- 
tain ;" and instead of breaking the seal to find 
out, she smiled at Mr. Grey in majestic sur- 
prise. 

" I somewhat expected letters from him my- 
self," Mr. Grey could not help saying; "there 
may be something enclosed for me." 

"Pardon," said the Idol, taking that oppor- 
tunity to be playful, which, considering Mr. 
Grey's feelings, was about as opportune as if she 
had held a grinning skull in her hand and was 
jesting over it. " Then I shall transgress the 
laws of etiquette and ascertain its contents. 
What says the play? — By thy leave, waxen — 
Cleopatra says it, does she not?" 

Elinor was looking at her father in vague 
wonder. Pie sat motionless, intently regarding 
their guest. Mrs. Hackett opened the envelope 
with graceful deliberation and drew out two 
letters, one of which was sealed. "Ah! this 
must be for you," she said, glancing at it. 
"Why, there is no superscription — that care- 
less, busy man !" 

Mr. Grey tried to speak, but his lips and 
throat were so dry that not a sound escaped his 
mouth. 

"Your letter will tell you what it means," 
said Elinor impatiently, filled with an inexpli- 
cable dread. 

"Of course ; how trivial in me to hold it and 
marvel," returned the Idol, laughing. "Ah, 
Mr. Grey, the fragility of the sex — what says 
the poet?" She unfolded her letter; the room 
was so still that the folds of the thick paper rus- 
tled strangely as she shook them out. "The 
unintelligible callifery," said she, laughing again 
and holding up the sheet. "Quite Egyptian 
anagrams, I protest." 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



235 



"Would she never read it ? would there never 
be an end to this horrible trifling ? The fiery 
sparks danced before Mr. Grey's eyes — the sting- 
ing serpent coiled down his spine — a rigid band 
of pain wrapped its fetters across his forehead ; 
Elinor watciiing him — out of the great sympa- 
thy of her love having the torture reflected in 
her own heart ; the Idol smiling and uncon- 
scious. 

" Now for the world of Wall Street, for Au- 
gean labors and traffic's busy mart," said the 
Idol. "Another realm I view, as some min- 
strel sings, and this is our Open Sesame." 'She 
began to read ; spelled out the first almost il- 
legible lines ; stared up from the page with a 
look of utter bewilderment; read on a little 
further, and fell back on the sofa with one sharp 
cry that smote Mr. Grey's ear like a knife — 
"Ruined!" 

Elinor sprang to her feet and hurried toward 
her ; Mr. Grey tried to get off his chair and 
sank back helpless — he could not speak. 

"Ruined!" repeated the Idol, and still her 
voice had in it only the ring of stupefied in- 
credulity. 

"You must have read it wrong, "Elinor said. 

"It can not be! it can not be!" exclaimed 
the Idol in a changed tone. " Wait — let me 
read again — wait!" She peered at the page 
anew, and for the third time, the dreadful word 
broke from her lips, not in wonder, not in blank 
stupor, but in a passionate sob that was agoniz- 
ing. "Ruined! It can't be — it is not true! 
Read it, Miss Grey ; I can't see — the lines dance 
before my eyes. Speak, somebody — say it is 
not true !" 

Elinor took the letter and read the page 
which told the truth in a few brief, despairing 
sentences. 

"What does it say?" cried the Idol. "It 
is not true — I read it wrong — it is not true !" 

"My poor friend!" was all Elinor could ar- 
ticulate. The Idol cowered lower and covered 
her face with her hands, trembling as if afraid 
to look up and realize the truth. "Father," 
said Elinor, still reading, " this other letter 
must be for you ; he says he encloses one. Oh, 
Mrs. Hackett has fainted." As she dropped 
the letter and turned toward the unfortunate 
woman she heard a voice, so sharp and strange 
that she would not have recognized it as her 
father's call — 

" That letter— bring me that letter !" 

She caught up both letters from the floor and 
ran toward him. "Father!" she gasped in 
sudden terror, for the white face in which she 
looked might have been the despairing lost 
ghost of the face she had all her life seen so 
smiling and so proud. "Father!" 

"Hush!" he answered in the same unnatu- 
ral voice ; " the letter !" 

She put the two in his hands ; the touch of 
the paper was like a tangible proof; the reali- 
zation of the horror brought a sort of strength. 
"Stay with her," he said, rising slowly and 
painfully. 



" O father, what is it?" she exclaimed, catch- 
ing his icy hand. 

He shrunk from her touch ; a strange fear 
came across the horror in his face. "Stay 
with her," he repeated; "I'll come back — I 
want to read it alone." 

She cried out again — his gesture and the wild 
entreaty in his glazed eyes stopped her — she al- 
lowed him to pass from the room. She looked 
and saw Mrs. Hackett still lying with her white 
face on the arm of the sofa. Elinor ran to- 
ward her, raised her up, got some water and 
sprinkled upon her forehead, eagerly trying to 
bring her back to consciousness that she might 
follow her father. 

"Did I read it? Is it true ?" gasped Mrs. 
Hackett as she opened her eyes. 

" I fear there is no doubt," Elinor said. 

"Read it again — every word !" 

Elinor read the page slowly and distinctly 
and the the poor Idol burst into a paroxysm of 
grief. 

The tale was told with terrible brevity and 
distinctness ; the wretched man had written it 
as soon as he could recover from the first pros- 
tration of the blow. If he had given the de- 
tails of the day they would have been brief 
enough, but he did not. Before noon he had 
received the telegram Leighton Rossitur had 
sent, and busy had every body connected witli 
the establishment been, calling in and buying 
up a certain stock that the absolute control of 
it might be in Pluto's hands before the action 
of the Senate could inform others of its value, 
and as each messenger returned Mr: Hack- 
ett felt a new glow in the consciousness that 
the crisis was passed — he was saved. Up to 
four o'clock a hurry and rush of business, then 
he was able to go home, and in the solitude of 
his great house sit down and think that he had 
once more steadied himself on his height and 
saw the way clear to new successes. It was 
not of course that this one venture, immense as 
it was, could by itself have ruined a man of his 
resources, but for the past year, while appar- 
ently on the highest pinnacle of its splendor 
and security, Pluto's pagoda had been troubTed 
by underground rumblings and premonitions of 
an earthquake. He had grown daring from 
the very fullness of good luck ; he had only 
needed to touch a scheme to make it brighten 
into a glorious fruition, until he could enter- 
tain no fears. It had been a year of wild spec- 
ulation ; during the past weeks the reaction had 
begun : houses crumbling about him ; men of 
unblemished reputation detected in gigantic 
frauds: this bank crashing under its load; 
that telegraph company a . failure ; projected 
railways falling in hopeless confusion ; a chaos 
of misfortune which swept Pluto along ; two 
colossal defalcations on the part of men whom 
he had trusted added, until ruin seemed inevi- 
table, till witli the new hope he saw how other 
matters might be arranged, and knew that if he 
could pass this danger, destiny would once more 
be in his own hands. The peril was over ; he 



23G 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



beheld his course clear now. It was over, and 
Iiis dazzling triumph would not have a shadow. 
He sat in his room, rubbing his forehead with a 
dusty silk handkerchief and indulging in a feel- 
ing of exultation such as he had not known in 
a long time. A newsboy under the window 
calling out an Extra Herald — adding scraps of 
news by way of attracting attention — " Extry 
I ley Id! European war — great victory of the — " 
The voice died away to rise in new sharpness 
with, "Bill passed the Senate!" The sharp, 
boyish voice came up into the room where Pluto 
sat, and made him start to the window and listen 
breathlessly. Again it came — " Bill passed the 
Senate!" He got to the bell, pulled it wildly, 
and ordered the servant to bring him the Exti-a. 
He was in the room again alone — in his chair — 
glaring at the leaded column — reading the words 
over and over. In the distance came back the 
echo of the newsboy's voice — "Bill passed the 
Senate — bill passed!" The paper fell slowly 
from Pluto's hand — he understood at last. 
There had been an error ; he knew that he was 
ruined. 

The Idol listened to the letter, and amid her 
sobs cried — "I can not believe it! I should soon- 
er have expected the end of the world ! Ruin- 
ed? Why, he was worth millions! Mr. Grev, 
Mr. Grey ! Where is Mr. Grey ?" 

" Oh, what has happened to him? Tell me !" 
demanded Elinor. 

" Where is Mr. Grey ?" 

"Gone ; he would not let me follow — gone 
to read his letter. What was it?" 

"I know not; my heart will break! I fear 
lie is involved — I know so little of the business ! 

Miss Grev, it can't be — we're not ruined — oh, 
oh!" 

Elinor had made her drink some water and 
opened a window to give her air. " I must go, 
Mrs. Hackett," she said; "I must find my 
father." 

"Yes, yes ; I must go too," said the Idol, try- 
ing to recover herself and proving by the effort 
that she was a woman of sense under all her 
follies. " I can not believe it — ruin for us — for 
you — for so many !" 

"Was my father engaged in those specula- 
tions?" Elinor asked. 

"I fear it — I know so little! Oh, forgive 
us, Miss Grey! Don't blame my husband — 
promise that." 

"You know I should not, whatever came. 
But I can think of nothing only my father now. 

1 must go." 

"Yes, I won't keep you. Tell him — I do 
not know what I say ! It must pass — it must be 
a temporary trouble. I want a carriage. I 
must get back — I must start for town." 

" There is a train in an hour," Elinor said. 
She went out and ordered Henry to' send for a 
carriage, came back and helped Mrs. Hackett to 
get on her bonnet and cloak. 

"I must be mad," moaned the poor Idol; 
"we must all be mad — dreaming. It is not us 
— we did not read it ! Oh, the letter ! " and at 



the sight of it lying at her feet on the carpet she 
jumped back as if it had been a snake. 

Elinor had few words ; she tried to comfort 
her, to say it was perhaps not so black as Mr. 
Hackett feared; but could see nothing, think 
of nothing except her father's white face and the 
sound of that unnatural voice. 

"It can not be, it can not be!" the Idol 
moaned one instant, and sobbed piteously the 
next — "Get me a carriage — let me go — ruined, 
ruined!" The carriage drove up; she flung 
herself upon Elinor in a convulsive embrace, 
uttering broken words which sounded like no 
human language Avhatever, but were pitiful to 
hear. 

" I would go with you," Elinor said, " to the 
house, but I can't leave my father — " 

"Go to him, go to him! You shall hear 
from me — forgive me ! Oh, my poor husband 
— I am afraid I have been too worldly ! All 
that wealth — it can not be gone — oh, it must be 
some frightful dream ! " 

She was out of the house at last, and Elinor 
went up stairs in search of her father. She 
found him in his dressing-room, his chair close 
to the fire, and he lying back with his eyes 
closed, a look in his face, a stillness in every 
limb so like death that Elinor softly opening the 
door and catching sight of him, called in terror 
— "Father! father!" At the sound of her 
voice a quiver passed through his whole frame ; 
he put up his hands, as if to keep her back — 
not in pain, not in trouble alone — with a gesture 
of absolute fear, and groaned aloud. Elinor 
was on her knees beside him ; clasping his 
hands and exclaiming — " Father, father, look 
up — it is Elinor!" He only shrunk back in his 
chair and groaned again. "Have you lost by 
this, father ? If you have, it is only money. 
Father, look up — speak to me." 

" Only money ?" he repeated in the same un- 
natural voice which had so frightened her be- 
fore, a voice that did not seem to be his, that 
spoke without any volition on his part. "It is 
honor— life ! Go away — go away — I can not 
look in your face." 

She tried to think. He had not injured her 
personally ; he had no control whatever over 
her fortune, it was not in anyway in his hands. 
"What is it ?" she cried. " O father, tell me ! 
You used to say there was no secret between us ! 
Do you want money, father dear? There is 
mine — all, all ; only tell me what it is !" 

His wild eyes glanced over the table at his 
side ; his hands clutched Mr. Hackett's letter — 
not that — snatched at another — a letter Henry 
was receiving at the door as he passed through 
the hall and had given him. He pointed to 
the sheet — he tried to speak — there was only a 
faint discordant murmur in his throat. 

"You want me to read it?" asked Elinor. 
" I saw hers ; I know what it is, father, I know.'' 

" Not that," he gasped ; "the other. 

She saw the letter at which his shaking finger 
pointed, seized it, looked at Rossitur's name at 
the end, and read the page. A brief, civil let- 



MY DAUGI1TEK ELINOK. 



237 



ter, with an undercurrent of doubt that was very 
insulting. It said that he was about to sail for 
Europe ; by the terms of the will left by his 
wife's father, her fortune must be at once trans- 
ferred from Mr. Grey's hands. He desired to 
hear from Mr. Grey immediately ; the lawyers 
would wait upon him. His haste must excuse 
the brief notice ; he knew of course that, with 
Mr. Grey's rigid integrity, the delivering up of 
the seals of guardianship would be the merest 
form in the world, but it mnst be distinctly un- 
derstood that not even twenty-four hours' delay 
could be permitted ; important affairs made it 
necessary for himself and wife to depart at once. 
"Let him have what he asks on the instant, 
father, " said Elinor, and as the words left her 
lips a new fear started up in her heart at the 
sight of his face. 

Mr. Grey did not speak ; he had put one hand 
between his face and hers ; the strange attitude, 
the same gesture of shrinking and entreaty 
which had so bewildered her before. All her 
life long this man had been her idol — a doubt 
in regard to him had been as impossible as a 
doubt of her religion — but now, in spite of her- 
self, as she read that letter and looked at him, 
a perception of what he had done crept over 
her. An instant's whirl in her brain ; she was 
beside him again, her arms about him, strain- 
ing him to her in a wild gush of tenderness ; 
not like the love and veneration for the father 
she had so loved, but such pity and tenderness 
as she might have felt had their positions been 
reversed and she the parent first made cogni- 
zant of her child's error. " Don't shrink away, 
father," she pleaded ; " let me whisper! If it 
was hers — if you needed hers — tell me, father." 
She heard the broken murmur — " It was 
hers!" 

"But my fortune is safe; we can pay it. 
Try to tell me. Don't think of any thing only 
that it is a trouble we must share together. 
We must act at once, you know ; only tell me 
how much and what we must do." 

The numbness and deadness was creeping 
closer and closer to his vitals like the chill of 
death ; he could only say with a great effort — 
"In that safe — the papers." 

She understood ; she was to read the papers 
therein. She kissed his forehead and ran to 
the safe. It was locked. "The key — I want 
the key, father." 

He fumbled in his pockets and produced a 
small key ; she took it and unlocked the minia- 
ture safe, such as is sometimes used for jewels 
and valuables of small compass. She would 
not look toward him again; she sat down on 
the floor and turned her back that he might 
have a little time, and pulled out the files of 
papers until she came upon what was needed to 
make the matter clear. She understood what 
he had done: he had used the shares of stock 
and Government bonds invested for MissLaid- 
ley to the amount of almost four hundred thou- 
sand dollars. She sat still for a few moments 
— not thinking of the blow — not remembering 



that a few paces from her sat her shattered idol 
in the dust of his discovered criminality — only 
trying to collect her senses, to see how to act. 
Her fortune would exactly cover the amount. 
Nearly half of it was already invested in the 
same bonds, the other was in a condition so that 
it could be transferred at the briefest possible 
notice. She rose from the floor, put the papers 
in the safe again and locked it, doing it all with 
a strange methodical quiet as if there had been 
something dead in the room and she was afraid 
of disturbing it. She went back to her father; 
he had not moved, he was lying in the chair 
still with his eyes closed. 

