NORTHWESTERN
UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY
Biblioteca Femina
The Gift of
Chicago Public Library
Assembled for the
World's Fair of 1893
A MERE ADVENTURER.
A NOVEL.
BY ELZEY HAY,
AUTHOR OF " A FAMILY SECRET."
PHILADELPHIA*.
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
18 79.
B.F.
815.4-
VW
BT THE AUTHOR OF THIS BOOK.
A FAMILY SECRET.
.A. IS" A13SOIÍI3IN Gr AMERICAN NOVEL.
BY PANNY ANDEEWS ("ELZEY HAY").
Octavo. Cloth, $1.50. Paper Cover, $1.00.
" A more really entertaining novel than this by Fanny Andrews we have not
read for a long time."—New York Evening Mail.
" It is a vigorous, incisive, and pleasant story."—Chicago Evening Journal.
"This is a story of commanding interest. . . . It is written in a very free
style, and is thoroughly entertaining."—St. Louis Republican.
"Her novel is as entertaining as any novel need he."—New York Evening Post.
"The character sketching and the narrative portions of the work are graphic
and entertaining. It is a hook that will repay the reader's pains, and that is more
than can be said of perhaps the average works of fiction."—Boston Post.
For sale by all Booksellers, or will be sent by mail, postpaid, on receipt of
the price by
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO,, Publishers, Philadelphia.
PRESENTED BY
THE CHICAGO PUBLIC LIBRARY
Copyright, 1879, by Fanny Andrews.
PREFACE.
Before I had published a book I imagined that the preface was something
which nobody ever read ; but after looking over the various notices and reviews
called forth by my first volume, I discovered, to my surprise, that it was the only
part of a work the majority of critics ever did read.
Now, unless an author could manage to put the whole of his book into the
preface,—a plan which I admit might often prove as advantageous to the book
and its author as to the critics themselves,—this sort of criticism is very much
like trying to judge of a house by examining one of the bricks of which it is
made.
However, I have no quarrel with the critics ; on the contrary, I feel myself
largely indebted to them for such success as I have enjoyed ; and even were it other¬
wise, I fully admit their right to praise or to blame as they see fit, provided only
their judgment be honest. Whoever publishes a book, or voluntarily places him¬
self before the public in any capacity, challenges criticism by so doing, and has no
right to complain if he sometimes gets it in a form he does not like—provided
only it be fair. But to be fair, criticism must be founded upon knowledge ; and
therefore, even at the risk of making a most unreasonable request, I must beg
that no one will undertake to pass judgment upon this book without first having
read it.
I must also protest against the habit some critics have of holding an author
personally responsible for every sentiment expressed in a book, no matter how it
is introduced or by whom it is uttered. It is a little startling for a novelist to
see some atrocious utterance of his villain, or the imbecility of a stupid old
woman, whom he flattered himself he had depicted to the life, gravely quoted
by his reviewer as " the author's sentiment."
Scarcely less disturbing to his equanimity are those illogical critics who
persist in regarding each character in a novel as the author's representative of
the whole class or profession to which that character belongs. If you happen
to paint a lumber-headed doctor, a dishonest merchant, a dogmatic editor, a
pedantic school-commissioner, or a silly woman of fashion, these hasty critics
immediately jump at the conclusion that you mean to imply that all doctors are
lumber-headed, all merchants dishonest, all editors dogmatical, and all women of
iashion silly, and will probably read you a lecture on the injustice you have
( ommitted towards some excellent class of society, or the ignorance you have
betrayed concerning it, as if a single individual could ever be a fair type of a
class ! As well might you attempt to represent a forest by painting a single
leaf. Art deals with individuals, not with classes ; and a man's rank or profes¬
sion is often as purely accidental in a novel as it is in real life, being not unfre-
quently assigned him by his destiny—the author—to suit some exigency of the
plot, or to satisfy some personal prepossession of the author for or against that
particular calling.
But the most common and not the least anfioying grievance of which the
5
6
PREFACE.
novelist has to complain, proceeds not from the professional critics, but from
those sagacious individuals in private life who imagine that every character and
incident in a book must be an exact counterpart of something the author has
known in real life. They give the writer no credit for invention. If a scene in
the book happens to be laid on a steamboat, for instance, or at a mountain resort,
and the author is known to have made a sea-voyage once in his life, or to have
spent a single season among the mountains, these people immediately take it for
granted that he is giving them a bit of his experience ; or if one of his characters
is described as a stout gentleman in a gray coat, and any stout gentleman of the
author's acquaintance happens to have made his appearance once or twice in a
gray coat, they pounce upon that unlucky individual as the prototype of the
character in the story. According to these people the novelist is a " roaring lion,
going about seeking whom he may devour," and his presence would be a greater
terror to society than that of the inevitable " Jenkins" himself. A mere coinci¬
dence of a name or of an occupation is enough for the ingenuity of these saga¬
cious critics to build upon. It you happen to put a John Thomas, for example,
into your book, the sagacious reader is positively certain that you had his ac¬
quaintance, Thomas Jones, in your eye, because there is almost the exact name,
don't you see ? only reversed. As for the hero, or heroine, the smallest trace
of resemblance in character, conversation, or incident to anything in the writer's
own life, is sufficient to mark that important personage as the author's modest
portrayal of himself, thus giving him credit for a degree of indelicacy which few
people—even authors—would be guilty of,—towards themselves, at any rate.
While it is doubtless true that many—perhaps most—of the characters and
incidents in novels are suggested by those of real life, no novelist, probably, has
ever copied exactly from nature. Most of the people and occurrences of real
life are too commonplace for the purposes of fiction, while the few that are out
of the common order are too startling,—no true artist would dare to use them.
The novelist must adhere not to the vrai, but to the vraisemblable ; and to be
available for his purpose it is necessary that a circumstance should be not true,
but true to nature. We want in novels not an exact transcript of life, but life
idealized ; just as in a painting or a statue we want not a servile copy of some
particular landscape, or of some particular human model, but nature and humanity
idealized,—dressed up in their Sunday clothes as it were, and set off with a few
extra touches for our delectation. Art, in its highest sense, is not purely imi¬
tative, but symbolic and idealistic ; and though the art of the novelist and the
dramatist follows nature more closely, perhaps, than any other, yet even with
these nature must be dressed up and improved upon a little, if I may use a
paradox, to render the imitation acceptable. Some sorting and sifting of mate¬
rial is necessary. We want to get rid of the flatness and insipidity that make
up the bulk of an ordinary lifetime, and dwell upon what is interesting or
exciting.
It is one thing, however, to lay down rules, and another to abide by them ;
and I do not pretend to have accomplished all, or nearly all, that I claim for the
novel as a work of art. The present volume was written in the intervals of, and
partly as a recreation from, laborious and distasteful professional duties, and it is
possible that in the reaction following upon wearisome mental drudgery imagina¬
tion may sometimes have taken too free a flight, and departed too far from the
analogies of real life. But whatever defects the work may possess from an
artistic point of view, I trust that those who turn to its pages for amusement
and distraction merely will not be disappointed. As it does not aim to instruct
or edify, or to convey any useful lesson whatever, one element of dulness at least.
I flatter myself, will be wanting.
FANNY ANDREWS.