"Listen, father," she said. "It is only to 
write a letter — I will send at once to Mr. Gresh- 
am — by the time they can get to New York your 
lawyers will have every thing in readiness." 
He moved his head a little, but did not open his 
eyes. " Did you hear, father ? Oh, look at me, 
please. Father, you frighten me ! It is all 
over — never to be thought of again. See, I am 
going to write now ; I can send it by one of 
Mrs. Hackett's men. Only look up — only say 
you love me and we will have no more trouble." 
He rested his two hands hard on the arms of 
his chair to steady himself and sat upright, not 
looking at her, and speaking thickly in a broken 
voice. "I loved you so — I was drawn on and 
on. I could not bear to ask your help — I need- 
ed your love more than the world's esteem. Look 
at me now — my daughter Elinor — my daughter 
Elinor!" 

The familiar name she had heard uttered in 
pride, in exultation, in tenderness ! To hear it 
now in that abject supplication — to see him 
shrinking and quailing before her! She put 
her arms close about him again — she soothed 
him with loving words. " You were ill, father, 
before this came. I will finish the letter, then 
you shall go to sleep and forget it. I love you 
so, father ! We have been so much toeach other 
all my life, but I never loved you as I do now — 
father, dear father !" 

There was a faint dew in his glazed eyes as 
they turned heavily toward her, but the numb- 
ing pain was growing so acute that it was diffi- 
cult for him to move. "I have ruined you," 
he said; "every thing I had is gone too." 

"It doesn't matter. Father, we have each 
other, and we have something left. Listen : the 
amounts I had laid by out of all those dividends 
— I meant to use them for the hospital — they 
will be for us, father; a great deal — quite 
enough." He could not answer ; he could only 
let her lay his heavy head back against the 
chair and kiss him, as she said — "I am going 
to write my letter now ; rest, father." 

She thought; him stunned by the sudden 
shock ; perhaps to know the letter written and 
sent would help him more than any thing else. 
She sat down at his writing-table and wrote her 
clear, imperative wishes. When the epistle 
was finished and sealed she looked at her father 
again ; he was watching her with a regard so pit- 
eous that it rent her very heart. She kissed his 



238 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



forehead softly, saying — " I will send the letter 
at once. I'll be back in a minute." 

He held fast to her hand and tried to say 
something ; the muscles of his face worked con- 
vulsively, his breath was labored and heavy ; 
she began to fear for the physical effects of this 
terrible blow and to remember the signs of ill- 
ness she had for days dreaded. She went out 
and found Henry ; bade him take the letter him- 
self, and be certain that some one among Mrs. 
Hackett's people whom he could trust took 
charge of it. On the way back he was to call 
for a physician ; she could not bear the responsi- 
bility any longer. When she returned to the 
dressing-room her father was lying on the sofa ; 
he opened his eyes as she entered "and begged 
her to give him a glass of wine. After drink- 
ing it he appeared revived, but with renewed 
strength came added capability of realizing 
what had befallen him, and where he had fallen 
before the eyes of the daughter he adored. El- 
inor comprehended his emotions ; she could not 
be certain what to say or do, lest in her very de- 
sire to be of comfort she might hurt him, so she 
sat holding her cheek against his, hoping that 
lie would fall asleep. Presently he turned his 
face a little and said abruptly — " That villain has 
done it on purpose." She knew that he meant 
Rossitur. Then came to her mind that men- 
ace he had uttered on the night of the ball, so 
haughtily rejected then, but since the experience 
of the past hour grown into a possibility which 
tore at the very springs of her life, yet which 
must be mentioned lest some other blow should 
strike her father in the dark. 

"The other night he was in a great rage," 
she said ; "at Mrs. Hackett's ball ; and he said 
something which angered me, but I would not 
mention it. Has he any hold over you — any 
paper?" It was very difficult to put the question, 
but it must be done, and she could only use the 
plainest, briefest words. 

" Hold — paper ?" he repeated, pressing his 
hand to his forehead. 

Elinor took his nerveless fingers in one of her 
hands and laid the other lightly on his head. 
" Try to think, father,'' she said softly. 

"There can't be any thing," he answered 
with an effort, " unless about the Falcon party ; 
did he mean that ?" 

" What is it, father ?" she asked. 

" Oh, you don't know ; that was another se- 
cret. Child, child, I can't think — I can't act 
— you must do both." 

" Tell me what you mean, father ; don't try 
to explain much — I shall understand. The 
Falcon people wanted you to do something ?" 

With the numbness always increasing, sink- 
ing nearer his heart, rising higher and high- 
er in his brain, it was not much trouble to 
confess. He could not realize indeed that it 
had been so completely a secret ; he only knew 
that she must be told ; she must act — he was 
done. Not that he thought he was near death 
— he had no defined feeling — only he had noth- 
ing more to do ; Elinor must act 



" They wanted to oppose the President — I 
was to be at the head of the party. It was only 
to go against his measures," he continued ram- 
blingly ; " somebody said it would be like Bru- 
tus ; who said that ?" 

Elinor understood; he had been tempted to 
desert his friend in the storm ; she saw what 
means had been employed. " Does the Presi- 
dent know, father ?" 

' ' No. He heard I wavered — we talked yes- 
terday. It will have to be decided to-night. I 
must go with him or side wholly against him — 
is it time to go ?" 

"To-night?" 

" Yes, yes ; the meeting, you know — I must 
be there. I am very tired — let me go to sleep — 
it isn't time to go." 

Oh, this last was not to be borne ! How was 
she to appeal to him — how be cruel enough to 
rouse him from that slumber ? But his honor ! 
To-night — and he looked so ill ! If he should 
have a long sickness and those men compromise 
him while he was helpless ! 

" Father," she said, " father !" 

He rousedhimself at her call. " My daugh- 
ter Elinor ! " Oh the pitiful, child-like pleading 
in the voice. 

" Father, you will not desert the President, 
no matter what is offered ; he is right." 

" The head of the party," he said brokenly ; 
" I should be certain of election. What did Ros- 
situr say about Cataline ? He meant Brutus." 

Filled with alarm at this change, this wan- 
dering — mad with the thought what use might 
be made of his name while he lay powerless in 
his sick-chamber, Elinor was forced to rouse 
him again. Useless to argue ; whatever it was 
that ailed him, it was that which would not per- 
mit him to reason ; she could only hope to gain 
his consent to her line of action. She had to 
speak several times before he opened his eyes. 
He only roused up at the tender repetition — 
' ' Father, dear father ! " He smiled faintly, and 
looked at her with some show of understand- 
ing. "You won't desert your friend," she 
said ; "you will have me write and tell him so ; 
say that for a little you may have been in doubt, 
but that you are convinced he is right — what- 
ever comes, you are by his side ; that you are 
too ill to be at the meeting, but you send this 
answer for him, for his Cabinet, for the whole 
world." The fire flashed into her eyes for an 
instant, the animated ring strengthened her 
voice and seemed to animate him. 

" Write, write," he said, with sudden eager- 
ness ; " I will sign it. For the whole world — 
yes — quick, quick !" He raised himself feebly, 
but she gently laid his head back on the cush- 
ions. 

"Lie quite still," she said; "when I have 
the letter ready you shall sign it ; you can sleep 
after that." 

He made a gesture of entreaty and lay 
watching her as she sat down at the table and 
wrote ; something of the animation roused by 
her voice kept the stupor back for a little. Elinor 



MY DAUGHTEE ELINOR. 



239 



wrote very rapidly, glancing now and then at him, 
resolutely keeping back every fear, every feel- 
ing except the present duty ; conscious only that 
whatever came there was her whole life in which 
to mourn, but that the one proof she could give 
of her love was to act now. It was a noble letter, 
written in Mr. Grey's best style, only with less or- 
nament than he employed, but it was no place 
for that. It said frankly that he had for a sea- 
son hesitated, that while believing the President 
right he had thought it might be better to tem- 
porize, but he was convinced that he had been 
in error. No matter how fiercely factions 
might rage, no matter how much for a period 
even the verdict of the people, blinded by the in- 
sidious eloquence of partisan leaders, might be 
against him, time must prove that the President 
had been dictated in his course by the purest, 
the most patriotic motives. Through all, in all, 
he should find Mr. Grey by his side ; if it came 
to pass that for a season they two stood wholly 
alone to battle the tempest, they would trust to 
the future and to God to make their actions 
clear. He was still lying with his eyes fixed 
upon her when she finished ; she sat down by 
him again and read the letter. 

"Is it what you wanted, father?" 
"If it pleases you," he answered in a voice 
so low that she had to bend over him to catch 
the words. "It is all I can do — broken — dis- 
graced. O my daughter Elinor !" 

She dared not agitate him by giving way to 
her emotions ; she said very quietly — " Always 
my love, my pride, father! See, I am going to 
wheel this little table to the sofa ; I will hold you 
up while you sign the letter." 

He allowed her to raise him — held the pen to 
the line where she pointed and wrote his name. 
" I did not desert him," he said feebly ; "I have 
done something for honor — for you — I — " The 
pen slipped from his hand — he fell heavily back 
against her — there was a quiver through his 
whole frame, then he lay like a weight of lead 
in her arms, and as she shrieked for help Henry 
opened the door. 

" Is he dead? is he dead?" she asked in an 
awful whisper, as the man laid the motionless 
form on the sofa. 

At a glance Henry saw what had happened — 
Mr. Grey was stricken with paralysis. 

" What is it, Henry ?" she asked in the same 
tone. 

He told her quietly ; he had sense to know it 
was best. 

"Won't he ever move again ?" she questioned 
in that whisper which was worse to hear than a 
shriek of mortal agony. 

"Indeed, indeed, he may yet get well, Mad- 
emoiselle — they often do. The doctor is down 
stairs." 

She made a motion to have him called ; she 
knelt by the couch and looked into the still white 
face ; she thought there was some sign of rec- 
ognition, of entreaty still in the dim eyes. "It 
is Elinor, father," she said, "your Elinor." 
Henry came back with the physician ; his 



experience had made him too well-skilled in the 
human face not to know that the only kindness 
he could show Elinor Grey was to spare her many 
words. " I shall ask you to go down stairs," 
he said after a few questions, ' ' while we get him 
in bed. You shall come back very soon — you 
shall stay by him," he added, answering some- 
thing in her eyes. 

' ' Will he know me ?" she asked, as they reach- 
ed the door. " Can he hear me ?" 

"He will doubtless be able to speak in a few 
hours ; it is the suddenness that makes it so ter- 
rible. The sooner he is undressed and in bed 
the better. You shall be called." 

Mechanically obedient, Elinor turned to go — 
saw the letters on the table — took them all — kept 
in her hand the one she had written and went 
down stairs. She was so stunned that she could 
not feel acutely. The letter must be sent — must 
reach the President before the meeting — but 
whom could she trust ? She went into the room 
where they had been sitting when Mrs. Hackctt 
read her fatal news ; the associations of the place 
-broke the icy spell ; she could weep and get rid 
of that strange sense of oppression. As she sat 
there she heard the door-bell, heard voices in the 
hall, and recognized one as Clive Earnsworth's. 
The letter — instantly she thought of that. She 
went out. He was standing there talking to the 
servant ; at sight of her in her livid pallor he 
came quickly forward. 

"They tell me your father is very ill," he 
said, not waiting to utter words of courtesy. 

"It is — it is paralysis," Elinor answered; she 
was so cold and still that a stranger might have 
thought her almost unmoved. How well he 
knew the agony she was suffering. 

" Is there any thing I can do ?" he asked. 
"Yes — this letter; it is very important it 
should be in the President's hands before night. 
If you could — " 

"I will give it to him myself; I will go at 
once. You understand — I will put it in his own 
hands." 

" Yes ; thank you. Where is Ruth ?" 
" At the hotel ; we came this morning. I 
called to leave some letters the Thorntons sent. 
Would you like to have my wife come — are vou 
alone ?" 

"Yes; all alone." 

"I will take your letter and then go for 
her." 

"Yes — thank you," in the same difficult voice. 
" It can not be made too public — let it go in all 
the papers at once ; if you will say that to the 
President — my father wishes it." 

Clive tried to utter a few comforting words, 
but it was very hard to find them, looking in 
that white face on which the work of the morn- 
ing, closed by its last terror and grief, had left 
the worn appearance of a long illness. He hur- 
ried away, and she went slowly up stairs again. 
Clive Farnsworth performed his promise to the 
letter, then he returned to the hotel intending 
to take Ruth to Elinor, but he found her so fever- 
ish and ill that he knew it would not be safe. 



240 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



She head taken a severe cold while in New York, 
and they had deferred their journey several days 
on account of it, but she had seemed so much 
better that they came on at her plea, for she was 
certain that the milder climate would relieve her 
at once. 



CHAPTER XLIV. 
ruth's victory. 

All night Elinor watched by her father's bed- 
side ; a portion of the time alone, for she had 
that feeling many of us have known in the course 
of our lives, since illness and death will come 
into the most carefully-guarded homes, of want- 
ing her loved to herself. The physician re- 
mained until late ; after he had gone, Elinor de- 
sired Henry to go to bed, overcoming his plea to 
stay with the assertion that he would need to 
husband his strength, as the regulation of every 
thing must devolve upon him. The nurse who 
had made her appearance was a quiet, motherly 
woman, who had the sense to perceive that the 
greatest kindness she could do the lady was to 
sit in the dressing-room and leave her alone by 
the sick man, for there was nothing to be done 
except administer the medicines at regular hours. 

Mr. Grey lay like a dead man ; only the la- 
bored breathing showed that there was any life 
in the rigid form. He seemed to sleep at inter- 
vals, occasionally opening his eyes with a blank 
stare which changed to anxiety and fear until 
Elinor's voice re-assured him, at the sound of 
which a painful smile would hover over his lips. 
There Elinor sat and watched, with no room in 
her mind for any thought but her love. The 
great shock of the day had no place in her re- 
flections ; it never would have. The last blow, 
this terrible and sudden breaking of strength, 
would in one way be a merciful prevention. She 
would always believe that the conduct which 
proved her hero so miserably human had been 
brought about by the gradual approach of this 
stroke ; that for weeks, may be months, the cloud 
had been slowly drawing over his mind, dimming 
his perceptions, and she would never hold him 
accountable for this fall. 

Late in the night he woke with gasping for 
breath, followed by a great effort to speak, but 
it was a long time before he could articulate. 
Elinor bent over him whispering gently, and at 
length the troubled smile came back like a flick- 
ering light to his face ; bending her ear close, 
she caught the murmur — "My daughter Eli- 
nor !" The old, old words that under his pride 
and error had rested close upon his heart — the 
one pure watch-word in his devious course. 
After that his mind wandered a little, more as 
it might between sleeping and waking than from 
the effects of delirium. She distinguished sev- 
eral broken sentences ; at last she heard Rossi- 
tur's name pronounced. That reminded her 
there was one thing left undone. In his hands 
remained a paper, if his words had been true, of 
what nature she could only imagine ; it might 



afford him the means of working some harm, 
leaving some stain upon her father's memory. 
For Elinor knew that henceforth to the world 
he could never be any thing more. However 
the illness might terminate, though speech and 
recollection and the power to move might come 
back, she realized that as far as a part in the 
world's course was concerned her father's life 
had come to an end. She had lost every thing 
remaining to her in one heavy blow. The hope 
which might have made her womanhood beau- 
tiful had long since died out, almost before she 
was conscious of its brightness. Every aim and 
dream had been bound up in her father's career, 
and there he lay, helpless, shattered, and it seem- 
ed to Elinor that her life had come to an end 
with his. The horrible sense of loneliness, 
which even in the first bitterness of grief made 
itself felt, darkened the room like the visible 
shadow of the inexorable visitant who could 
not be far off. In losing her father she lost her 
all ; scarcely a human being in the world besides 
in whose veins ran blood kindred with her own. 
Her love had been not only the deep tenderness 
of a daughter, but her ambition, her pride, had 
centered in him ; the strongest powers of her 
nature had there found their vent. She had 
nothing besides him to love ; other women of 
her age had mothers, the sweet influence of 
family ties ; she had nothing but him, and a few 
hours or weeks, at the utmost, might leave her 
wholly alone. She could only cling fast to the 
thought poor ignorant Mrs. Olds had once ut- 
tered — '"God never forgets." She said it over 
and over; she made it a supplication for help, 
for resignation, every thing for which she could 
wish to pray, and her heart could steady itself 
upon no other prayer ; it is so difficult to be 
still, to have faith in such an hour. 

The long night came to an end. With a 
dull wonder Elinor saw the slow dawn peep in 
at the closed curtains and recognized that an- 
other day had begun. During her watch it had 
seemed that each moment must cause some vital 
change ; now, weak and exhausted, she compre- 
hended that it was only continued anxiety and 
suspense. The nurse came again and urged her 
to lie down, employing the sole plea that could 
have produced any effect: "You will need all 
your strength, ma'am ; he may be sick a long, 
long time ; you mustn't use it up in the begin- 
ning." 

It had seemed to her that she was to lose him 
instantly — that night had looked like the last ; 
there was a kind of hope in the counsel offered. 
She allowed poor Coralie, who had risen at the 
break of day, to lead her to her chamber, and 
once in bed she slept for several hours. When 
she was up and dressed again Coralie told her 
that the doctor had come and was holding con- 
sultation with two physicians who had accom- 
panied him. She set Coralie to watch that he 
might not leave the house without her seeing 
him, and having tried to drink some tea and eat 
a few morsels, went down stairs and wandered 
desolately about in the rooms which looked so 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



241 



changed that it appeared impossible only a few 
hours had elapsed since the black trouble swoop- 
ed into them. The news of Mr. Grey's illness 
had found its way into the morning papers — 
side by side with that last letter — and the house 
was besieged by inquirers, though, thanks to 
Henry, people were, answered and sent off with- 
out Elinor's ears being tortured by the sound of 
bell or knocker. 

After a time. Ruth Farnsworth came and Eli- 
nor could see her ; there was scarcely another 
woman, besides Rosa, whose presence would not 
have been absolute martyrdom. Ruth did not 
attempt to console her ; she held her fast in her 
arms and let her gasp a few dry sobs that were 
more painful than tears, she told her how often 
such attacks were recovered from, and thanked 
her for seeing her. Elinor sat down with a piti- 
ful quiet which she forced herself to preserve 
lest her last strength should give way. She saw 
that Ruth looked feverish and unwell, and her 
throat was so much affected by her cold that her 
voice was husky and painful. 

"But it is nothing," Ruth said; "I shall 
nurse myself diligently for a day, and I shall be 
well then. I think I can help you, Elinor, if 
you will let me come ; I am accustomed to sick 
people, you know. Clive says we'll not go away 
till Mr. Grey is better." Elinor could feel that 
she was not entirely alone ; the. dear sweet face 
was full of sympathy, and the cheerful, hopeful 
words were a great comfort. "Clive has tele- 
graphed to the Thorntons," Ruth added. " We 
knew you could not think of it, and you want 
them." 

" You are very good to me," Elinor answered. 

It wrung Ruth's heart to see her patience and 
humility. In her mind Elinor had been ele- 
vated so far above common mortals that it was 
dreadful to think of the trials which assail oth- 
ers coming near her. "If we only could do 
something," she said. "But at least you know 
we share your trouble ; it's better than being 
alone, dear, if we can't help." 

1: was better ; much better. They sat there 
and talked for some time, and the companion- 
ship was good for Elinor. The doctors were 
still up stairs ; there was nothing for Elinor to 
do, and Ruth knew that it was better for her to 
be kept occupied even by conversation which 
might be a little irksome than to be sitting soli- 
tary in the oppressive stillness of those great 
rooms. A photograph of Miss Laidley which 
graced one of the albums on the table brought 
up her name, and Ruth told Elinor that she had 
a reason for wishing to see that beautiful runa- 
way, and was sorely puzzled how to do it. 

"They are gone," Elinor said. 

" No," replied Ruth ; " Mr. Hilton told Clive 
— it was a secret he said, but he told it, though 
of course Clive did not ask. They are near the 
city ; in a house that belongs to Mr. Hilton." 

Elinor remembered what Rossitur had in 
his possession and shivered, recalling the hate in 
his face on that night of their last meeting. 

"What is it ?" Ruth asked. " Elinor, don't 

Q 



1 think about them. It was not right of Miss 
Laidley ; but she is so thoughtless." 
"I was not thinking of that, Ruth." 
" Something troubles you, Elinor. Oh, if 
you could tell me — if there was any thing Clive 
or I could do !" 

"I don't think there is," she replied; "I 
don't think any body — Indeed, you must ex- 
cuse me ; I don't quite know what I say, my 
head is so dizzy." 

Ruth drew the poor aching head on her 
shoulder. All her life Elinor had been support- 
ing somebody; it was very pleasant to be pet- 
ted now. "Elinor," she whispered, " I— I nev- 
er told Clive even — but I have something to 
give Mrs. Rossitur which — I mean I think she 
will be obliged, and want to thank me. If there 
is any thing you want done, I might ask her 
while she is softened — or him." 
'A favor of them ? No, Elinor felt that if the 
paper held what might prove her own death- 
warrant she could not beg of them. It might be 
something that could cause only rumors or an- 
noyance ; neither could ever affect her father : 
for herself she could bear. She was crushed 
and humbled, but she could not think that a 
debasement such as that could be right for her 
even if it could be of any avail. 

Ruth comprehended that whatever Elinor 
wanted she would die ten thousand deaths before 
she would ask a boon at the hands of that man 
or his wife. If the face had been that of the 
famed Grecian statue to which it had so often 
been compared, there could not have been less 
show of feeling. "I don't know what it is," 
she said, fearful to venture, yet unwilling to 
leave the subject till she discovered if any efforr 
could be in her power ; " but. Elinor, if, with- 
out telling me, you could let me know whether 
there is any thing I might do." 

"Thank you, Ruth — nothing. I did not 
hesitate to tell you. Mr. Rossitur I believe 
holds a paper which I should be glad to have. 
I shall never ask for it ; no, I could not if it were 
to save my life. I — There, don't let us talk 
about it ; only I did not wish you to think I 
could not trust you." 

"I should not. But I must ask you — it's 
wicked to trouble you now — but tell me, would 
it be wrong for me to go to the house and give 
what I have to Mrs. Rossitur ? It has worried 
me so." 

" Certainly not," Elinor said. 
"I don't want a secret from Clive, but I'm 
afraid if I spoke he would object, and I can't 
keep it any longer. It's nothing of so much 
importance, but I must give it into her own 
hands and explain why I have kept it so long." 
Those people lingering near ? What did it 
mean? why had Rossitur concealed himself and 
his wife in this strange manner ? Could the 
paper be something of vital importance, which 
in the state of her father's brain had only left a 
vague anxiety ? was he waiting to deal some 
final blow ? Elinor's face grew more ghastly as 
those thoughts rushed through her mind, and 



242 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



Ruth, seeing it, knew that in some way her 
peace depended upon getting possession of the 
paper. She made no further allusion to the 
matter, and as they very soon heard the doc- 
tors descending the stairs, Ruth rose to go. 

"I will come back," she said, "dear, dear 
Elinor." She kissed her and went away, seeing 
the consulting physicians pass out of the house, 
while the other went into the apartment where 
she had left Elinor. Henry was in the hall. It 
occurred to Ruth to ask him a question — he 
might know where Mr. Hilton's house was, and 
now she had a double anxiety to find her way 
there. Henry did — he always knew every 
thing — he had learned through Mr. Hilton's 
man that the newly-wedded pair were hidden 
withfn the pleasant shades. 

"I want to see Mrs. Rossitur," Ruth said; 
" Henry, if you will please tell the coachman 
where to drive. Is it far?" 

It was not far — not an hour's ride. There 
would be plenty of time ; Clive would be out all 
the morning. Poor little Ruth got into the car- 
riage, and Henry gave the man directions where 
he was to go, and it might not have been agree- 
able to young Mrs. Rossitur could she have 
heard the whispered answer of the coachman — 

" Ho, that 'ouse — know it ? Bless your eyes, 
I've drove Mr. Hilton and his hopera dancers 
down lots o' times, and I've seen sights there — " 

" Chut !" interrupted Henry. "Mr. and Mrs. 
Rossitur are there ; you must drive this lady 
down." 

Ruth leaned back in the carriage as it drove 
off, somewhat frightened at what she- was doing, 
but certain that it was right. To have a secret 
from Clive filled her with a sentiment of guilt, 
but this had been forced upon her, and from the 
first she had decided that she must be silent. 
If she told him that she had something Miss 
Laidley left in the country he would have pro- 
posed her sending it, and Ruth knew that she 
should never forgive herself if it chanced to fall 
into wrong hands and brought its owner any 
trouble. There was nothing for it but to go 
herself — to see Mrs. Rossitur and leave the pict- 
ure — she could afterward tell Clive where she 
had been and her reason ; he would not be 
angry, she knew ; he would only praise her 
when it was over. It seemed a long, long 
drive to Ruth ; several times she grew so nerv- 
ous that if the recollection of Elinor's face had 
not come up she might have been tempted to 
order the man to return. At length the car- 
riage drove in at a pair of open gates, and look- 
ing out of the window she saw they were ap- 
proaching a pretty cottage, which in the sum- 
mer must be wholly concealed from the road 
by its grove of trees and tall thickets of shrub- 
bery. 

The coachman got down and rang the bell. 
Ruth was standing on the steps when the door 
opened and a female servant confronted her, 
evidently much astonished at her appearance. 
"I want to see Mrs. Rossitur," said Ruth, sum- 
moning her courage ; and seeing by the woman's 



face that she was about to deny the presence of 
that lady in the house, she added, " She is here, 
I know. Tell her Mrs. Farnsworth wishes to 
speak with her a moment; she will see me." 

" Good gracious !" exclaimed a voice, and 
the Angel, who, roused by the unusual sound of 
the bell, had been leaning over the banisters 
in hopes something fresh in the way of romance 
was about to happen, rushed down lovelier than 
ever in a blue morning-dress, pushed past the 
servant and dragged Ruth into the hall. " Why, 
Mrs. Farnsworth," she exclaimed ; " I never was 
so astonished ! How did you discover we were 
here ? We've run away, you know — I suppose 
it's all over the country — but how did you find 
out where we were ?" 

Ruth waited till they were in the drawing- 
room and the door closed, then she said hastily 
— "You must excuse me — " 

"Oh, don't say a word," interrupted Mrs. 
Rossitur, who was blooming and in high spirits ; 
" I am so glad to see you. Isn't this a pretty 
room ? There's the sweetest little conservatory 
back — is it not romantic ? We are hidden here 
just like people in a novel ; but we're going to- 
morrow — I am so glad ! Do tell me what peo- 
ple say ! When did you come to Washing- 
ton ?" 

"Only yesterday; I have seen scarcely any 
one." 

"There have been ever so many paragraphs 
in the papers," Genevieve continued; "have 
you seen any of them ? But of course — ca va 
sans dire. There was a long letter from somebody 
yesterday in the Herald — the lovely heiress, the 
ward of — such hints and romance and — I won- 
der what I did with the paper? I had it here." 

"I saw the letter," Ruth answered, marvel- 
ling at Mrs. Rossitur's delight, for while reading 
the gossip she had pitied the poor girl and 
thought how wretched the notoriety would 
make her. 

"Wasn't it charming?" cried Genevieve. 
"I always said I would not be married in a 
prosy, dozy way. I wore a white satin, high 
neck — it was like what they call a special provi- 
dence, my having it made — and there was such 
haste and secrecy — del, how nervous I was ! 
But how did you find us out ?" 

" I wanted very much to see you," Ruth said, 
evading the question. 

"You dear little thing ! I suppose you like 
romance too and wanted to see how I would 
look after being run away with. I am happy as a 
queen — it's like a novel exactly. But I am glad 
we are going away — I know I should get dread- 
fully bored here. I am such a sensitive creat- 
ure — I must have change and excitement, else 
I get nervous — " 

' ' I was afraid you might think my visit an 
intrusion — " 

" Now don't make excuses," broke in the 
Angel ; "I am delighted to see you — Leighton 
will be too. He's busy now — old Frost, the 
lawyer, came a few moments before you ; they're 
in the dining-room." 



MY DAUGHTEE ELINOE. 



243 



Ruth had no desire to see Mr. Eossitur ; she 
wanted to get away ; she was anxious to tell her 
small secret, and hesitating how to begin for 
fear of Genevieve's being distressed by her 
knowledge. 

"I mean to tellLeighton you are here," said 
the Angel ; " may he it will hurry that nasty 
old Frost a little." 

"No, please," returned Euth ; "I came — I 
wanted to see you — " 

" Of course you did or you wouldn't have 
come, you darling ! Oh, I must show you the 
house — there's such a romance. Some man 
loved a woman whose husband treated her 
dreadfully — she was to run away and stay here 
till she got a divorce and c©uld marry the man 
she loved. Poor thing, she was killed — on a rail- 
way or something. Isn't it delightfully romantic ? 
Every time I am alone I think she is going to 
appear, and I scream." The story was based on 
a vague account Eossitur had invented to satis- 
fy her questions, and she embellished it with 
her usual talent. Then she flew off to some- 
thing else. "Your coming will make Elinor 
Grey furious — horrid thing!" 

" I wanted to see you about a little matter," 
Euth went on rapidly. "I have something of 
yours that I wanted to give you." 

" Of mine ?" repeated Mrs. Eossitur " What 
on earth is it? You dear, little, mysterious 
chouette, what on earth is it ?" 

"It was given me a good while ago," Euth 
proceeded ; "you must excuse my having kept 
it. I should have sent it by mail, but we were 
expecting every week to come, and I thought 
you would rather I gave it into your own hands ; 
I meant to do right." 

. " "Why, what can it be ? I shall die of curi- 
osity if you don't tell." 

"A — a picture," faltered Euth. 
" Whose picture ?" asked Genevieve, for with 
her customary recklessness she had forgotten 
the matter, which had caused her a good deal of 
uneasiness while the incident was fresh in her 
mind. 