CONTENTS.
chapter vi. gz
i.—the home 9
ii.—a shadow of things to come 12
iii.—the family skeleton 15
iv.—a man without any faults 18
y.—mildred enlarges her experience 22
vi.—a bold experiment 28
vii.—mr. henlow proposes 32
viii.—signing her death-warrant 35
ix.—mildred's prospects improve a little 39
x. a family quarrel 42
xi.—homeless 45
xii.—mildred accommodates herself to circumstances ... 48
xiii.—the wise men of gotham 52
xiv.—the fourth estate 58
xv. madame valley 62
xvi. a standing advertisement 67
xvii.— mammon 70
xviii. a hard case 75
xix.—mildred makes a fatal discovery 80
xx.—in a hospital 86
xxi.—roy proposes to do something 89
xxii.—a consultation 93
xxiii.—a clever operation in stocks 96
xxiv.—rex and roy .... * 101
xxv.—in trinity church-yard 106
xxvi.—the beginning of the end 113
xxvii.—mildred appeals to mr. henlow's generosity . . . .119
xxviii.—mr. henlow is resolved to make mildred happy . . 123
xxix.—mr. henlow shows his magnanimity 125
xxx.—thwarted by fate 130
xxxi.—the pound of flesh 134
xxxii.—a last resort 139
xxxiii.—rex finds that he has gone too far 144
xxxiv.—mr. henlow's moral courage 148
xxxv.—mr. gault's stinginess 152
xxxvi.—too late 155
xxxvii.—mr. vandergrieft makes an explanation 160
xxxviii.—an old man's love 166
xxxix.—how roy took it 167
xl.—mr. gault tells a little story 171
7
A MERE ADVENTURER.
CHAPTER I.
the home.
" Home, the spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest."
Montgomery.
" What o'clock is it, Fanny ?"
" I don't know."
" Can't you go and see?"
"Go and see for yourself."
"What's the use of being cross? It
wouldn't hurt you just to step to the hall-
door and tell a fellow what time of day
it is."
" And I don't think it would hurt a
fellow just to step to the hall-door and
see for himself."
" I wouldn't be such a spitfire, Fanny,
if I were you."
" I wouldn't be such a drone, Leroy, if
I were you."
" I am quite as usefully employed as
you are, Miss Frances," retorted the per¬
son addressed as Leroy, a young gentle¬
man upon whose lip the first faint down
of manhood had scarcely begun to appear,
and evidently Fanny's junior, though by
virtue of his sex assuming all the airs of
seniority. "I can't see that the world
would be any the worse if you were to
stop twisting your handkerchief round
your fingers for ten seconds while you
went to look at the hall clock."
"And I can't see," returned Fanny,
" that the world would be any the worse
if you were to stop sketching gun-car¬
riages on that old envelope for ten sec¬
onds, and commence learning to wait on
yourself, as other people have to do."
Nevertheless, she rose from the corner
of the sofa, where she had been listlessly
reclining, opened the hall-door with a
little petulant jerk, and glanöed at the
old-fashioned clock that ticked in the
hall.
"Twenty minutes past one," she said,
laconically, and closing the door again,
went and stood by an open window at
the farther end of the room.
The scene without was well worth gaz¬
ing at. In front towered a broad avenue
of noble old oaks, relics of the virgin
forest that had shaded the cabin of the
first settler of Hazelhurst two centuries
ago. To the right of the avenue two
woody hill-sides descended into a little
green valley, where a noisy brook tum¬
bled over miniature precipices of flint
and quartz, expanding lower down,
where the valley widened, into a placid
lakelet, whose gleaming waters were
scarce visible from the windows of the
mansion, through the masses of interven¬
ing foliage.
To the left, where the ground was higher
and more even, spread a beautiful expanse
of green lawn, adorned with fountains and
statues, and terminating on the farther
side, where the ground sloped again to
the general level of the country, in a
handsome terraced garden, laid out with
all the elegance that taste could suggest
or wealth supply.
Beyond the garden stretched a wide
view of meadows, lawns, and suburban
villas, with the quiet river winding like
a silver thread among them ; while in
front, through the green arches of the
avenue, glittered the roofs and spires of
the neighboring city, to whose choicest
circles Hazelhurst had for generations
contributed some of its brightest orna¬
ments.
But the beauty of the external world,
all glorified as it was by the cloudjess
sunshine of a midsummer day, seemed
to form no part of the contemplations of
the young girl as she stood gazing ab¬
sently from the window at Hazelhurst.
There was a look of dejection and ill
humor on the pretty face that did not
accord with its youthful freshness, while
a silent quivering of the lip and a tearful
9
10
A MERE ADVENTURER.
moisture that would now and then dim
the brightness of the big black eyes, as
they rested sorrowfully on some familiar
object, showed that the thoughts of the
young girl, whatever suggested them,
were not of a pleasing nature. Indeed,
it would have required no very penetrat¬
ing eye for even a stranger to perceive
that things were not all right,—were very
far, in fact, from being all right at Hazel-
hurst on that bright June day. Even
the boy, idly sketching imaginary steam-
engines and gun-carriages, moved his
pencil with a restless, nervous hand,
scratching out one design before it was
well begun and commencing on some¬
thing else, without any clear notion as to
what he meant to do.
The continual little spirts of quarrel,
too, that kept breaking out between the
brother and sister, betokened the presence
of some disturbing element, for in sput¬
tering and sparring at each other was
always the readiest escape-valve to the
tempers of Leroy and Fanny Loring.
Not that they were particularly unamia-
ble or wanting in natural affection ; on
the contrary, they both passed in the
world for very well-disposed young per¬
sons, and were, perhaps, as fond of each
other at bottom as brothers and sisters
usually are. But they were both spoilt
children ; both liked to have things their
own way ; and each felt entitled to exer¬
cise a sort of condescending supervision
over the other,—Fanny by virtue of her
age, being Leroy's senior by at least
eighteen months, and Leroy by the di¬
vine right of sex, he having just reached
that sage period of life at which the inferi¬
ority of women—the sequior sexus—is
most clearly apparent to the masculine
mind.
These rival pretensions of the brother
and sister led to the maintenance of a
sort of armed neutrality between them,
which was constantly breaking out, on
the smallest provocation, in little spirts
of open warfare, like the encounter with
which the present chapter opened. If
Leroy volunteered any very emphatic as¬
sertion, Fanny at once felt herself called
upon to contradict it, while Leroy never
lost an occasion of proving to Fanny that
she was always in the wrong, and needed
the guidance of a superior mind to set
her right. One of the first signs that
active hostilities had begun was generally
shown in the adoption of £l very stately
and formal style of address, in all degrees,
from a stiff Leroy, or Frances, up to Mr.
or Miss Loring, though they were to
each other, ordinarily, simple "Roy" and
" Fan."
Leroy did not speak for some time
after Fanny had made her ungracious
announcement, but went on sketching
his diagrams in silence, and scratching
them out again with his pencil, till his
bit of waste paper was all blurred over,
then tearing it into small pieces, he scat¬
tered the fragments over the carpet and
went to join his sister at the window.
"Do you see nothing of them yet?"
he asked, looking out over her shoulder.
"No ; what can make them so late, I
wonder ?"
" Oh, you must know a mortgage for
sixty thousand dollars is not to be fixed
up in a hurry," said Leroy, with a suspi¬
cious air of intending to convey instruc¬
tion.
" I don't see why it should be fixed up
at all," replied Fanny, pettishly. " Uncle
Bonner and Mr. Fairburn are not mort¬
gaging their homes, and they had a great
deal more to do with the bank than
father."