" It is your own," Euth said. 
Genevieve began to laugh. " Oh, you dear 
innocent bird — you can't be used to subterfuges ! 
You wanted to see me and I don't wonder ; I 
am always jolie about people who do any thing 
out of the common way. It doesn't need any 
excuses. I tell you again I'm delighted — voila. 
You know we are going to Paris? I do hope 
the elopement will get in the French papers. 
Fancy how it will make me stared at and talk- 
ed about." 

Her levity was incomprehensible to Euth, but 
she could not wonder concerning it until she got 
the secret off her mind. "Please to listen," 
said she earnestly. 

" Madonna mia ! how serious you look," cried 
Genevieve, laughing again. "Heavens! you've 
not come to read me a lecture for running away 
and having a secret marriage ? Oh you sweet- 
ness — you unsophisticated love — une vraie prin- 
cesse de/ee ! I vow I must call Leighton." 



She was rising, but Euth caught her dress. 
"Please don't," she said; "wait a moment. 
You don't quite understand. It is — the — the pict- 
ure that little Tilman boy was to bring yon — 
that's what I have." 

" O the blessed Saints!" exclaimed the An- 
gel. " I had forgotten it ! Give it to me — give 
it to me." 

Euth took the photograph out of her pocket, 
carefully sealed in a letter envelope. Mrs. Eos- 
situr seized her prize, tore off the wrapper, gave 
one glance at the picture to be certain it was the 
one she now remembered with such unpleasant 
sensations, and with another cry, half fear, half 
acting, enjoying the scene in the midst of her 
fright, as she must any thing like a mystery, rfn 
to the fire, held the card in the blaze till it al- 
most scorched her fingers, then threw the black- 
ened fragments under the grate. " If Leighton 
had seen it he would have killed me — he's the 
only human being I ever feared a bit, " she ex- 
claimed. " How did you get it ?" 
"The boy gave it to me — " 
" The little wretch ! He ought to be burned 
alive." 

"No, no — wait. He was not so much to 
blame. He was very sick and thought he might 
die ; he begged me to give it to you and say he 
never had told any body else. He dropped it 
in the mud and did not dare take it at the time ; 
then he said it was so pretty he kept it to look 
at because he didn't know what else to do with 
it." 

"Well, it is burned now," said Genevieve, 
with a flutter of relief. " So he kept it because 
it was pretty — the little goose ! But it was only 
nonsense — you must not think it was any thing 
else." 

"I am sure it was not," Euth said. 
" He wanted me to sit for it — I did not reflect 
— I am so heedless — such a baby! Oh, your 
husband'll not tell?" 

" He does not know — indeed I never mention- 
ed having seen it to any human being," replied 
Ruth, and the Angel, notwithstanding her very 
limited faith in the protestations of most people, 
saw that she was telling the truth. "I never 
looked at it after ; I sealed it up and was only 
waiting an opportunity to give it to you ; I felt 
guilty at keeping it so long." 

"You're a darling," cried Genevieve, kissing 
her enthusiastically. " I adore you ! When I 
get to Paris I'll send 3 t ou the loveliest bracelet ! 
I shall not forget — I'm the most grateful little 
thing in the world — all heart! I feel things too 
much." 

"You need not be grateful," said Ruth ; " I 
only did what was honest." 

" What a quaint creature — you dear Eed Eid- 
ing Hood — honest ! But I tell you what, lots 
of women would have done something spiteful in 
your place. I know them — nasty cats ! Bless 
me, if Elinor Grey had laid hands on it !" 

"Indeed, indeed, she would not have made 
you any trouble." 

"Oh, I don't know — she was so jealous. 



244 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



Horrid dragon she is, with her airs and graces — 
but you're a love ! Why, I would do any thing 
in the world for you — sell my soul to please you ! 
Oh, what can I do? Tell me something lean do." 

Ruth, with the recollection of Elinor's words in 
her mind, answered quickly — "You can do 
something if you will." 

" Oil !" said the Angel, and her countenance 
fell ; she had not expected her pretty gusli of 
gratitude to be taken so literally ; "but you see 
I'm shut up here — hidden. When I get to Par- 
is — oh, you'll see, when I get to Paris !" 

" There's a paper of Mr. Grey's that your hus- 
band has," said Ruth. 

"How do you know?" cried Genevieve. 
"<l<Vre you an artful thing after all — pretending 
to love me and be kind ? Did Elinor get you 
to do this?" 

' ' No, no ; but she's in such trouble — I thought 
perhaps you would persuade your husband to let 
me have that paper." 

"I'll not do any thing for Elinor or him ei- 
ther — I hate them both ! She's a deceitful, 
treacherous creature, and he — " 

" Oh, don't you know that Mr. Grey is very 
ill— dying?" 

" Dying ?"repeated Genevieve, always fright- 
ened at that word. "You don't mean it — you 
say it to terrify me." 

" Indeed I do not ; I thought you might have 
seen it in this morning's paper. He had a par- 
alytic stroke yesterday, and there is no hope of 
his recovery." 

" How dreadful !" exclaimed Genevieve with 
a shudder, a good deal frightened and shocked. 
" Have you seen Elinor?" 

"Yes ; she doesn't know yet that he can't get 
well, but the doctor told my husband last night." 

Genevieve shivered from head to foot and 
grew pale ; her dread of death was so excessive 
that to have it come near any one she knew fill- 
ed her with terror. " Don't tell me," she plead- 
ed ; "it frightens me ! Why, he was as well as 
we are — don't tell me." 

"But I know you will be sorry for Elinor in 
her trouble." 

" Oh, yes, lam ; but then she has such nerves 
— she is iron. Why, I should have dropped 
dead ! I fainted six times when poor papa — 
Oh, don't talk about such horrors." 

" But if you could get me that paper — if you 
know about it." 

"Yes, I know; Leighton came across it this 
morning while lie was sorting his letters — his 
things are all here — and he showed it to me. 
It isn't much — just some memorandums in Mr. 
Grey's writing-»-but he said when the election 
came — " She checked herself, remembering that 
he would be furious at her revelations. She 
could not think that it was a matter of much 
importance ; at another time the fact that she 
could annoy Elinor or her father by keeping it 
would have made her resolute not to give it up, 
but she was softened and alarmed by this sud- 
den news concerning him. 

" She did not know I meant to ask you," Ruth 



proceeded. "But she seemed anxious; and 
when you said you were so much obliged to me 
for bringing the pictm - e I thought perhaps you 
would let me have the paper." 

Genevieve leaned back in her chair, clapped 
her hands, and burst into a fit of laughter that 
astonished Ruth. " Well, you are the most in- 
nocent little thing,'' she exclaimed. " Why, 
where were your wits ? You might have held 
fast to the picture and driven your own bar- 
gain — threatened me with going to my husband 
if I did not give up the paper." 

Ruth's eyes widened with wonder. " You 
are jesting," she said ; " that would have been 
very mean and base. The picture was yours 
and I had promised to restore it. I had no right 
to use it in any way." 

"Ah, mais e'est trap fort /" cried Genevieve. 
"You are too good for this world, that's clear ; 
fit for what the Idol calls the forest of Ardent — 
that blessed old dunce ! Why, don't you know 
any other human being would have forced me to 
do what was wanted ?" 

"I think not," said Ruth gently; "I hope 
not. But now that you know Mr. Grey is so ill, 
you will let. me have it. You would not keep 
back any thing that could ease his mind when 
he is dying." • 

" Don't speak that dreadful word," exclaimed 
Genevieve, shivering again; "it almost gives 
me a spasm. I'll get the paper — you may have 
it. Wait here — it's of no importance, really." 

"But very little things are of importance 
when one is ill," Ruth answered, following up her 
advantage. " If you could see him — " 

" Oh don't, don't — you'll make me scream — 
I can't think about it ! I'll get the paper — bless 
me, any thing! — wait." 

She flew out of the room, and Ruth sat utter- 
ing mental thanksgivings over this unexpected 
success, so overjoyed at the thought of being able 
to relieve Elinor's mind in any way that she re- 
garded the childish bride more leniently than 
ever. Mrs. Rossitur made sure that her husband 
was still closeted with the lawyer, then up stairs 
she sped and sought the paper. She had been 
leaning over Rossitur as he arranged his desk 
and remembered where lie laid the note in an 
envelope by itself. She took it out of the box, 
arranged the other letters again, and ran down 
to Ruth, holding up the coveted treasure as she 
entered. "There," she said ; "now am I not a 
good little thing?" 

"I can't thank you enough," exclaimed 
Ruth, seizing it and at once sealing the envelope. 

"Why, what are you doing?" demanded 
Genevieve. 

"I have sealed it." 

"But you haven't looked at it — read it." 

"It is not mine," Ruth said, pressing the 
edges hard together and placing the letter care- 
fully in her pocket. 

" Of all the odd creatures I ever saw you arc 
the oddest," exclaimed Genevieve, and her sur- 
prise was the most genuine sensation she had 
felt in many a day. 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



24£ 



Ruth had accomplished every thing for which 
she came, and more than she had dared to hope, 
and was eager to go. 

" Do stay," said Genevieve ; "I want you to 
see Leighton, please." 

"I can not; my husband would not know 
what had become of me ; besides, I am not 
well." 

" You don't look well," returned Genevieve, 
for the first time observing it, having as usual 
been too full of herself to notice the appearance of 
her visitor. ' ' How heavy your eyes are, and 
you are very pale, and so dreadfully hoarse." 

" Yes ; I have a severe cold, but I think it is 
better this morning, only my throat is exceed- 
ingly painful still." 

" Oh, good gracious ! I hope I'll not get it. 
I'm so sorry I kissed you. Why didn't you tell 
me ?" cried Genevieve. 

"I do not think I am infectious," replied 
Ruth, laughing. " Now good-bye. I hope you 
may be very happy." 

' ' I shall be — no fear ! I suppose Elinor is fu- 
rious. How she must want to tear my hair ! She 
was mad in love with Leighton, but he never 
cared for her and he let her see it." 

" Poor Elinor has no thought for any body 
but her father," Ruth answered gravely, flush- 
ing a little. 

" Peutctre! However, I'm not revengeful. 
I forgive her — I can afford to ; I got the best 
of her every way. Good-bye — I'll not kiss you. 
Tell every body how happy I am, and that we 
are off for Paris." She kept stopping in the hall 
for last words ; the opening of a door made Ruth 
afraid of seeing some one else ; she hurried out 
of the house and was driven away. 

" Who the deuce was that, Angel ?" asked 
Rossitur, coming into the hall. 

" A visitor — you'd never guess," replied Gen- 
evieve. 

Mr. Frost was taking his leave ; when he 
had gone Genevieve put her arm coaxingly in 
her husband's. "Well," said he, "we can be 
off to-night." She cooed with delight. "Ev- 
ery thing is ready;" he continued; "we shall 
have to stay in New York — " 

" Leighton," she interrupted ; " Mr. Grey 
is very ill." 

" Yes, Frost told me." 

He had been utterly confounded by the news 
the lawyer brought ; information that Mr. 
Grey's lawyers in New York would put him in 
immediate possession of his wife's fortune — no 
attempt at delay or compromise. He could not 
understand it ; he knew that Pluto had failed, 
and at the moment when he expected to taste 
his revenge came this message delivered to the 
lawyer by Miss Grey in her father's name. He 
only knew that he had been overreached ; in 
some manner Elinor had done it : her fortune 
must have been in a state to be rendered more 
quickly available than he had supposed. But 
his rage and wicked resentment had been a good 
deal checked by the news concerning Mr. Grey. 
He had no wish to fight a dying man ; it was 



not pleasant to face the reflection that his seiz- 
ure was caused by the bad news — that some 
time he might have to face the recollection that 
he had on his soul not only one man's ruin but 
another's murder. He did as most people do 
— he did not think. Pluto was going to make 
shipwreck any way — he was virtually bankrupt 
weeks before ; Mr. Grey had been threatened a 
long time with that attack; what folly to be 
frightened at himself; he was not fate ; he had 
done nothing in reality. 

" Who was that went out ?" he asked. 
"Mrs. Farnsworth," replied Genevieve. 
"In the name of goodness! what brought 
her?" 

" She wanted to see me — of course." 
He looked puzzled. "Did the Greys send 
her ?" he asked. 

" Certainly not ! There he is out of his 
head or worse, and — Why, she wanted to see 
me. Are we really, really going to-night ?" 
" Yes ; there is nothing to stop for." 
" I must have Juanita put up what things are 
out," said Genevieve. 

"And I must finish sorting my papers; old 
Frost interrupted me." 

" I'll do it, dear," said Genevieve sweetly. 
"No, thanks, pussy," replied he, laughing; 
" you would get them in such confusion I should 
never find any thing again." 

She was frightened at the probability of his 
discovering what she had done, still she had 
acuteness enough to reason that he was less 
likely to be violent than if they had been longer 
married ; besides, she saw that he was greatly 
shocked by the news about Mr. Grey. Things 
must take their course — in certain wars she was 
a thorough fatalist. They went up stairs, and 
Genevieve flitted about instead of summoning 
Juanita while Rossitur collected the remainder 
of his papers in order. He heard her talk — he 
answered her pleasantly enough — the spell of 
her youth and her prettiness was fresh upon his 
sensuous nature, but that was not an agreeable 
half-hour to Rossitur. He was glad to chatter 
— to get away from the image of the dying man 
which kept rising in a ghastly manner. Re- 
venge did not taste so sweet as he had expect- 
ed ; it was all different. He had thought to 
have Elinor appealing to him for mercy — for a 
little time ; here every thing about the money 
was straight enough. It looked ugly — the 
click of the telegraph sounded in his ears. 
Curse it, a man was not to be haunted in broad 
day-light with sights and sounds that were fancy 
after all ! He stopped in his employment, went 
down into the dining-room and drank a glass of 
wine — he had already taken several since the 
news reached him — and came back to jest and 
laugh with his pretty wife and shut out every 
thought besides the golden fact that the wealth 
and luxury he had craved were at length in his 
grasp. 

Genevieve was unusually playful and bewitch- 
ing, but she was very nervous and could not 
help bringing on the discovery she dreaded. 



24G 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



" Where did you lay that paper of Mr. Grey's ?" 
she asked, bending over his chair as he exam- 
ined the desk. 

"Here," returned he, lifting some letters. 
"No— why— " 

" What is the matter ?" she asked, as he be- 
gan pulling the papers out. 

" It is gone I" he exclaimed ; gave one more 
search, glanced up at her and cried out — " You 
gave it to that woman." 

In an instant Genevieve was on her knees be- 
fore him, clinging to his hands, sobbing, half 
acting and half terrified. "I could not help 
it ! She said he was dying — I could not refuse ! 
Leighton, darling, don't be angry — remember 
that he is dying." 

It was fortunate for her that he did remem- 
ber it ; fortunate that something had been all 
the morning stinging him like an awakened con- 
science ; that in his swift thought while he sat 
gazing down at her with a look she had never 
before seen in his face he remembered there 
were certain restrictions upon a portion of the 
wealth which he wanted to coax her into remov- 
ing ; that the influence of her delicate loveliness 
had not had time in the least to pall upon his 
changeable nature. 

"Leighton, Leighton!" she sobbed, made 
wholly earnest by that black glance. " Say 
you forgive me! Oh, you'll kill me if you look 
like that ! Any way, that nasty Elinor had to 
beg for it — that's some comfort." 

It was a little ; besides, the paper could only 
have been made an annoyance at. the time of 
an election ; Mr. Grey was past suffering from 
such trouble now. He restrained himself, raised 
Genevieve and kissed away her tears. "I am 
not angry," he said. 

" Sure — will you forgive me?" she pleaded. 

" Yes ; but, Genevieve, don't you ever so 
much as peep among my papers again." There 
was something in the voice that, following the 
look which had been in his face for an instant, 
gave .Genevieve an internal shiver ; she com- 
prehended that she had found her master. 

"I never will," she said humbly, without 
trying to make a bit of a scene. "Don't be 
angry — I do love you." 

In a short time they were laughing and talk- 
ing gavly ; she looked so fair as she hung about 
him that ho could not feel harsh toward her. 
He was not sorry, in spite of his hate for Elinor, 
to think that his conscience was somewhat light- 
ened in regard to the dying man. As for fully 
crediting his wife's story, he did not ; he knew 
her too thoroughly for that ; he was not willing 
to lose an opportunity of showing her that he 
understood her perfectly, and that she might 
expect the myriads of artifices she always had 
on hand to be read at once with as much case 
as this. 

"Angel," said he. 

" Yes, love." 

" Tell me the truth ; what made you give up 
that paper ?" 

"0 Leighton, when I told you! Don't 



talk about it any more — you said you forgave 
me." 

"So I do, chick; but what little hold had 
Farnsworth's wife on you that enabled her to do 
the business ?" 

"Hold? What an expression! Indeed, 
Leighton, this is really insulting," said she, 
drawing her head away from the hand which 
was playing carelessly with her hair, and look- 
ing virtuously hurt. 

"Now, Angel," said he, laughing, "don't 
you do the injured virtue dodge too strong or I 
shall believe it is something of consccpience ; 
too much indignation is always suspicious." 

"Oh, you dear, you wouldn't believe any 
thing cruel of poor little me, I am sure." 

"No; but what did she offer in return for 
the paper?" 

" Oh, you wicked thing, with your suspicions 
always ready !" cried Genevieve, re-assured by 
his good-nature. 

" Yes, I know. Just tell me ; you can call 
mc names after," said he, giving her hair a lit- 
tle pull. 

"Ah, you hurt mc! There, I'll call you all 
the loves and goodies in the world, if you'll let 
me get up. There are so many things to do. 
Where is that dreadful Juanita ?" 

"Never mind Juanita," returned Rossitur, 
laughing still, but detaining her as she tried to 
rise from the arm of his chair. "I say, what 
did she give?" 

" You persevering, atrocious — Leighton, 
I shan't be ready!" 

"Plenty of time, dear; there are always 
trains, but the reason for confession can't be 
passed over." 

"Oli, I've bitten my tongue! Please let mc 
go ! Dear me, Leighton, you've a dimple in 
your chin — I never noticed it before — let mc 
kiss it." 

" To kiss a dimple in my chin is reserved for 
a well-behaved, straightforward little Angel," 
said he, holding her hands. "Now confess, 
witch." 

" There, then — a letter I left in a drawer at 
her bouse, from that foolish Walters," said Gen- 
evieve suddenly. " I was afraid you would be 
angry, so I was glad enough to get it." 

" Honor?" said Rossitur. 

"Yes, indeed — honor! I don't fib — look." 
By good luck she had such a missive in her 
pocket ; she had found it among some scraps 
she was burning that morning, and remembered 
now to make use of it. She held up the letter 
— sure enough, there was Waltcrs's signature. 
"Now are you satisfied?" she asked. 

"Perfectly ! No thank you," as she offered 
to let him see more ; "I don't want to read the 
trash." 

" He wrote beautiful letters," said Genevieve 
indignantly ; " and he was crazy about me." 

"I dare say. I just wanted to make you 
own up. I thought such "disinterested conduct 
on your part must have some righteous motive at 
the bottom." 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



247 



"But you're not angry ?" 

"Not a bit. The paper wasn't much. Let 
it go ; I never could use it now. But you did 
confess, eh?" 

" Yes ; you bad thing — always getting at the 
truth in spite of me ! I think I hate you — only 
I love you." She kissed his hand and went off 
carolling a merry song, in high delight to think 
that not only was the matter safely settled, but 
that she had the best of it — she had deceived 
him, after all. 

They started for New York that night, and on 
meeting the lawyers Rossitur found every thing 
straight. He could not tell how it had been 
brought about, only he felt that by some means 
Elinor Grey had made his treachery useless. 
They sailed in a few days for France, both so 
full of excitement at the change and novelty 
brought into their lives that real happiness 
would have looked very tame by the side of it. 
Before leaving town the Angel sent a gift to 
the Banger by express — omitting to pay the 
charge of carriage. The present proved to be 
a gold pencil-case, at sight of which the Banger 
was in a tremendous rage. She lavished a few 
wild flowers of prairie rhetoric upon the head 
of the absent seraph, but finally laughed at her 
own discomfiture, and revenged herself by ex- 
hibiting the souvenir to her visitors and telling 
the story of Mrs. Rossitur's meanness, which 
was a great satisfaction. 



CHAPTER XLV. 

GOING AWAY. 

On reaching the city R'uth drove to Mr. 
Grey's house, and Henry, seeing her anxiety, 
did for her what he would not have done for any 
other woman in Washington — went up to let 
his mistress know that she was there. 

Elinor came down stairs, whiter than ever if 
possible, but very calm. The physician had 
told her the truth. Her father might live only 
a few hours ; the feeble thread of life might be 
spun out for a few weeks, even months, but 
there was no hope. The moment Ruth looked 
at her she knew that Elinor had heard the ver- 
dict, but she did not intrude with ill-timed sym- 
pathy. 

"I have that paper," were the first words; 
"I have seen Mrs. Rossitur — she gave it to me 
herself." Elinor could scarcely credit the fact 
even when Ruth placed the envelope in her 
hands. " I told her you did not know I meant 
to ask. She was sorry about your father. Look 
at it — to be certain." 

"He had but one," returned Elinor, shrink- 
ing from a perusal of the lines. She opened the 
envelope, ascertained that the paper was in her 
father's writing, and put it away. ' ' I can't say 
any thing," she went on in a cold, hollow voice ; 
"but you know how I thank you." 

"Don't, Elinor, don't. Think what I owe 
you ! my poor dear, if I could comfort you 
— if I could bear your pain !" 



"You are a good woman, Ruth; God bless 
you!" Ruth clung to her; they both sobbed a 
little, but were soon quiet again. "There is 
no hope," Elinor whispered ; " you knew it." 

" The doctor told Clive. O Elinor, I can 
only say what you said to me— it was such a 
comfort — God never forgets." 

"Yes— only I'm so blind and deaf." She 
shook from head to foot, but repressed her emo- 
tion and said, "You look very ill, Ruth; go 
home at once and to bed." 

" I shall be better to-morrow— it's only mv 
cold, " Ruth insisted. " I am so glad that is set- 
tled." 

" But you ought not to have gone, you were 
too ill. If I had to think you made yourself 
worse by trying to do me a favor — " 

" No, no ; I had to go — it was for Genevieve 
herself — but it's over. I'll not keep you now ; 
to-morrow I shall be able to come and help you. 
Be sure to expect me." 

A few loving words and they parted. Elinor 
followed her into the hall ; as Ruth looked back, 
something made Elinor go up to her with an 
outgush of feeling at variance with her usual 
reserve and clasp her again in her arms. " God 
bless you !" she whispered. 

"And you," returned Ruth. "It seems 
wicked to think of myself now, but O Elinor, I 
have been so happy, and your coming was the 
commencement ; it seems like your work." 

She went away and Elinor returned to her 
lonely watch. Late that night Tom and Rosa 
arrived, and their presence was a great comfort. 

When Clive returned to the hotel toward 
evening he found Ruth lying on the sofa in their 
gloomy parlor. He entered so softly that she 
did not hear the door open, lying in a sort of 
stupor which would neither release its hold nor 
allow her to fall asleep. He was startled by the 
deathly whiteness of her face and stood irreso- 
lute, not certain whether she slept. Some 
strange perception of his presence, of which she 
was always conscious, made her lift her -eyes. 
He hurried forward and she tried to raise her- 
self and greet him with the familiar smile. 

" Don't stir," he said quickly ; "my darling 
child, you are worse." 

"No, I- think not," she answered slowly; 
"my head aches frightfully and my throat is 
very painful. If I could only get to sleep I 
should be better." He leaned over her, laid 
her head gently back on the pillows, smoothing 
her hair from her face, and again she looked up 
and smiled. "Thank you," she said ; " I be- 
lieve your very touch makes me better at once." 
Her voice was husky and broken, and he could see 
that the effort to speak caused her intense pain. 

"I ought not to have left you," he exclaimed, 
in sudden self-reproach; "but you seemed so 
much better this morning." 

"Yes; I thought it was all over, Indeed, 
Clive, I am not really ill. I went out ; I sup- 
pose that has irritated my throat." 

" I wish I had begged you to stay in the 
house." 



248 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



"I wanted to see Elinor so much, Clive," she 
said, getting hold of his hand and speaking with 
her eyes closed, though the smile of content was 
on her lips still. "Poor Elinor! She ran 
after me and kissed me — I am glad." 

She was stopped by a cough, not violent, but 
accompanied by such struggles for breath that 
Clive was greatly alarmed. "You must let me 
call Dr. Meadows," he said. 

"I don't believe it's worth while, Clive; if I 
could sleep, I should be quite well. Why, you 
don't think I am very sick, do you ?" 

"At least he can give you something to re- 
lieve your throat and make you breathe more 
easily." 

He insisted, and, as ever, she was ready to 
comply with his wishes, though she could not 
believe there was much the matter ; the very 
nature of the insidious disease which held her 
in its clutch rendering her unconscious of her 
state. Clive went out and dispatched a mes- 
senger for the physician, requesting him to come 
without delay, and with each instant his anxie- 
ty increased. He was not in the least accus- 
tomed to sickness, and Ruth had always been so 
well and active that it appeared impossible any 
serious illness could have seized her, but the 
white face and the heavy eyes, so changed ex- 
cept in their look of love, terrified him beyond 
measure. 

" Come and sit by me," Ruth said feebly, as 
he returned to the room, and again he took his 
station by the couch. 

"You mustn't try to talk, dear," he said; 
"I think it makes your throat worse." 

She shook her head. "I'm sure I am bet- 
ter now you have come," she answered. "I 
want to tell you — please, Clive, don't think it 
was wrong." 

"What is it? You couldn't do any thing 
wrong, childie." 

"My Clive !" touching her lips to the hand 
she had once more taken and was holding on 
her heart. "I went to see Mrs. Rossitur — I 
had something of hers she left in the country." 

"My little one, that long drive! How 
wicked I was to leave you." 

"Don't, don't !" she returned, becoming ex- 
cited at once, the ill effects of which were ap- 
parent in her breathing. " Please never think 
that — it makes me worse than any thing — prom- 
ise." 

" Yes, dear ; only be quiet." 

"I was so well — I didn't think it could hurt 
me. There was something Elinor wanted, too 
— a paper. She didn't know I meant to get it 
— but I did." She stopped ; her respiration 
was so difficult that he raised her head on his 
shoulder, supporting her in his arms. " This 
is better — it rests me," she whispered. "I'll 
be well to-morrow. My dear old boy, he looks 
so frightened." 

It was no marvel that the color left his face 
and the dark terror crept into his eyes ; the pos- 
sible nature of her illness had occurred to him 
— that dreadful malady which he knew only 



by name, which he could hardly utter in his 
thoughts. He listened eagerly for steps ; the 
doctor ought to have come, but Ruth was lying 
quite still and he could not disturb her by get- 
ting up. 

" Clive," she whispered ; "I told Elinor how 
happy I had been — when she came back to kiss 
me. We are so sorry for her, Clive." 

"Yes, my little one." 

" So happy," she continued, going back to 
the words she had spoken and nestling closer to 
him. "Clive, it can't be wicked! Oh, if I 
had been in heaven all this last year I couldn't 
have been happier." 

"My little Ruth!" 

" I like to be that," she went on, in the same 
slow whisper ; "to be like a child — to be spoil- 
ed — my Clive !" She was stopped anew by 
that painful cough, which hurt her so much 
that in the effort to repress it she seemed suf- 
focating. Clive got a glass of water and held 
to her lips; she tried to swallow a little, shook 
her head and signed him to take it away. 

At that instant there was a knock at the door, 
and Clive opened it to find the physician stand- 
ing there. A few whispered words passed be- 
tween them, but they heard Ruth's voice in a 
hoarse whisper — " Clive, Clive!" The instant 
she could not see him she became uneasy, try- 
ing to lift her weary head and look about. 

" Yes, dear," Clive said, hurrying back. 
" It is the doctor, Ruth ; he will give you some- 
thing to relieve your throat at once." 

The whiteness of her face was broken now by 
twin spots of crimson that had risen in her 
cheeks, making its lividness more striking, and 
her eyes were bright with fever through their 
heaviness. The doctor followed Clive and stood 
beside her — she motioned him to bend down. 
" Tell Clive I am not very sick," she said. "It 
is only my throat, and as if there was a great 
weight here," laying her hand on her chest. 
The doctor touched her forehead lightly, felt 
her pulse, and saying something about a severe 
cold, asked her to let him see her throat. As 
he laid her head back on the pillows, and she 
closed her eyes, Clive looked at him and read 
the realization of his worst fears in the grave 
face. " Tell him I shall be better to-morrow, 
please," Ruth said without opening her eyes, but 
searching for Clive's hand. The physician 
made some slight answer, sat down at a table 
and took out his case of tiny vials. He came 
back bringing a wine-glass which held some 
drops of a dark -colored liquid diluted with 
water. 

"The doctor wants you to take this, Ruth," 
Clive said. She looked up obediently, let him 
raise her head and tried to swallow ; the effort 
brought such acute pain that she uttered a little 
cry. After the convulsive breathing grew easier 
Clive laid her head down again, and whispering 
that he was going for something in the next 
room, motioned the physician away. 

"Tell me at once," said he. 

"It is diphtheria, Mr. Farnsworth." 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



249 



" Is there any hope ?" 

"It would be only cruel to deceive you — I 
fear not." 

Clive stood still while the physician summoned 
assistance and called for the dismal paraphernalia 
of requirements, the bare sight of which is such 
a horror to any body that has watched in a sick- 
room where the fearful malady held sway. 

"You must tell her she is very ill'and not 
to be frightened at what we do," the doctor 
said. 

Clive went back ; she was lying motionless ; 
the stupor was coming over her again — the doc- 
tor signed Clive to rouse her. "Ruth," he said, 
trying to make his voice calm and natural, " I 
want to lift you up — the doctor has to do some- 
thing to your throat." 

The change in his voice pierced through the 
dull weight on her brain ; she looked up wildly. 
" Am I so sick, Clive ?" 

"We hope you will be better soon. You 
must be patient, even if he gives you great pain 
— it is for me, Ruth." 