" Yes, but they are a couple of ras¬
cals," returned Leroy, warmly. " It was
through their speculations that the bank
became involved, and they have con¬
trived, somehow, to make the company
responsible for their losses, and to ruin
all the stockholders, while they scuttle
off without losing a cent. They knew
the storm was coming and took care to
settle all their property on their wives
and children beforehand, so that the law
couldn't reach it. I wish old Bonner
Macouley wasn't my uncle,—I'd beat him
to a jelly."
" You ought to be ashamed to speak
so disrespectfully about your own kin !"
replied Fanny, indignantly. " And be¬
sides, you know Uncle Bonner really is
behaving very generously towards our
family, for as soon as he found that
father was ruined by the failure of the
bank, he gave me a new silk dress and
offered you a situation in the house he is
going to open in New York."
" Yes, generous enough on money
stolen from other people," sneered Leroy ;
" but I would much rather he had not
swindled father to start with,—that would
have been more generous, Mildred says."
" Oh, it's all very well for Mildred to
talk," returned Fanny, stiffly. " She is
only our half-sister, and as Uncle Bonner
was our mother's brother, not hers, she
don't care what people say about him.
Mildred could have kept Hazelhurst from
being sold if she hadn't cared more for
THE
HOME.
11
the interests of strangers than of her
own family,—Uncle Bonner says so ; for
Hazelhurst was to be hers after father's
death, and the titles couldn't be made
valid without her signature."
" Hazelhurst is not sold yet, Miss
Loring," said Leroy, with ominous dig¬
nity ; " it is only mortgaged."
" Well, it's all the same thing," an¬
swered Fanny, with a shrug of her pretty
shoulders, " for I'd like to know where
sixty thousand dollars is to come from to
pay off the mortgage,"
" Why, I am going to pay it, of course,
in a year or two," answered Leroy, with
that happy confidence in the future which
belongs only to early youth.
" You !" exclaimed Fanny, with a sac¬
rilegious curl of the lip. " And pray
how will you manage to get rich so fast
on the salary of twenty-five dollars a
month that Uncle Bonner is going to
allow you?"
" Oh, I mean to invent something and
take out a patent," answered Leroy,
promptly, " or write a popular novel.
There's nothing that pays like a success¬
ful novel ; they say George Eliot got
forty thousand dollars for her last, and
that would almost redeem Hazelhurst at
the first pop, you see."
Fanny's only reply was a contemptu¬
ous shrug of the shoulders.
Or, you know," continued Leroy, ob¬
serving the gesture, and growing satirical
in his turn, " I will have a fine opportu¬
nity, under Macouley & Co., of learning
how to steal on a grand scale, and in a
year or two I may be able to break with
half a million of other people's money in
my pocket. But see," he added, suddenly
interrupting himself, " there comes the
carriage at last."
" And Mildred in it all alone ! I
wonder what can keep father so late?"
said Fanny, anxiously.
As she spoke, a handsome phaeton
drew up at the front gate, and a young
lady, simply but very elegantly dressed,
alighted from it and advanced towards
the house. She paused a moment before
entering, and cast a sad, almost a tearful
glance up toward the grand old mansion.
Her features were very delicate, and
their beauty was rendered the more
effective by that striking but rare com¬
bination of very dark brown eyes and
lashes, with a lily-like complexion, and
hair of the fairest blonde. Ycru would
hardly have taken her to be out of her
teens, so fresh and delicate was her color¬
ing, though she was already in her twenty-
fifth year,—an age at which mothers
who feel a proper concern in the destiny
of their children usually begin to enter¬
tain very anxious misgivings if their
daughters are not married, or at least
engaged.
But Mildred Loring had no provident
mother to think of these things for her,
while as to her father, his fear was all
the other way, lest some obtrusive lover
should come and entice from him his fav¬
orite child. There had not been wanting
rash young men in abundance who were
ready to make the attempt ; but Mildred's
singular affection for her father had with¬
stood all their blandishments, and even
after her débût in society had invested
her with all the glories of belleship, she
continued to devote herself to him with
the same earnestness and simplicity as
when a child. It is but natural to sup¬
pose that her heart had not yet been
touched by that passion to whose power
even kings yield abject submission, and
compared to which the most beautiful
filial affection is but a leaf in the whirl¬
wind.
Her apparent want of susceptibility
was partly due, no doubt, to the literary
and artistic tastes which had been culti¬
vated in her from childhood, and which,
besides filling themselves many of the
requirements of her nature, exalted her
conceptions of the ideal, and rendered
her what the French expressively term
une femme difficile. This very quality
tended to invest her with a sort of fac¬
titious lustre in the eyes of the world,—
especially the masculine part of it,—by
impressing them with the idea that he
would have to be a very extraordinary
fellow indeed who could win the fastid¬
ious Miss Loring ; and accordingly, every
young gentleman of her acquaintance felt
morally certain that he was just the man
to accomplish that feat. Indeed, it is
hardly too much to say that Miss Loring
probably owed a much larger proportion
of her admirers to men's conviction of
their own superiority than to an exalted
appreciation of her merits.
Mr. Loring'8 first wife had died when
Mildred was a baby, and his second mat¬
rimonial venture not proving a happy
one, he had devoted much of the time
during which a gay and frivolous wife
had left him alone in his house to the
education of his two oldest children,—
Leroy and Fanny being too young at that
time to claim much of his attention. He
was doomed soon to experience a new and
very bittes disappointment in his eldest
12
A MERE ADVENTURER.
Bon, Roger, who began to show unmis¬
takable symptoms of " going to the bad"
very early in life, and whose later years
fulfilled only too truly the promise of his
youth. This blow caused the father's
hopes to centre all the more fondly upon
the daughter,—brilliant, beautiful, and
good,—who seemed sent by heaven to be
the solace and comfort of his life.
Mildred's step-mother did notlive many
years after her marriage, and as Mr. Lor-
îng's experience with his second wife was
not such as to encourage him in changing
his condition again, he had remained a
contented widower since her death. Dur¬
ing all this time Mildred had been the
sole mistress of his house, and the guide
and director, as well as the companion,
of the two younger children.
CHAPTER II.
a shadow of things to come.
" The destinee, ministre general,
That executeth in the world over al
The pnrveiance, that God hath sen beforne ;
So strong it is, that though the world liad sworne
The contrary of a thing by ya or nay,
Yet somtime it shall fallen on a day
That falleth nat efte in a thousand yere."
Chauceb.
Fanny and Leroy were as impatient
of Mildred's little delay at the front door
as the reader probably is of the formal
introduction of our heroine while stand¬
ing there. They watched her eagerly as
she approached the house, each seeking
to read some intelligence in her gait and
gestures, and when she disappeared in¬
side the hall, they both turned by a com¬
mon impulse to meet her at the sitting-
room door.
" Well, here you are at last, Mildred ;
what makes you so late?" cried Leroy,
as the door opened to admit her, and re¬
vealed the hands on the old clock outside
pointing to half-past two.
" It has been a long, tedious business
to settle, Roy, and a very painful one,"
said Mildred, sinking with a tired, de¬
jected look into the nearest chair.
" And is Hazelhurst lost beyond all
hope?" asked Fanny, drawing near, with
tears in her eyes.