" For you, Clive, for you." . 
I need not and I can not detail the suffering 
of the next two hours, and, most moving of all, 
Ruth's fortitude, her thoughtfulness for Clive 
even then. Every thing had been done ; a friend 
' of Clive's stopping in the hotel had heard of 
Ruth's illness and come at once. They had 
worked over the sufferer with the patient energy 
of desperation — there was nothing left in mortal 
power. 

The last attempt had been so excruciating that 
the stupor following lasted longer than any time 
before. She was lying back in Clive's arms, such 
a heavy, lifeless weight ; suddenly she opened 
her eyes. " I'm not dying, Clive," she gasped ; 
"I'm not dying?" 

It was half an exclamation, half an inquiry. 
He could not speak — could only hold her fast to 
his heart as she repeated his name. He saw the 
doctor look at him — then he and the lady at- 
tendant went softly into the adjoining room and 
left the husband and wife alone. Clive knew 
what he meant. 

" Did they go out, Clive ? Are we alone ?" 
"Yes, Ruth." 

" If I'm dying, tell me, Clive — I can bear it 
from you." There was an instant's hush ; her 
labored breathing had grown so quiet that Clive 
could hear the ticking of his watch. She wait- 
ed a little. His very silence answered her ques- 
tion. He felt her shiver slightly, felt the hands 
that held his tighten their grasp, then relax — he 
saw her lips move and caught the broken words 
of prayer. "God knows best," she said faint- 
ly; "he has been very good to us, Clive." With 
perfect submission she had borne every trial in 
the years gone by — with the same sweet patience 
she yielded to this last fiat. " Don't let them 
try any thing more, Clive," she said; "it only 
hurts me — let me stay alone with you." 

"0 my God, have mercy!" broke from his 
lips. 

1 ' Don't, Clive, don't ! Put my arm over your 



neck. My Clive, I have been so happy." She 
was forgetting the pain, death itself, every thing, 
in her desire to comfort him. "Always re- 
member that, Clive — perfectly happy. Don't 
shiver, dear, don't sob. I shall not be far away 
— think of that, Clive. I didn't want to die — I 
was so happy here — but God knows best — say it, 
Clive, say it." Oh, he could not say it. With 
his agony, his remorse coming up afresh, so little 
time given for atonement, how could he yield ? 
" Say it, Clive," she repeated. 

As her lips again feebly framed the words, he 
forced himself to repeat them with her — " God 
knows best." 

"That is right, Clive," she said; "it will be 
easier now. O Clive, just before we came from 
home I dreamed an angel appeared and told me 
I must go, and I saw you and was so full of 
pain to leave you, and then — I don't remember 
what I saw, but I knew it was right and best, and 
I was at peace — as I am now, Clive." He 
wanted her forgiveness once more — the re-assur- 
ance of her happiness, but he could not bear to 
ask, lest he should trouble her. "Not a cloud, 
not a break," she said. " Clive, God has been 
so good— he gave me a foretaste of heaven here. 
Kiss me, Clive — hold me close." She lay still 
in his arms for a little, then she went on — "I 
tried to pray — I have asked God not to let me be 
wicked — I am going to him — it can't be wrong 
to give you these last moments — hold me close 
to your heart, close." If he could have done so, 
or have gone forth with her — his Ruth, his little 
Ruth! " You'll not be dreary when you think 
about me, Clive — you will know I am happy. 
Kiss me, Clive. It seems very light — is it day 
already?" 

"No, dear." 

"The light— look, Clive— the light!" Her 
head sank lower on his shoulder — her eyes were 
raised — the glory which she saw, invisible to 
him, was reflected in her face. " Do they want 
me, Clive ?" she whispered. " It is not far — so 
bright, so bright. Your name last — I love you, 
Clive." 

A sudden relaxation in every muscle of the 
slender frame — the head drooped lower — all was 
still. "Ruth, Ruth! "he called. There was 
no response. He looked and saw that he held 
in his arms only a still white form. Ruth could 
not answer him any more — she had gone forth 
with the angels. 



CHAPTER XL VI. 

THE TABLES TURNED. 

The panic in Wall Street, which had been 
spreading for weeks, was deepened by the fail- 
ure of Pluto's house ; trouble and dismay brood- 
ed over the great city that has no medium in 
any thing, knows only the extremes of reckless 
prosperity and overwhelming disaster. Mrs. 
Hackett reached her home to find it a howling 
wilderness of confusion, and Pluto so desolate 
under the shock that the full truth impressed 



250 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



itself upon her. Up to that moment' she had 
tried to believe that there was some hope; it 
seemed impossible that actual ruin could have 
befallen them, for however much she might talk 
in her poetical moments of theirs being a union 
of mind and matter, the Idol had unlimited faith 
in his powers and what she was wont to term his 
" fisical genius." The morning after her arri- 
val she sat alone in her dressing-room. Pluto 
had departed to survey his countless wrecks and 
try to steady his senses sufficiently to see what 
was to be done next. The Idol was almost sur- 
prised to find her magnificence still about her ; 
she had gone to bed so completely crushed that 
she would not have been astonished to have wak- 
ened in some barren hovel, or at least in some 
such plain, out-of-the-way abode as that in which 
she and Pluto had commenced their career, a 
whole life back, a life which had been forgotten 
for years before opening success taught her to 
aspire. 

With all her follies, the Idol was not a fool, 
and she was generosity and justice personified. 
She and Pluto had held a long conversation be- 
fore they slept, and it was a little comfort for 
her to know that she could do something. There 
had been investments enough made in her name 
during the past years to have contented a score 
of families with moderate desires — stocks and 
bonds, and tenements of every description, besides 
the great palace in town, with its regal chests of 
plate, and the Castle up in the country, which 
for dimensions and splendor might have satisfied 
an exiled sovereign as a retreat ; indeed, in the 
point of warmth and modern comforts it was de- 
cidedly preferable to the old chateaus where those 
uncrowned unfortunates usually find shelter. It 
was something to feel that she could help Pluto 
in any way ; he was only overwhelmed, not crush- 
ed ; her counsels, fervent if very ungrammatical 
in her excitement, her faith, strong as ever in his 
genius, expressed in Spenserian stanzas without 
the rhymes, had helped to restore his courage ; 
he wanted now to free his name that he might 
begin another career. The Idol was ready to 
give every thing she held in her right — houses, 
bonds, jewels, the very shoes off her feet ; un- 
like many women in her situation, who in such 
emergencies rumor reports to have gone about 
in dashing new carriages to receive the condo- 
lences of their friends. 

The Idol sat with her breakfast before her, 
but the chocolate was poison, the French roll dust 
and ashes, the variety of delicacies with which 
her servitors had tried to tempt her appetite, 
gall and bitterness. She was busy thinking 
that perhaps she should be obliged to drink 
corn coffee out of a tin mug and stir it with a 
pewter spoon, and she glanced at the array of 
Sevres china and gold breakfast-service, and 
felt that it was hard. There was a loud ring at 
the door-bell — it seemed to the Idol that it had 
rung unceasingly since her return, though out 
of the host that had feasted in her halls, and 
dai*ced or been trodden on, according to their 
age, in countless Germans in her ball-room, 



there was not a soul to come near her in her 
loneliness. People are so sorry for their ac- 
quaintance in misfortune — words would be a 
mockery, calls an insult, therefore they are care- 
ful not to intrude. Not only a ring at the bell, 
clamorous, vicious, and prolonged, but voices 
in the hall so loud, and one at least so sharp, 
that it pierced even to the Idol's chamber. 
The door of her dressing-room opened, a serv- 
ant looking bewildered and frightened, dishev- 
elled as to his hair and disarranged as to his 
attire, as though he had just had very much the 
worst of it in a hand-to-hand combat, appeared, 
saying confusedly — 

" It ain't my fault — she will come in." 

" Of course I will," squealed a voice from the 
head of the stairs; "that's what I've come for. 
Here, you, get out of the way !" 

"I can't see any body — I will not see any 
body," groaned the poor Idol, rising hastily 
from her chair. 

In spite of her assertions, in spite of new pro- 
testations from the dishevelled domestic, there 
was a rush of female garments, the unlucky re- 
tainer was swept aside as by a wind, and amid 
a shower of puffs and sniff's Mrs. Piffit danced 
into the room, snorting — "Of course I'll come 
in ! Get out of the way ! Can't see me — won't 
see me? I'd like to catch her at it ! I'm Mrs. 
Piffit, the writer — go where I please — say what 
I like. Keep me out, indeed ! " She stopped 
to catch breath and confronted the Idol with 
fresh sniffs and a fire of furious winks. The 
servant seemed to think he had done his part, 
and retreated to enter into an examination of 
the injuries he had received from Piffit's claws, 
whose first greeting had been a box on his left 
ear, followed by a vigorous poke in the region 
of his liver. 

"What do you want?" exclaimed the Idol. 
"How dare you force yourself into my room 
in this way ?" 

' ' None of that," wheezed Mrs. Piffit ; " none 
of that. I want my money — I will have my 
money — give me my money ! " In her struggle 
with the servant her bonnet had fallen back — 
the flat reticule hung on her arm — in one hand 
she held the green umbrella, arrayed in a new 
dress, and as she spoke she pounded the floor 
with its foot, like a dingy enchantress trying to 
raise diabolical aid. "Give me my money," 
repeated she ; "I will have my money !" 

"I haven't your money," cried the Idol, her 
wratli giving way to a kind of terror at the 
spectacle before her ; for the stumpy woman so 
puffed and blew, there was such menace in her 
look, such vigor in the way she pounded the 
floor, that it was enough to have troubled a 
clearer head than the miserable Idol could that 
morning boast. 

"You haven't my money? Don't dare to 
say it ! It's here and I'll have it — I'm Mrs. 
Piffit, the writer — never say isn't to me. I told 
him I would ! The nasty brute tried to stop me 
— wouldn't let me up. I choked him — I'd 
have choked a legion such ; yes, I'd have done 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



251 



it if they had been a legion of Bulls and Plutos 
instead of flunkies!" shouted Piffit, giving a 
sounding thump with the umbrella, then hold- 
ing it up suddenly so that the beak glared wrath- 
fully at the Idol, and it seemed no longer a 
simple shelter from rain but a hideous-faced de- 
mon which she had suddenly conjured to her 
assistance. 

' ' What do you mean ? What do you want ?" 
groaned the Idol, falling back in her chair. 

"My money! my money! my money!" 
howled Piffit, with three upright leaps and 
three flourishes of the green demon that were 
appalling. " Your husband has it ! I've been 
to his office, and been, and been, and he's never 
there. I've sat on the door-step and yelled till 
the policemen came and all Wall Street was 
looking on ; now I'm here, and I won't go till 
he gives it up. Where is he — where have you 
hidden him ? Bring him out — let me get at 
him! I'll teach him — I'll broker him — the 
wretch, the beast, the swindler!" 

The Idol's amazement and fear were lost 
in anger. " Don't you call my husband names, " 
she exclaimed, " or I'll have you sent to the 
station-house." 

" Me ? Have me sent to the station-house ?" 
sneered Piffit. "He! he! That's good — I 
like that. Me ! Mrs. Piffit, the writer ! It's 
your husband ought to go if he had his due — 
yes, to Sing Sing. I'll expose him — I'll put 
him in every paper from Maine to Georgia ! I'll 
not be bought oft'— I want my money!" 

Stunned by the noise the woman made, for 
her poor head was aching dreadfully, exasper- 
ated by the insulting intrusion and conduct after 
so many years of power and smiling faces, the 
Idol made a dash at the old majesty and stately 
words. "Oh," she exclaimed, "you — you— 
Polyglot of a woman — away ! Leave my pres- 
once — I command ye." 

"Polyglot? No sense in it — means about 
languages," sniffed Piffit. "You're ignorant— 
that's what you are ; you don't know one word 
from another — ignorant." Then her sneer 
changed quickly to wrath. "Order me out? 
Don't you dare ! Try to put me out— just try ! 
Lay a finger on me — shake one at me — I'd 
like to have you ! I've got a policeman round 
the corner — told him where I was coming — said 
I wanted my money, and if I didn't come out he 
might know I'd been murdered by the wretches 
that had stolen it." 

"Will nobody come?" moaned the Idol, 
feeling herself terribly helpless while the beak 
of the green demon menaced her. "Haven't 
I a soul left to protect me from this brutal wom- 
an ?" 

"No, you've not— they don't dare ! Let me 
see 'em try ! I'd— I'd umbrella 'em, as sure as 
my name is Piffit." 

"Oh, the inhuman creature," groaned the 
Idol. 

" Don't creature me ! " shouted Piffit, growing 
more belligerent as the Idol shrank from her 
fury, after the habit of poltroons. "I'm no 



creature— I'll not be creatured— I'm a woman, 
and a writer, and a Presbyterian, and every 
thing that's an ornament to society. It's you're 
the creature — wearing stolen finery — living on 
the subsistence of widows and orphans ! You're 
no better than he — you're worse, I believe. 
Oh, ain't you ashamed of yourself, sitting 
there tricked up in your gewgaws, with your 
rings, and your silks, and— and your hair comb- 
ed." The state of Mrs. Piffit's own tresses at that 
time, and most others, afforded ample reason 
why she hit upon that precise matter as a source 
of peculiar insult and aggravation to injured 
widows and orphans. "A pretty thing it is !" 
cried she, sniffing anew. "A sweet spectacle 
you are for a lone widow woman who's been 
tricked and gulled and cheated — you, with your 
rigs and jigs and your hair combed ! Why, 
give me my money ! I'll not be put off— I will 
have my money." 

The Idol did remember now what Pluto had 
related as a good joke during her illness — the 
appearance of Mrs. Piffit in his office, announc- 
ing that she was a friend of his wife and her de- 
termination to make an investment in some 
scheme of his that had struck her fancy. 

"My husband means to pay every body," 
gasped the Idol ; " indeed he does. You will 
be paid — only wait." 

" Paid !" echoed Piffit, in profound scorn. 
"Wait?" she repeated, changing her tone to 
one of angry inquiry and showing the beak 
of the green demon to the Idol again, then 
bringing the point on the floor with a louder 
bang. "I'll not wait — I'll have my money! 
Tell me to wait? Oh, you monster! It's 
enough to cheat men — but a lone widow, hard- 
ly out of black for her husband ! Oh, if he was 
alive ! But I'm not to be trampled on — I'm 
not to be put off! My money, my money !" 
"You'll get it, you'll get it," sighed the Idol. 
"As sure as my name is Piffit I will! I've 
an article all ready for the papers. You'll catch 
it — with your dressing, your balls, your jewels, 
and your teetotums, and my money paying fur 
it ! I to toil like a galley slave ! I to write 
books, and memoirs, and poems, and plays, and 
you to roll in luxury on the proceeds ! Oh, 
you shameless woman!" 

" She will drive me mad," sobbed the Idol. 
"I mean to — I want to — it's my way; I'm 
Mrs. Piffit ! I tell you, I'll not leave this house 
without my money ! Oh, let me have it — I 
don't mind taking it in diamonds," she added, 
suddenly changing to a kind of ferocious en- 
treaty. "Part of it — I can't lose it — part — 
I'm a lone woman and a widow." 

"Indeed, indeed, I am sorry," faltered the 
Idol. 

"Then show it," said Piffit; "prove it. 
Don't have bowels of brass and a back of iron — 
it's against the Bible. I could quote you twenty 
texts, only they've gone out of my head. You 
take warning. Remember Ananias and Sap- 
phira, and Lot's wife, and Pharaoh, and the 
children of Israel in the wilderness." 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



If the Idol could have thought at all, she 
would have deemed the fate of Lot's wife prefera- 
ble to that she was enduring, and the most 
dreary waste ever trodden by the stiff-necked 
tribes an agreeable place of refuge if it could 
have relieved her from the presence of this wom- 
an. "Oh," she cried desperately, "if you 
know the Bible so well, you might have a little 
mercy — it says you must." 

"And it says the Devil can quote Scripture," 
returned Piffit. (Then in a wheezy aside that was 
involuntary, " No, it was Shakespeare said that ; 
but she don't know.") "And don't quote the 
Bible to me — it's not for such as you. It's to 
be mentioned in meeting and on Sunday, you 
wicked, papistical, Episcopalian, Saint-day-wor- 
shiping abomination, you ! Go and hear Elder 
Smithers — he'll teach you religion ! He can 
twist Scripture for you ! He'll show you what 
perdition is and endless punishment too ! Get 
his tract about — " 

"I'll not have any body's tracts," sobbed the 
Idol ; " I'm not a New Zealander to pick my 
enemy's bones." 

" You are," said Piffit ; " you're worse — you 
pick the bones of the widows and orphans. 
That'll tell you. Why, it shows up such as you 
— ten pages close print ! Tells what's under this 
very Murray Hill with its fashion and its wick- 
edness, and the fires and the imps only held 
down by the houses of his own congregation, 
standing up like golden posts to light the world." 

' ' I don't want to hear, " moaned the Idol ; 
' ' go away and let me alone. Smithers, indeed ! 
I'd rather be smothered." 

"You'll be worse than smothered," howled 
Piffit, with an awful shake of the demon. 
" You'll be burnt, every one of you, you set of 
Diveses ; and all the Lazaruses you've cheated 
and despised, looking down at you out of Abra- 
ham's bosom." 

" Oh, this dreadful woman," gi'oaned the 
Idol, wringing her hands, " Pietro ! James ! 
Hortense ! Come and take her away." 

"They'll not come," returned Piffit ; " you're 
deserted in your day of judgment — you're like 
the Flood people calling to Noah, you diamond- 
necklaced iniquity, you! Come?" — and up 
flamed the wrath again — " I'd like to catch 'em 
at it ! I'm a lone woman and a widow, but I've 
my umbrella — come ?" She levelled the um- 
brella at every point of the horizon in rapid suc- 
cession, made fierce dashes at unseen assailants, 
and ended with a shake of its beak at the Idol, 
and her face was so hideous, and her gestures 
were so fierce, that the Idol became convinced 
she was in the power of a mad woman and fell 
back in her chair quite exhausted. " Give me 
my money," said Piffit ; " that's what I want — 
my hard-earned fortune. I'm not to be put off 
— I'm not to be deluded — I'll have no more 
words." 

"No, no," pleaded the Idol; "no more 
words." 

"You want to force me into silence," cried 
Piffit, " do you ? I'm to be cheated, and rob- 



bed, and ruined, and not tell my wrongs ? I'll 
tell them to all New York— I'll yell it at all the 
corners of the streets — I'll put it in the papers — 
I'll translate it into German — I'm Mrs. Piffit, 
the writer !" 

" My husband only wants time," sighed the 
Idol. 

"Don't tell me what he wants!" shrieked 
Piffit. " Time ! He's had time to ruin me — 
isn't that enough ? Now I know what your 
sweetness last summer meant — loving me so — 
flattering me — " 

" I couldn't bear you," broke in the Idol, for 
this new taunt could not be borne. 

" You wanted my money," pursued Piffit, 
heedless of the interruption. " You wanted to 
cheat me — to draw me into the vortex — that's 
what your invitations and your luncheons 
meant." 

"I never invited you," retorted the Idol, 
roused to frenzy. "You pushed yourself into 
the house — you would come." 

"And I've come now," said Piffit, nodding 
her head with energy ; " and it's for my money, 
and I'll have it." 

" You'll get it. Don't you hear me say all 
my husband wants is a little time — only a little ?" 

" Don't talk to me about time !" cried Piffit. 
" It's eternity he'd have to be thinking of if he 
had his deserts — and a halter, and every thing in 
the way of punishment that can be found in this 
world, or ever the best of tracts told about in the 
next." 

' ' Don't talk so horribly, don't," pleaded the 
Idol. "Time, time!" Amid her fright and 
confusion the habits of years held their sway, 
as they must over all of us ; she remembered 
dimly some famous dying-speech somebody put 
in the mouth of Queen Elizabeth. " Millions 
of inches is a single money in time," she gasped 
frantically. 

" Don't talk rubbish," sniffed Piffit. " That's 
rubbish. Your head always was upside down, 
and you always talked wrong end foremost." 

" Millions of inches," the Idol was half uncon- 
sciously beginning again, but Piffit stopped her. 

" Didn't I say that was rubbish ? An inch of 
time, indeed ! No, no ; I'll not give you a bar- 
ley-corn's length— you've had ells already. A 
pretty use you'd make of time ! You want to 
get off to Europe with what you can save, with 
your plate and your jewels ! I know — a secret 
flight is what you're at — in the night — no, no." 

" I don't want to go anywhere — I only want 
to be left alone." 

" I'll never leave you alone !" shouted Piffit, 
waving her umbrella. " Here I am — here I 
stay till I get my money ! Touch me, put me 
out, if you can ! Just so much as finger me, if 
you dare !" Once more she broke off in her 
threats to make entreaties, as the thought of los- 
ing her cherished treasure wrung her soul. 
"Why, I can't lose my money ; try and let me 
have it. I can't lose it ; I've toiled for it, slaved 
for it night and day, nobody knows." 

" You shall have it ; you shall." 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



253 



" Then give me a pledge," said Piffit, looking 
about in search, of valuables which might secure 
her against loss. 

' ' I'll give you any thing, if you'll only go 
away." 

"I'll take it," cried Piffit, " if it's salable and 
good security. Watches, jewels — Here, I'll 
take it in spoons and forks," continued she, no- 
ticing the specimens of plate on the table. She 
caught up two gold tea-spoons and bit the bowls 
to ascertain their quality. "They're solid — 
give me enough of 'em and I'll be satisfied." She 
leaned the umbrella against a chair, set the flat 
reticule on the table and opened its rapacious- 
looking mouth, and the Idol, seeing her appar- 
ently determined to take instant possession of 
whatever she could lay hands on, tried to think 
of some way of getting her out of the house, 
even if she carried every valuable it contained 
along with her. 

"How much was the amount?" she asked. 
Several times she had been on the point of in- 
quiry, but Piffit bewildered her by her noise, 
and her increasing fury had made her think the 
amount must be so large that she had not before 
gained courage to put the question. " How 
much was it ?" 

' ' Seven hundred dollars ! " cried Piffit. 
"What?" demanded the Idol, in an altered 
voice. 

" Seven — hundred — dollars !" repeated Piffit 
with a groan, not observant of the changed voice, 
and forgetting that the sum was not so large to 
every body as it looked in her own eyes. "I 
can prove it. I've the papers — the receipts and 
every thing — here in my bag. I'll show 'em 
to you ! Oh, I can't lose my money ! I'm a 
lone woman and a widow — I'm a writer, and 
more sensitive than ordinary people. Only pay 
me — pay me — I'll take any thing !" She broke 
oft' to hunt in her reticule for the proofs of the 
transactions which had taken place between her., 
self and Pluto, while the Idol sat recovering rap- 
idly from her fright, and going straight over to 
a state of feeling that might have startled Mrs. 
Piffit had she been aware of the revulsion. 
" Seven — hundred — dollars," Piffit was saying 
again. " It's a good deal of money ! I'm a 
lone woman and a widow — nobody to bring any 
help but myself. I've got the papers here — 
I'll show you that it's all straight." 

Had she, the Idol, who for many years had 
been seated on a pedestal so lofty that she could 
see the whole world at her feet, she whose words 
had been listened to as if they were oracles, be- 
fore whom people had bowed with 'bated breath, 
actually been insulted and browbeaten for that 
pitiful sum ? It was too miich ! Even in her 
ruin, to be brought face to face with such petty 
miseries was not to be borne. Seven hundred 
dollars ! And she had been thinking of thou- 
sands upon thousands ; partly from considering 
the magnitude of her husband's failure, partly 
from Mrs. Piffit's earnestness. Why, she had 
nearly twice that sum lying in the little bronze 
chest that set on a carved bracket by the chim- 



ney — a miracle of workmanship in which she 
kept money and private billets. With the means 
of relieving herself at once from this abominable 
persecution, she had allowed the fiendish creat- 
ure's insolence to frighten and overpower her, 
and out of the goodness of her heart had felt 
distress at the widow's loss, in spite of all that 
harsh language. The while she indulged in 
these reflections, Mrs. Piffit hunted and mutter- 
ed over the reticule, peering into its recesses and 
occasionally croaking like an ill-conditioned old 
raven with soiled plumage — "Seven hundred 
dollars ! A good deal of money. Seven hun- 
dred — " Ending each time with a prodigious 
sniff and an internal rumble. 

The Idol rose with much of her majesty re- 
stored, swept up to the bracket, unlocked the 
bronze chest, and took out seven crisp, fresh- 
looking bank-notes. Piffit, squinting at her 
with one eye, saw the action and snorted loud. 
"Why, you had the money all the time!" 
she exclaimed, divided between pleasure at the 
prospect of speedy payment and a return of 
wrath at the idea that the Idol had meant, if 
possible, to avoid giving up her private hoards. 
" You had it all the time !" 

The Idol swept toward the table again, hold- 
ing the notes in her hand, and regarded Piffit 
with mingled dignity and disgust. " Of course 
I had that contemptible amount by me," she 
said; "but how could I suppose any human 
being would conduct himself — or herself — '' she 
was composed enough now to strain after cor- 
rectness of speech — "as you have done for so 
miserable a trifle?" 

"Trifle!" sniffed Piffit, dropping her voice 
to a whine. "It may seem so to you who've 
been rolling in wealth — " 

" Wrung, I think you observed, from toiling 
widows and orphans," interrupted the Idol 
loftily." 

" Oh well, I don!t know what I said ; but it's 
a great deal of money to me — I work hard. 
Why, just the running up and down stairs at the 
newspaper offices is ruin to shoe leather and 
ankles." 

"Why did you not name the sum at first?" 
continued the Idol. " How dared you come 
here and conduct yourself like — like — I have 
no comparison for such actions." 

Mrs. Piffit was wonderfully soothed by the 
sight of the bank-notes ; she began to feel new 
respect for the Idol since she saw her able to 
pay, and was only afraid that she might lose 
her beloved money after all if the stately lady 
grew too angry. "Don't bear malice," she 
sniffed ; "it's unchristian. " 

"Do not venture to utter more of your hypo- 
critical counsels," exclaimed the Idol, warming 
rapidly. " After your conduct, your language, 
to call yourself any thing but a heathen — yes, 
the most abandoned of Patagonians in some 
desert isle — would be preposterous." 

"Now don't call names," said Piffit, trying 
to restrain the courage she felt oozing out at her 
finger-ends; " that's actionable, remember, and 



254 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



it isn't lady-like. I .know — I've written a book 
on etiquette." i 

"Peace, woman !" returned the Idol. "Pro- 
duce your papers and your proofs, and leave my 
presence." 

"I only want my money," whined Piffit ; 
" I'm a hard-working — " 

" Evil-tongued woman," added the Idol. "I 
would not have stabbed my worst enemy when 
in misfortune, as you have done, for millions, 
no, not for continents of gold !" 

"I didn't mean to be violent," pleaded Pif- 
fit; "I suppose I was a little excited. You 
mustn't mind it — writers always are. I'm 
alone in the world — I have to keep a sharp 
lookout. Here are the receipts — look." She 
spread the papers on the table, and fearful lest 
it should be a trick of the Idol's to get them in 
her own possession, held fast to the precious 
documents with one hand — a very fat hand, 
with ink-spots on the nails, and a general ap- 
pearance of having suffered from the lack of 
soap and water since Piffit's fears- of expense 
had been roused. 

The Idol glanced disdainfully at the records. 
"Write a fresh receipt," said she, "stating 
that I have reimbursed you ; yonder are chiro- 
graphic implements." 

"Yes, yes," said Piffit, snatching up the pa- 
pers, which had already assumed the brown and 
glutinous appearance all things did that were 
engulfed in the flat bag, and she wrote the 
receipt with alacrity, puffing over it a great 
deal. 

The Idol handed her the money and took 
the documents. She was enough herself now 
to wish to end the scene in an imposing way ; 
there was some undefined thought in her mind 
as if she were a great queen who had lost crown 
and throne and was ordering a treacherous par- 
asite from her presence. " Go," said she, 
pointing her finger toward the door ; " your 
sight is pollution — your voice more loathsome 
than the groaning of the fabled fiends on Thes- 
salonian heights." 

Piffit was struck dumb by this sudden end of 
her troubles ; the consciousness that the money 
was absolutely warming her palm, filled her 
with a delight which went straight to her soul. 

" Go," repeated the Idol, " spectacle of Me- 
dusean horror, go!" 

"I'm going," sniffed Piffit, " I'm going." 

The Idol rang the bell. Mrs. Piffit made a 
dash at the reticule, and as she did so some- 
thing rattled in its interior. To her horror she 
saw that while brandishing the gold spoons one 
of them had fallen into the gaping mouth, and 
the Idol saw it too — she would not have been 
human if she could have refrained from tortur- 
ing her enemy a little after the recent scene. 
"A theft — a robbery !" she exclaimed. "You 
abandoned woman, you force yourself into my 
house, you insult me, and while doing it you 
purloin my plate ! My servant is a witness — 
he caji behold it," she continued, waving her 
hand toward the man who opened the door. 



"I didn't— I didn't— it dropped in !" howled 
Piffit. 

" Dropped in !" repeated the Idol with with- 
ering scorn. "Do gold tea-spoons fly about 
like winged butterflies ? Woman, you are dis- 
covered — exposed — prepare to meet thy doom !" 

"Let me out !" snarled Piffit. " Here's the 
spoon. I didn't want it— didn't know it was 
there, Let me out!" She threw the spoon on 
the table, caught up her bag again and turned 
to go. 

"If I sent you away under the guidance of 
the officers of the law, I should but treat you 
as you deserve." 

"Oh, don't," sobbed Piffit, cruelly frighten- 
ed. "I didn't mean to take it. A mistake's 
a mistake the world over— any body may make 
one. Let me go ! I'm sorry I said any thing 
— I ask your pardon — oh, dear me, don't!" 

" This is a change of tone indeed," pursued 
the Idol. " No more taunts, no more Titanic 
insolence? My faithful retainer saw you cast 
the valuable from the bag where you had con- 
cealed it. Ha, woman ! what says that brazen 
forehead now ?" 

"I'd rather give up the money," shrieked 
Piffit. "Let me go!" 

" To assail me in the sanctuary of my Pena- 
dians — to purloin golden treasures — " 

" I didn't — don't say such things ! Why, 
you'd ruin me ! I wouldn't steal — I'm a widow, 
and a writer, and a Presbyterian !" And Piffit 
began to sob in terror and anguish. 