"1 fear so," answered Mildred, in an
unsteady voice. "It is mortgaged to
Mr. Henlow for sixty thousand dollars,—
its full value at a forced sale. True, the
privilege of redeeming it, by paying up
the mortgage, with interest, is reserved
to us for three years, but what does that
amount to? In the ruined state of our
fortunes, and with all the other debts
father has pressing upon him, I see no
hope of saving our old home."
llere Mildred broke down. She had
kept her feelings under severe restraint
all the morning, in order not to add, by
any exhibition of her own emotion, to
the distress she knew her father must ex¬
perience in settling that painful business
of the mortgage, which she, as rever¬
sionary owner of Hazelhurst, had to sign
with him ; but now that the restraining
influence of his presence was removed,
the long pent-up tears began to flow in
spite of herself. Fanny and Leroy joined
from sympathy, and they all three took
a good hearty cry together. Roy was the
first to recover himself. He strode up
and down the room two or three times,
hummed a little tune at the farther end,
to make sure that his voice was steady,
then planting himself in front of his
sisters, and not knowing exactly what
else to do, proceeded to regulate matters
by scolding them.
" You girls are very foolish to go on
crying there like a couple of babies," he
said, as grandly as if his own eyes had
not been moistened, " for, after all, there
is nothing to break your hearts about."
Fanny's tears dried up at this chal¬
lenge.
"Nothing!" she exclaimed, suddenly
flinging aside the handkerchief in which
her face had been buried. " Do you call
it nothing that we are all beggars, and
are going to be turned out of Hazelhurst,
and will have to live in a hovel and
wear homespun dresses, and take in
washing for a living and spoil our
hands ?"
The absurdity of Fanny's climax
brought a feeble smile even to Mildred's
lips.
" No, Fanny, we won't do that ex¬
actly," she said, drying her eyes and
laughing a little melancholy laugh.
" Of course you won't," said Leroy,
loftily, interrupting her ; " Fanny talks
as if she had no brother to look to.
There is not the slightest reason for
either of you to feel any anxiety on your
own account," he continued, in a patron¬
izing tone, " as I shall always make it
my business to see that my sisters are
properly provided for." And having ut¬
tered this comforting assurance, Roy
A SHADOW OF THINGS TO COME.
13
stretched himself at full length on the
sofa, resting his boot heels upon a richly-
embroidered tidy that Fanny had recently
placed there.
" You are a foolish fellow, Roy," said
Mildred, regarding him with a half-sad,
half-amused expression. "I would much
rather see you make a beginning towards
doing something for yourself than hear
all these fine protestations in favor of
Fanny and me."
" Well, I am ready to begin any day,"
said Roy, complacently ; " but what shall
it be ? Shall I commence a novel, or in¬
vent a new steam propeller, or take a
place on one of the New York papers,
or ■"
" Stop, for mercy's sake I that is enough
of your nonsense for once," cried Mildred,
laying her hand playfully over his mouth.
" Now be still, both of you, and listen to
me a little, while I tell you our plans and
prospects for the future. We will not
leave Hazelhurst for the present, that
would break father's heart, you know,
but we will live here with the strictest
economy. The servants must all be dis¬
charged, except old Uncle Moses, and
Josephine, and Diana, and Aunt Charity,
and Pinto,"—poor Mildred's ideas of
economy were, as the reader will per¬
ceive, still very hazy,—" then the wines
are all to be sold, and the pictures, and
the billiard-table "
" Why, no, Mildred ; what are you
talking about?" put in Leroy, suddenly
springing into a sitting posture and bring¬
ing Fanny's silken tidy to the floor under
his heels. " You are crazy ; we can't do
without a billiard-table !"
" But we must !" answered Mildred, de¬
cisively; "it was put in the inventory
this morning of things to be sold at once ;
and the carriage and horses "
"Good heavens!" interrupted Fanny,
raising both hands in despair, " we might
as well go to the poor-house at once."
And her tears began to flow afresh.
" And if these are not sufficient to pay
off the most pressing debts," Mildred
went on, relentlessly, "I thought Fanny
and I might sell our jewels "
" No, I won't !" cried Fanny, with sud¬
den energy. "If anybody's jewels are
to be sold, let the Fairburns and Ma-
couleys sell theirs. Father says they
brought all the trouble on the bank with
their speculations, and they ougjit to bear
the losses."
" You ought to be ashamed to speak so
disrespectfully of your own kin, Fanny,"
put in Leroy, maliciously, " especially
when you know that Uncle Bonner is
acting so generously towards us."
Fanny, seeing her own guns turned
against her in this fashion, did not return
the fire.
" He at least provides for his own
family," she muttered, turning sullenly
away ; " and that is more than our father
has done for us."
Mildred's face flushed.
" I hope, Fanny," she said, patting her
little foot nervously on the floor, " that
none of us would care for our father to
provide for us on such terms."
" I don't see that a man is to blame for
not sending his own children to the poor-
house," said Fanny, seeking in vain for
some code of ethics that would fit at once
her conscience and her wishes.
" But he is to blame for sending other
people there," replied Mildred, quickly.
" Those two men—Macouley and Fair-
burn—are the authors of the disaster that
has plunged our family and scores of
other8into ruin ; yet, while no one doubts
that they are justly responsible, they had
the art, before undertaking to speculate
with the funds of the bank, to settle
handsome fortunes upon their wives and
children, so that now their property can¬
not be touched,—they are legal bank¬
rupts, with millions of stolen money in
their pockets, while the unfortunate di¬
rectors have to bear the whole loss, since
they are made individually responsible
by the charter of the bank."
" Well, but you could have saved
Hazelhurst, as Uncle Bonner and Mr.
Fairburn saved their property," persisted
Fanny, whose ideas of business ethics
were rather foggy, " for it was already
settled on you, so that it couldn't be sold
without your consent, and you had no¬
thing to do with the bank, and I don't see
why you should consider yourself respon¬
sible for its debts."
" It is not a mere question of debit and
credit now, Fanny," said Mildred, gravely,
" but of our father's honor, and I value
that even above the possession of Hazel¬
hurst. It was through their confidence
in father, you know, that many of the
victims of the fraud were induced to in¬
vest their money in the Magnolia Bank,
and he feels none the less responsible be¬
cause he was deceived himself. Besides
all this, there are the Carroll children, to
whom he was guardian, and whose money
he had placed in Mr. Fairburn's hands
not six weeks before the crash came;
that must be repaid at any sacrifice."
"I doij/t understand it at all," said
14
A MERE ADVENTURER.
poor Fanny, wringing her hands and
weeping disconsolately, 44 why we should
suffer because you say other people have
been dishonest. Though nobody suspects
our father of having done wrong, yet we
must give up everything and become mis¬
erable beggars and outcasts all to save
his good name, while the Macouleys and
Fairburns, who, you say, are alone to
blame, lose neither their good name nor
their fortune. People visit them just the
same as before, and are as anxious as ever
to be invited to their houses: and Kate
Macouley told me last night 6ne had had
five offers of marriage in the last two
weeks. As for economy, it is true Uncle
Bonner and Mr. Fairburn have both ad¬
vertised their houses for sale, but that is
only because they are going to move to
New York, and have already made ar¬
rangements to buy handsome residences
on Fifth Avenue, and Kate showed me
last night an order she was sending to
Paris for four silk dresses from Worth's,
and a set of Venice point flounces for her
yellow satin, and a Spanish lace sacque,
and pearl trimmings for her blue faille
train, and they are going to take their
horses to Saratoga, and heaven only
knows what else that's nice and pleasant,
while I am to sell my poor little set of
rubies and the coral cameos that were
always so becoming. Oh 1"
44 Fanny," said Roy, with mock gravity,
44 I didn't know you were so ungrateful.
Didn't you tell me this morning that
Uncle Bonner had given you a new silk
dress ?"