" Madam," returned the Idol, "your conduct 
has prepared me to believe any thing, every 
thing that is atrocious of the three characters." 

"O Mrs. Hackett, I'm so sorry! I didn't 
mean what I said — I've always had the greatest 
respect for you ! I've written you scores of no- 
tices—I said from the first I knew you'd pay, 
that Mr. Hackett was the most honorable man 
alive and so were you — oh, oh !" 

"Your praise would be only added calumny," 
replied the Idol ; " take not my husband's name 
upon your lips." 

" I won't, I won't — I'll do just what you want. 
If you like, I'll write a notice and say it's all a 
lie, that he hasn't failed at all. Don't be re- 
vengeful — there's a hereafter — No, no, I don't 
mean that — you wouldn't be — you're above it. 
O Lord! I don't know what I mean." She 
broke down and cried like a fat baby, sobbed and 
kicked, and her late antagonist, the footman, re- 
garded her with a grin of delight which at anoth- 
er time would have roused her to fury. " O 
Mrs. Hackett, let me go ! You're a lady, by birth 
and station — you wouldn't harm a lone woman ! 
I'll promise any thing — I'll do any thing — I'll 
go down on my knees to you — oh, oh !" 

"Enough," said the Idol; "kneel not to 
me. Relieve me of your presence — depart ! 
James, see that woman out." 

Mrs. Piffit gave a bound that no startled ga- 
zelle ever equalled, dashed past him and was 
down stairs like a flash. The permission to go 
had been so unexpected that she could not cred- 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



255 



it its reality, and once out of the house she flew 
down the avenue at a pace which made several 
policemen look inquiringly after her, and caused 
much amusement to those she met, rushing on 
with her umbrella over her shoulder, her pet- 
ticoats flying, the great tears still on her face, 
and her machinery working with a piteous 
creak. It was not until she was out of the 
neighborhood, had turned down a side street, 
and gained the friendly shelter of an omnibus, 
that she began to feel herself free from peril. 
For days after she kept close at home or went 
out in odds and ends, by way of being disguised, 
and thereby made herself more noticeable, but 
the Idol never dreamed of molesting her further. 
It was said that the adventure taught Mrs. Pif- 
fit a little discretion, but much Mrs. Piffit could 
not learn. Wherever she may be, she is un- 
doubtly in pursuit of a man in hiding, or help- 
ing some unfortunate woman to make herself 
notorious, or composing paragraphs to injure 
somebody who has been silly enough to do her 
a favor ; but wherever she is, or whatever doing, 
be sure the flat reticule is hanging on her arm 
and the green familiar reposing by her side, and 
we will leave her in their company with resig- 
nation and composure. 



CHAPTER XL VII. 

WINDING UP THE THREADS. 

Clive Farnsw t orth had gone away over the 
sea, to seek in distant lands the peace which 
must come after the first violence of the shock 
that brought back his remorse had passed, and 
he could remember that he had been allowed to 
make expiation for his sin. Ruth's last words 
would recur to his mind and help more than 
any thing to give him quiet — she had been 
happy. 

Por several weeks Mr. Grey lay upon his bed 
with little or no change visible ; it seemed that 
each fresh day must carry hence the poor life 
on its close ; but after that period, he began un- 
expectedly to mend. He could sit up, could be 
moved from room to room, could talk, and show 
pleasure at Elinor's presence. She knew this 
was only a brief respite, mercifully given that 
she might have time to grow accustomed to her 
desolation, but she was grateful for it. His 
mind was much impaired, or rather his memory, 
for his conversation was usually agreeable ; 
but he retained such vague recollections of the 
past year that they caused him no trouble. He 
often talked to Elinor as if they were living in 
the years long gone, still he did not regard her 
as the child she was at that time. She was ev- 
ery thing to him — hands, eyes, judgment; his 
deference to what she might think best in the 
veriest trifle connected with his meals,, was 
touching and painful. The Thorntons remain- 
ed with her and shared her solitude ; and as 
spring came on, and he grew so much better, it 
was proposed that he should be taken to Alban 



Wood. The physician thought the change 
might be of benefit, and Mr. Grey showed great 
satisfaction at the proposal. They made the 
journey by easy stages, stopping in New York 
for a long rest and fresh medical advice, which 
could give no hope. Mr. Grey's life was at an 
end ; how long this feeble semblance of exist- 
ence could be kept up was doubtful. There 
they were in the quiet of Alban Wood, and El- 
inor watched over him, comforted by Tom and 
Rosa's companionship. 

The scenes which had preceded that attack 
had no place in her mind ; any fear of the least 
stain upon her father's memory had passed away. 
That letter had gone over the length and breadth 
of the land ; even those censors of the press 
most opposed to the President had nothing but 
honorable mention for the last act of the states- 
man whose career had so suddenly and mourn- 
fully terminated. Ere autumn, Mr. Grey had 
gone beyond the reach of blame, if it had been 
likely to assail him ; gone beyond the reach of 
praise, that would once have been so sweet, for 
his death was followed by honors and lamenta- 
tions which knew no stint, but they could not 
move him then. 

He had been failing more and more for weeks ; 
one bright midsummer morning, when the breeze 
and the sun and the songs of birds streamed in 
at the open windows, Elinor sat by his bed, 
holding his hand fast in hers, and feeling the 
nerveless fingers grow colder, as he drifted slow- 
ly out toward the ocean beyond. "Pather," 
she said softly ; "father." He raised his eyes 
and looked at her ; the old smile played across 
his lips, and once more they framed the familiar 
response — 

" My daughter Elinor !" 

With that purest utterance his heart had ever 
known, the head turned on the pillow, the smile 
remained fixed, and while Elinor sat watching 
for another movement, Tom Thornton drew her 
gently away. Mr. Grey had gone, and perhaps 
to the angels, who judge more clearly than we, 
every feeling, every expiation had gathered in 
the utterance of that name which had been his 
religion. 

Elinor Grey remained at Alban Wood. It 
was understood that it was her home now, and 
they were all glad to have it so. Elinor told 
her friends only that the greater part of her fort- 
une had been lost in some unexpected failures, 
but there was enough left to satisfy her moder- 
ate wants, and she had no intention of paining 
them, or making herself absurd, by starting out 
in search of a mission. Paithful Henry entered 
Thornton's service, and Coralie clung to her 
mistress ; it was like keeping something of the 
old life to have their faces in sight. 

The months passed till it was a year from 
the events of the last winter I have described — 
swept on till another midsummer came. The 
career of Pluto is matter of history ; I need only 
tell you that by the close of that year and a half 
he was far on the road to new successes, which 
in time became so great that, having gone over 



256 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



to the Bears in disgust at the conduct of certain 
Bulls at the period of his failure, he waxed the 
most tremendous Grizzly that ever walked 
down Wall Street, and terrified the Bovines 
more by his growls than ever he had the Bruins 
by his bellowings before his transformation. 

The Idol stood by him with unfaltering devo- 
tion ; gave up every thing she owned— jewels, 
palace, castle — and found much satisfaction 
still in weighty sentences and misquoted blank 
verse. Before he left for Europe, Clive Farns- 
worth took time to remember her misfortunes 
and place his house at her service for the summer, 
insisting so urgently upon her occupying it that 
she could not refuse ; so to her great delight she 
was near her chief favorites still. A proud and 
happy Idol was she, when with her own hands 
she was able to refund to Elinor a portion of 
the lost money, and to give the assurance that 
the restoration of the rest was only a matter of 
time. Indeed, her admiration of Miss Grey 
knew no bounds and was ever on the increase'. 
The nearer the old wealth and station she soar- 
ed, the more heart-felt her esteem and gratitude 
became. 

"I know humanity, "she was fond of saying ; 
" I have seen the hollow leaves fall from my 
summer-trees at the breath of adversity, but I 
heeded not — my soul was stayed on other 
steeps than they ! The Thorntons rank loftily 
in my mind, but when I regard Miss Grey, and 
compare her with the rest of the world, I cry — 
'Lo, Hyperion to a Satire!' " 

Leighton Rossitur and his wife remained in 
Europe — I think it doubtful if they ever return. 
Perhaps it may be thought that it was not po- 
etical justice to have given them both their 
wishes, but I do not know that a worse punish- 
ment could have been meted to either. Rossi- 
tur had the wealth he craved, but, from his 
habits of self-indulgence, so far from being a 
stepping-stone to influence and power, it would 
prove a weight that must drag him surely down. 
Useless to return for the present, he knew, so 
far as political aims were concerned. The Fal- 
con party hated him with a bitter hatred, be- 
lieving that he had willfully aided in their de- 
ception, and they would effectually close the 
way to advancement in that direction. He 
stayed where he was, and in a whirl of excite- 
ment and recklessness tried to destroy such 
memories as stung his soul, and rapidly burned 
out the last promise of his youth. As time went 
on, people returning from Europe told Rosa 
Thornton incredible tales of the madness of hus- 
band and wife, and that, among other fancies, 
both had developed a passion for gambling 
which was the theme of every tongue even at 
Baden. 

The Thorntons. Ah ! I am glad to come 
back to the midsummer, and leave them with 
their happiness increased by a new hope. No 
wonder looking into Rosa's eyes was like look- 
ing into heaven ; no wonder Tom walked about 
on air, and acted as if he had unexpectedly been 
declared emperor of all dream-land — there was 



going to be a baby! There had been one child 
born, years before, but they never spoke of it, 
never until now had they been able to allude to 
it even to each other. Rosa had met with some 
accident, and the poor infant only came into 
the world for a week of pain, and went back to 
heaven. But now Rosa was strong and well — 
there was to be a baby ! 

I am aware that we are an essentially modest 
people ; never in conversation, never in books, 
\ do we so much as allude to babies before their 
birth, but there was always a slight twist in my 
moral anatomy, and I did not inherit a fitting 
share of the national modesty, so I must tell 
you about this baby, this unborn baby. My 
story will not go on to the period when the mys- 
tery became an established fact which might be 
proclaimed aloud, concerning which, five min- 
utes before such consummation, not even a 
woman's own grandmother would for the world 
have appeared conscious that any thing was the 
matter, no, not if she had borne a baker's dozen 
of children in her time, triplets on more than 
one occasion, and counted her descendants by 
scores. 

When they came to compare notes, it appear- 
ed that Rosa had rather set her heart on a boy 
who should have Tom's eyes, and Tom had 
thought he could be satisfied with a girl who 
should possess dimples like Rosa's, so they 
looked a little blank at each other when the 
private speculations were brought to light. Then 
that insatiable monster, Tom, by way of set- 
tling the matter satisfactorily as he said, abso- 
lutely had the hardihood to suggest twins, and 
was properly put down by Rosa. Indeed, she 
vowed that if he did not stop his nonsense in 
regard to every thing — leave her to eat, sleep, 
and walk in peace, and cease looking at each 
indigestible morsel she coveted as if it were rank 
poison, and wherever she moved, wincing as 
though the ground was a succession of pitfalls — 
she would not have any baby at all, just to pun- 
ish him. Tom, knowing her to be a woman 
of resolution, though matters had gone rather 
far for such a declaration to be very terrible, 
was quite appalled, and for the rest of the day 
went about as meek as Moses, to the wicked 
little woman's silent but intense delectation. 
So they dreamed on into midsummer, a year 
from the time of Mr. Grey's death ; and Elinor 
could find pleasure in their happiness, for her 
grief had not been selfish. 

Clive Farnsworth had returned from Europe 
the previous autumn. He had taken his scat 
in the House and distinguished himself by sev- 
eral powerful speeches and a line of conduct 
that won the highest encomiums from those 
whose approval was worth having. It was 
some time now since Congress adjourned ; the 
Idol had months before given up Farnsworth's 
house, but Clive did not come back to the old 
place, which, as Rosa said to Tom, looked as if 
it were waiting for him. He did not come, 
and however much the Doves might wonder in 
secret, to Elinor they were silent, though she 



MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. 



257 



forced herself often to speak hi3 name with 
praiseworthy composure. 

Until now she had not thought much : there 
had been many things to occupy her ; but now 
that womanly heart of hers would talk at times 
about its little story, and the heavy trouble 
through which she had passed had left the 
haughty will so much softened that she could 
not always shut out its whispers as she might 
once have done. She was alone much of the 
time as summer advanced, and the confinement 
of the house was irksome to her ; she rode about 
the picturesque hills or wandered among the 
shadowy woods, and tried to convince herself 
that she was very ungrateful not to be content, 
since life had so many blessings left ; but though 
she succeeded in filling her mind with a proper 
remorse for the unthankfulness, the restlessness 
would not leave heft At last, when she could 
no longer avoid reflection, she knew that Olive 
Farnsworth would never come to her. The love 
of a brief season had died out as was natural ; 
he saw her as she was, a hard, imperious wom- 
an, not fitted to retain any man's affection. 

Time went on to a day that could now be an 
anniversary in Elinor's mind, which would grow, 
she believed, one of those holy seasons such as 
so many of our wasted lives keep, we who have 
seen the brightness of our youth go out. She 
left Rosa and Tom quite to themselves that day, 
and they were those rare creatures who could 
let a friend alone. She had been out of the 
house all the afternoon, and now, in its late 
brightness, she was sitting on the hill, in the 
shadow of the very maple-tree where Olive 
Farnsworth had read to her for the last time. 
In certain ways that season appeared very far off, 
but sitting there in the stillness, her heart would 
not allow her to think of all she had lived 
tln-ough since then ; it would make its whisper- 
ings heard and tell her its story. She must 
rouse herself and go away before that vision 
R 



died out in pain. She rose, glanced lingering- 
ly about, and as she looked down through the 
winding aisles of the wood, she saw Olive Farns- 
worth coming toward her. He was by her side, 
holding her hands, calling her name. 

" Elinor! Elinor !" The reality which she 
had been endeavoring to face was gone forever 
— her heart's dream was the actual. "I have 
come back, Elinor," he said hurriedly; "are 
you glad to see me ?" She tried to speak some 
words of welcome. " Do you know what day 
this is ?" he asked. "I waited for it — I was 
afraid to come — but I could not bear the sus- 
pense any longer. Elinor, I love you with the 
old love grown so much greater and holier that 
I think it must redeem a little of my unwor- 
thiness. I have tried to atone for the errors — 
the sins — I have thought the blessing our pure 
angel left with me might have helped me in your 
sight. Elinor, I have come back — must I go 
away again?" He had spoken rapidly; as he 
ceased he loosened his clasp of her hands, but 
she did not withdraw them — they lay, trembling 
a little, in his own. 

And Olive Farnsworth was answered. 

Till the glory of the sunset swept about them 
in its dazzling radiance, they stood in that quiet 
spot, and then remembered that it was time to 
go. As they turned to walk down the hill, 
Olive checked the hand he held ; she glanced up 
at him inquiringly. 

"It seems like a dream, Elinor," he said. 
"From the first moment I looked in your eyes, 
I loved you. Tell me — you have not told 
me — when your heart first had a place for 
me?" 

She gazed honestly in his face and said — 
" From the moment I looked back in yours." 

For a little time they stood there together, si- 
lent under that great wealth of happiness, then 'F 
went slowly forth into the sunshine — never to 
lose its blessed radiance. 



THE END , 



OCT "*0 <n ■-