But Fanny was crying too bitterly to
heed the challenge, which at any other
moment would have been the signal for
mortal combat. Mildred gave him a re¬
proachful look, and set herself to try and
comfort her sister.
44 No, no, Fanny," she said, soothingly,
while she gently removed the delicate
little hands that the young girl had
pressed over her eyes, 44 your jewels shall
not be sold if you don't like; and now
hush crying and let us stop thinking
about our troubles for awhile, if we can.
After all, we are not actually turned out
of Hazelhur8t yet, and in three years'
time there is no telling what may hap¬
pen. Something did 4 turn up' at last
even in Mr. Micawber's case, you know,
and so, perhaps, something may in ours.
Who knows, for instance^ but Roy may
invent his steam propeller, after all, or
your old sweetheart, Frank Meade, may
come back from California with a for¬
tune, or "
44 Mr. Thompson Henlow himself may
come to the rescue," suggested Roy, with
a laugh. 44 You know, Mildred, he has
been hanging around you for the last six
years, trying to screw his courage up to
the 4 sticking-point,' but you never would
help him out, and he couldn't manage
the business by himself. If you just
would throw him out a little bait now,
he would grab at it, I warrant you, like
a catfish ; and if you could make up your
mind to tackle him, that would settle the
business about Hazelhurst without more
ado."
Mildred gave an involuntary shudder
as the boy spoke. She knew that his
words were but an idle jest, yet, some¬
how, the thought filled her just then with
a horror and repugnance that the laugh¬
ing allusions, constantly made in her
family, to the coy attentions of Mr. Hen-
low, had never awakened before. The
thing had seemed too absurd then to
excite a thought, but now—was it a sense
of obligation incurred? Was it a con¬
sciousness of Mr. Henlow's power as the
virtual owner of Hazelhurst? Or was it
a vague suspicion, an undefined dread,
rather, of his possible motive in coming
so promptly to her father's assistance,
and the return he might one day expect
from her gratitude? Although it never
occurred to her for a moment that grati¬
tude could or ought to exact the faintest
response to any hopes of a matrimonial
nature that Mr. Henlow might cherish,
yet, somehow, the bare possibility of his
ever asking such a thing brought over
her a strange, sickly sensation, and she
felt almost ready to faint. Roy noticed
the unwonted paleness that overspread
her features and, boy-like (cet âge est
sans pitié), began to laugh.
44 You needn't commence making wry
faces over it already, Mil," he cried,
throwing his head back and indulging
in a loud ha, ha. 44 Thompson would be a
right stiff pill to swallow, I admit, but
with Hazelhurst as a pousse café, you
might manage to gulp him down, I should
think ; girls have done worse things,
sometimes, when very hard up. There
is our Aunt Macouley, now, for instance ;
I imagine old Mac must have been a
pretty bad dose himself when she made
up her mind to swallow him, and yet she
has patched and upholstered him into quite
a respectable-looking middle-aged gentle¬
man, in spite of his nut-cracker nose and
obtrusive chin. If Mr. Henlow1 s tailor
could contrive to rig him up somehow,
so ps to get him rid of that intensely
TEE FAMILY
SKELETON.
15
commercial air, and if his barber could
be bribed to make way with that precious
little patch of bristles under his chin,
that makes his face look for all the world
like a gridiron with a handle at one end,
and if old Hen would then go to dancing-
school for awhile, to get some of the stiff¬
ness out of him, he wouldn't make such a
bad-looking figure, after all."
There was something so ludicrous in
the idea of Mr. Henlow dancing, that
Fanny, who had dried her feyes by this
time, could not help joining Leroy in his
laugh, and even Mildred, infected by
their mirth, parted her lips in an invol¬
untary smile.
Just at this moment a door leading
from the sitting-room to a cross passage
at the back of the house was thrust
open, and a figure appeared on the
threshold, at sight of which the laughter
of the young people instantly subsided
into a constrained and sullen silence.
Roy shrunk himself up into a corner of
the sofa where he had been sprawling so
unceremoniously a moment before, and
fixed his eyes moodily on the floor. Mil¬
dred made a not very successful effort to
conceal, under a forced smile, the pain
and mortification with which the pres¬
ence of the intruder filled her, while
Fanny, with a look of unconcealed dis¬
gust and aversion on her face, rose ab¬
ruptly and left the room.
CHAPTER III.
the family skeleton.
" But fallen he is ; and now,
What rests but that the mortal sentence pass
On his transgression ?"
Milton.
The new-comer having satisfied him¬
self by a rapid survey of the little group
that no one was present except the usual
members of the household, entered the
room and approached the spot where
Mildred and Leroy were sitting.
He was a young man of some thirty
years or thereabouts, but so disfigured
by excessive dissipation that he appeared
many years older. His skin had the
thick, purplish hue that belongs to an
abandoned drunkard, his body was
bloated, his eyes bleared, and his shoul¬
ders were bent as years of honest toil
could not have bent them,—such wages
does sin exact of its votaries. But yet
men go on all the same, sucking into
their veins the accursed poison that de¬
stroys their humanity and degrades them
below the very beasts, and so they will
go on doing to the end of time. All the
misery, and all the crime, and all the
shame that have ever come into the
world, from all other causes put together,
cannot equal the frightful tale of human
suffering caused by the one vice of strong
drink.
You would hardly have taken Roger
Loring, as he stood there, with the marks
of his vices branded on his body, to be
of the same race, much less of the same
kindred, with the beautiful young woman
and the bright, handsome boy, over whom
his presence seemed to cast a sinister
cloud. It was so strange, in that abode
of elegance and refinement, where the
very walls seemed to breathe an air of
grace and purity, to behold this dark blot
upon so fair a picture,—this ugly skeleton
from the family closet, stealing from its
hiding-place, moving among creatures of
another world than its own, and tainting
their beautiful lives by its presence.
Only those who have watched with shame
and sorrow the awful progress of self-
indulgence, and seen it, like a destroying
wolf, drag " the black sheep" from the
fair flock to which it belonged and dye
its soiled coat each day deeper and
deeper with stains of guilt, can realize
the miserable contrast between the
brother and sister, as Roger Loring drew
near to Mildred and sat himself down by
her side. One was the highest imper¬
sonation of all that is beautiful, intel¬
lectual, exalted in woman ; the other, the
lowest type of all that is selfish, degraded,
and beastly in man.
And yet there was something pitiable,
too, about the poor fallen Roger. In
spite of the bloated, bullying air of the
profligate, there seemed to hang about
him a silent consciousness of his degrada¬
tion. When not excited by anger or in¬
toxication, there was a slight hesitancy
in his step, a certain downward drooping
of the head and shoulders that gave a
skulking aspect to all his movements, like
one who secretly felt himself unworthy
the respect of his fellow-creatures. Not
that Roger was consciously wounded by
the pangs of self-reproach,—men of his
character generally blame everybody
rather than themselves,—but he knew
that he had done nothing to deserve the
respect or affection of his family, and
with all thiir forbearance, he felt himself
16
A MERE ADVENTURER.
an alien and an intruder among them.
Interpreting their feelings by his own
deserts, he imputed to them all the bitter¬
ness he knew they had a right to feel,
and then resented, with greater bitterness
on his own part, the feelings he had as¬
cribed to them. No one ever openly re¬
proached him, but we know from our
own inner consciousness, better than
from any words of theirs, how others feel
toward us, and Roger certainly had no
reason to fancy himself a favorite with
his family. With him there was none
of that mutual understanding, that free
interchange of thought and feeling, that
perfect confidence which exists among
brothers and sisters. His presence, on
the contrary, was the signal for reserve
and constraint. Fanny never made an
effort to disguise her repugnance. Leroy
was not so open in the manifestation of
his feelings, because Mildred would not
have liked it if he had been unkind to
Roger, and the boy would do anything
on earth to please his favorite sister. As
for Mildred, she tried hard to be always
the same to Roger that she was to the
rest of the family, and never to betray,
by word or look, the grief and shame
that he caused her ; but to say that she
loved him for his own sake, to pretend
that she could find any pleasure in his
existence, or regard her connection with
him as anything else than a painful
necessity, would be attributing to her a
strength of devotion that belongs not to
the love of brothers and sisters, not to
Christian charity itself, not to anything
under heaven save the undying devotion
of a mother's love. Brothers and sisters
may bear with a reprobate patiently, un¬
complainingly ; may suffer him without
a murmur to waste their substance and
destroy their fair name, and then, when
he has done his worst, may cherish the
guilty one and shield him, as far as they
can, from the consequences of his own
misdoing.; but it is duty, not love, that
prompts them. They may forbear and
endure to the end, but it is not in the
hearts of brothers and sisters, even the
best of them, to cherish and fondle for
his own sake, and not out of mere
humanity, the selfish miscreant whose
vices have cast a blight, perhaps brought
ruin, upon their own innocent lives.
They may for duty's sake, but they can¬
not for pure love, caress the snake that
is stinging them ; they may out of divine
charity follow the lost spirit even amid
his herd of swine, but to dote on him
and delight in him still—only a mother's
love can do this, and Roger Loring's
mother, happily for her, had died long
ago, when he was still an innocent boy,
with his hands unsullied even by the
robbery of a bird's nest or the death of
an innocent butterfly.
There was a long and constrained
silence after Roger entered the room.
Mildred wished to tell him all that had
happened, and explain the changes that
must take place in their mode of life, but
she was so little accustomed to discuss
family affairs with him, that she hardly
knew how to begin. Roger finally came
to her relief by introducing the subject
himself.
" Did the governor get that mortgage
fixed up to-day?" he asked, turning to
Mildred, and emitting such fumes of
whiskey and tobacco when he opened
his mouth, that it was with difficulty she
refrained from turning away her face.
" Yes," she answered, bravely resisting
an inclination to shrink farther from him ;
" he had to bind Hazelhurst for its full
value,—sixty thousand dollars,—and even
with that could raise but little over half
the sum necessary to meet his obliga¬
tions."
" Sixty thousand dollars !" cried Roger,
eagerly, not heeding the last part of Mil¬
dred's remark. "When will he get the
money ?"
" It is not to pass through his hands at
all," answered Mildred, promptly, under¬
standing but too well the meaning of her
brother's eagerness. " Immediately upon
completing the mortgage he signed drafts
for the full amount in favor of his cred¬
itors."
Roger ground his teeth, and muttered
something to himself about " the infernal
old cuss" ; then addressing Mildred again,
he inquired, " Has the governor got no
other way of raising money besides this
mortgage ?"
" None," answered Mildred. " except
by the sale of his wines and pictures, and
certain other effects, an inventory of which
has already been placed in the hands of
his creditors."
Roger rose from his seat and walked
excitedly up and down the room several
times, then pausing suddenly and facing
his sister, he exclaimed, in an angry
tone,—
" I tell you what, Mildred, this is all
infernal nonsense for a man to be flinging
away his money like that on strangers,
and letting his own children go to the
devil for want of it ! I want money, and
I must have it. You know how to man-
THE FAMILY SKELETON.
17
age the old man ; get some out of him
for me before he makes way with every¬
thing he has.''
" You are asking what is impossi¬
ble, Roger," answered Mildred, quietly;
" father has no money now to give you."
" He won't have any long," growled
Roger, " if he goes on fooling it away in
this style ; and, by Jove ! if the property
is to be squandered, I've as good a right
to make a grab at it as anybody."
" I am afraid you will find very little
to grab," said Mildred, with difficulty
hiding her disgust.
" Grab or no grab, I'll have my rights,"
was the surly rejoinder. " Do you expect
me to sit down and starve like an idiot
while strangers are gobbling up my in¬
heritance?"
" There is no question of starvation at
present," answered Mildred. " You will
merely have to learn, like the rest of us,
to moderate your desires."
" Moderate my desires !" burst out
Roger, furiously. " Haven't I been mod¬
erating them all my life? You are all
foreverlastingly preaching at me as if I
was the prodigal and the spendthrift of
the family, while the governor has been
gouging and stinting me like a nigger
ever since I was born. I never get a dol¬
lar without being scolded and devilled
about it more than the confounded money
is worth ; and, by George, I won't stand
it any longer ! I've as good a right to
spend money as the rest of you, and I
will have it ! By George ! I must have
it, or damn me if I don't make the whole
house smoke !"
" It is no use talking that way, Roger,"
said Mildred, in a mild but firm voice.
"I tell you father is hopelessly bankrupt,
and has no money to give you."
"No hell and thunder! I tell you I
must have money !" cried Roger, with
savage violence. " Where are your dia¬
monds?" suddenly halting in his vitu¬
peration. " They must be worth at least
ten thousand dollars."
" I have placed them in the hands of
Gloss & Jetmore," answered Mildred,
with a sense of relief that the matter
was thus placed beyond contention, " to
be sold for the benefit of father's credi¬
tors."
Roger fairly shivered with rage.
" You ought to be hung !" he hissed,
flinging his cane upon the floor with a
violence that made the old walls ring.
" You are all determined I shan't have
an^ money ; the whole family is in a con¬
spiracy against me,—you all hate me like
a rattlesnake, and I never have been
treated with common humanity by any
of you."
Thus shifting from railing to wailing,
he sat down again dejectedly, resting his
elbows on his knees and his chin in the
palms of his hands. After a short silence
he raised his eyes and asked,—
" Who took up the mortgage on Hazel-
hurst?"
" Mr. Thompson Ilenlow."
Roger's flushed face became livid pale
for one moment, and he sat staring at his
sister with a look of blank dismay.
" Thompson Henlow?" he stammered,
as soon as he had recovered the power of
speech. " I thought Bruce was the man."
" He did propose first," said Mildred,
" but Mr. Henlow offered five thousand
dollars more, and it was but just to the
creditors to secure the most that could be
got."
" Blast the creditors !" muttered Roger
between his teeth, recovering at the same
time his purple hue. " Where did Hen¬
low get sixty thousand dollars to pay
out on such short notice ?"
" I know nothing of the particulars,
but he is a moneyed man, you know, and
can make what arrangements he pleases
with the bankers, I suppose."
Roger changed color again. A strange
coward fear seemed to come over him at
the thought of the rich man who seemed
now to hold the fate of the family in his
hand.
" Had Henlow been to his banker's
before you saw him this morning?" he
asked, anxiously.
" Not that I know of, but he and father
were to go there, I believe, after I left
them," answered Mildred, not heeding
the effect of her words upon the trem¬
bling, cowering Roger, her attention being
attracted at that moment by the sound
of wheels approaching. " Go to the
window, Roy," she added, addressing her
younger brother, " and see if that is not
father coming back."
Roy had remained a passive though
not an indifferent spectator of the scene
between his brother and sister. Such
episodes were of too frequent occurrence
to produce any excitement in the family.
They had all learned by experience that
interference on such occasions only made
matters worse, and as Roger's family
were not prepared yet to adopt the alter¬
native of casting off and disowning him
altogether, they had made up their minds
that silent endurance was the virtue the
case demanded. Fanny spared herself
18
A MERE ADVENTURER.
the necessity of practising it to any
painful degree by avoiding Roger en¬
tirely, his appearance being always the
signal for her departure. Leroy gener¬
ally did the same, except when he saw
Mildred in for a scene, and then he would
not. leave her alone, though, knowing her
wishes on the subject, as well as the
futility of remonstrating with a man who
was never free from either whiskey or
opium, he had learned not to interfere no
matter what Roger might say. He had
no love for his elder brother, and felt
strongly tempted at times to give open
expression to his feelings, but he had
been taught by Mildred that Roger was
an evil to be endured with patience,—a
skeleton to be hid quietly away in the
family closet, and so he sat biting his
lip in dogged silence, during the dis¬
graceful scene that has just been narrated.
At Mildred's request, he rose from his
seat and went slowly to the window.
" It is a cab coming up the avenue."
he said, looking out; then added, as the
vehicle drew up at the door, " and there
is Mr. Henlow in it with father."
Roger uttered a sudden exclamation,
and springing from his seat, cast a terri¬
fied glance towards the window, then
turned and fled from the room with a
deadly pallor on his face.
CHAPTER IY.
a man without any faults.
"A marchant was ther, with a forked herd,
In mottelee, and high on horse he sat,
And on his hed a Fiaundrish bever hat. . . .
His resons spake he ful solempnely,
Souning alway the encrease of his winning.
Wei coud he in eschanges sheldes selle.
This worthy man ful wel his wit besette ;
Ther wiste no wight that he was in dette,
So stedefastly didde he his governance,
With his bargeines, and with his chevisance."
Chauceb.
Mildred followed Leroy to the win¬
dow, and watched the new-comers de¬
scend from their cab. She noticed, as
they came up the front walk, that her
father wore an air of lassitude and de¬
jection that he had not betrayed while
settling with his creditors in the morning.
He leaned heavily upon his cane as he
ascended the piazza steps, and his form
was bent as if under a" heavy load ; it
seemed as though a score of sorrowful
years had passed over his head in the few
hours that had elapsed since she parted
from him.
Alarmed at his appearance, Mildred
hurried to meet him, but he passed her
at the door without raising his eyes, and
entering the room sank wearily upon the
sofa, with his head bowed upon his
breast, a living monument of despair.
Mildred knew not what to make of this
sudden change. It could not be from
grief at the loss of his property, for he
had known of that before to-day, and
borne it with fortitude. She glanced
anxiously from her father to Mr. Henlow,
and from Mr. Henlow back to her father,
then sinking on the sofa beside the un¬
happy old man, and throwing her arms
around his neck, she cried, in a distracted
voice,—
"Father, father! Oh, Mr. Henlow,
what have you done to my father?"
Mr. Henlow straightened himself with
an air of mysterious importance, crossed
his legs and uncrossed them again, then
answered in a deliberate and somewhat
drawling tone, suggestive of a correspond¬
ing slowness of parts,—
" It is not anything of my doing, Miss
Loring, that has hurt your father. I
never wronged any man in my life, and
your father will tell you I have been the
best friend he has had in his troubles,
and have acted towards him with a liber¬
ality and generosity that no other man
in the city would have shown. Ain't
that so, Mr. Loring?"
The old man, hearing himself appealed
to by name, raised his eyes an instant
with a vacant, absent look, then dropped
them again without a word, and continued
gazing listlessly upon the floor.
Mr. Henlow graciously attributed this
failure to acknowledge his merits to the
disturbed state of Mr. Loring's mind, and
not having the tact to withdraw, he
crossed his legs again and complacently
awaited the result of the interview.
Mr. Thompson Henlow was a man who
had made no mistakes in life. He had
never got into debt ; he had never made
a bad investment; he had never lost
money on the turf ; he had no expensive
habits, no luxurious tastes to gratify ; he
never smoked ; never indulged in strong
drink ; never used profane language ;
never kept company with loose or im¬
moral persons ; never wasted time and
money in unprofitable amusements ; and,
in short, he had every reason to thank
God that he was not as other men.
Mr. Henlow was of humble, but re-
spectable, parentage, and had worked his
A MAN WITHOUT ANY FAULTS.
19
own way up in the world, by honest in¬
dustry and severe self-denial, till he had
become one of the most prosperous and
successful merchants in the city. No
man's credit stood higher on 'Change;
no man was more honorable and reliable
in all his pecuniary transactions. He
always had a comfortable balance on
hand at his bank, paid his taxes and his
church assessment promptly, and his
name was often conspicuous in the daily
papers for his liberal contributions to
various public charities. Indeed, if you
had set out with a spyglass to pick a flaw
in Mr. Ilenlow's life, you could not have
found one. He was that most laudable,
but most insupportable of mortals,—a
man who has never been to blame.
Then, as to personal appearance, Mr.
Henlow was by no means an ill-looking
man. He lacked elegance, certainly ;
his complexion was somewhat bilious,
and his movements were wanting in
grace ; but he was tall and well devel¬
oped, and always wore that look of con¬
scious merit which comes naturally of
having a comfortable balance at your
bank. There was a trifle too much bone
and sinew about him, perhaps,—a sort
of coarse grit texture, as if nature had
used only the toughest materials in his
composition. Some people might have
called him plebeian, but practical busi¬
ness men, who know what it is to have a
comfortable balance at your bank, said
that he was a solid, substantial-looking
fellow. His eyes were very black, and
so deeply set beneath his dark, projecting
brows, as to make them appear smaller
than they really were. He wore his hair,
which was very thick, and inky black,
brushed straight back from his high,
narrow forehead, and a small patch of
very stiff black beard, carefully trimmed,
covered the tip of his chin. He had a
virtuous contempt for the follies of fash¬
ion, and would have dismissed, on the
spot, any of his clerks who had betrayed
an immoral tendency to side whiskers or
hair parted in the middle. His own at¬
tire, though avoiding the extreme of
fashion with more pains than the most
ambitious swell would take to attain
the same, was always faultlessly neat,—
immaculate in color and texture,—as
beseems a prosperous man with a com¬
fortable balance at his bank. Take him
all in all, there was not a more absolutely
unobjectionable young man in the city
than Mr. Thompson Henlow ; not a safer,
solider match to be met with anywhere,
or one more calculated to secure a girl's
happiness, if a girl could but make up her
mind to think so. But there was the
rub ; girls are so unreasonable, you know.
It was not that he was ugly ; many a
man, with not half his advantages of
purse or person, has found no difliculty
in securing a very agreeable partner for
life. It was not that he wanted sense,
surely. What ! call a man a fool who
has made a hundred thousand dollars
with no capital to start on ? You would
be a fool yourself to hint such a thing.
So argued enthusiastic papas and mam¬
mas, but still insane young women would
continue to prefer the attentions of any
witty scapegrace, without a penny in his
pocket, to the society of this exemplary
Mr. Henlow. When challenged to point
out a single fault in so desirable a young
man, no one could deny that there was
absolutely nothing to be objected against
him, and this, perhaps, is really the
greatest of all objections.
But "Non omnia nimirum eidem dii
dedere," and there was one little draw¬
back, which, though it cannot exactly be
ranked as a fault, even the most enthusi¬
astic of mammas could not deny did
attach to Mr. Henlow. As a companion
he was certainly very " heavy," and
nothing kills a man so dead in society
as the quality of " heaviness." A fool is
more tolerable, for he can at least—
especially if he is a first-rate fool—amuse.
Even the levity of folly would have been
a relief to the crushing dead weight of
Mr. Henlow's conversation. It would
kill the talk out of you as effectually as
the consciousness that your partner in a
tête-à-tête has just swallowed a yawn
sometimes does ; and the most energetic
mamma, after courting him assiduously
through half an evening in the interests
of some ungrateful daughter, would re¬
tire from the scene at last, feeling as
jaded as if she had been teaching long
division in a charity school.
But eligible matches are so rare, and
the struggle for husbands so fierce, in
our modern society, that few women can
afford to be fastidious about little matters
of personal preference ; and if Mr. Hen¬
low had contented himself with choosing
from the large and ever-increasing band
of dowerless maidens who look to a lucky
matrimonial venture as the only solution
for them of the hard problem of life, he
would have found no difficulty in pro¬
curing for himself a wife done up in
almost any style he might chance to pre¬
fer. Indeed, by watching his opportu¬
nity, he nfight have found, among the
20
A MERE ADVENTURER.
abused governess and over-worked school¬
teacher class, some rare gem of a woman
who would gratefully have accepted him
as a door of escape from her hard lot.
But Mr. Henlow was ambitious, and
aimed high. Not that he was very fas¬
tidious in his tastes, but he knew that he
was rich enough to pay a good price in
the matrimonial -market, and he was re¬
solved to have a first-rate article for his
money. He had never made a bad bar¬
gain in his life, and it was his intention
that he never should. What a real first-
rate article of female excellence might
be he was not quite so well qualified to
judge as of the merits of cassimeres and
sheetings; but, like a soi-disant connois¬
seur in art, he was very quick to see what
other men admired, and then thought he
had found it out for himself.
Mildred Loring had been, since her
first entrance upon womanhood, the un¬
disputed queen of society in the city
where she lived, and to her, accordingly,
as best adapted to his own merits, Mr.
Henlow directed his aspirations. He
had never made any open demonstration
of his intentions, for it was Mr. Hen-
low's nature to proceed slowly and cau¬
tiously in all things ; but having once
formed his design, he would never swerve
from it while life endured. His tenacity
of purpose was like the hold of the devil¬
fish,—the monstrous Cephaloptera Giornis
of our Southern waters,—which, having
once laid its grasp on an object, clings to
it, as the negroes believe, through sheer
stolidity, even to its own destruction.
You may hack the monster limb from
limb, yet its frantic clutch is never
loosened.
Obtuseness was at once Mr. Henlow's
strong point and his weak one. He did
not know when an obstacle was insur¬
mountable. If he had made up his mind
to bore through the Alps with a shoe¬
maker's awl, he would have gone on
boring till the end of time, unconvinced,
even by the infallible logic of experience,
that he would never bore through.
With such aims and anticipations, it is
not to be supposed that Mr. Henlow
would view with very deep regret the
sudden ruin that had overtaken the Lor-
ings ; not that he was malicious enough
to feel pleasure in the misfortunes of
others, but merely because the object of
his endeavors was thus brought nearer
within his reach. To do him justice, he
was not at all mercenary, and the only
effect Mildred's loss of fortune produced
upon him was to stimulate his hope of
obtaining her for his wife. While he
had never contemplated the possibility of
ultimate failure, still, something warned
him that so long as Mildred Loring was
free to do as she pleased she would
never accept him for her husband. He
was too shrewd a man to expose himself
to the risk of failure in any business that
he undertook; and matrimony, like mer¬
chandise, was a pure matter of business
to Mr. Henlow, and very much the same
sort of business, being an affair of bar¬
gain and trade. He had, therefore, kept
quiet, and carefully watched the state of
the market, until the article he wanted
came down, and then put in his bid.
Especially did he regard the posses¬
sion of Hazelhurst as a cardinal point
gained, for he knew that next to her
father himself, Mildred loved the beauti¬
ful old home that had sheltered her
family for generations, and would give
her heart's blood, almost, rather than see
it pass into the hands of strangers. Mr.
Henlow never indulged in sentiment him¬
self, but he had sagacity enough to see
when the sentiments of others could be
turned to good account ; and he had
played for Hazelhurst as his trump card,
when an unexpected development had
that very morning placed a new element
of power in his hands, which led him to
regard his designs as already virtually
accomplished.
As Mr. Henlow was not a man of very
delicate sensibilities, the propriety of
immediately withdrawing, after placing
the afflicted father in the hands of his
children, did not occur to his mind. He
regarded himself already, in anticipa¬
tion, as a member of the family, and felt
it no intrusion to remain the spectator
of a grief with which it was impossible he
could sympathize very deeply, since he
was calculating to draw his own advan¬
tage from it. He could not quite con¬
ceal the complacency that betrayed itself
in his countenance as he sat stealing
furtive glances at Mildred, and devoting
the intervals to a silent inspection of the
premises, in which Roy's suspicious pride
fancied it detected an offensive air of
proprietorship. To Mildred, the pres¬
ence of the intruder—never very wel¬
come—was now peculiarly embarrassing,
and as soon as she saw that he had no
intention of withdrawing, she led her
father away to his own room, leaving
Roy to entertain the visitor.
Mildred was absent for about two
hours. When she returned. Mr. Henlow
was gone and Leroy standing with a
A MAN WITHOUT ANY FAULTS.
21
very sulky air by an open window, look¬
ing down the avenue. Mildred's face
was deathly pale, and there were signs
of weeping about her eyes, but a faint
gleam of satisfaction overspread her
countenance for a moment, as she ob¬
served the recent visitor's empty chair,
and asked,—
" Where is Mr. Henlow?"
" Gone,—to the devil, I hope," an¬
swered Roy, sulkily, turning from the
window and making two or three rapid
strides across the room, as if to stamp
down some not very gentle emotion.
" He has told you, then, about the last
misfortune?" said Mildred, fancying she
read in the boy's unusual perturbation
signs of the same distress that was
wringing her own soul.
" I don't know whether it's the last or
not," growled Leroy, moodily. " When
people fall into such a streak of ill-luck
as ours, it looks as if they never can tell
when they have touched bottom. He
certainly had enough, and more than
enough, to say about our -misfortunes.
He made them the theme of his discourse,
and seemed to think it his duty to prove
to me how utterly wretched and gone to
the dogs we are, and how greatly be¬
holden to his generosity. Then he would
say how father oughtn't to have done
this, and oughtn't to have done that, and
how he, Mr. Henlow, knew all the time
that the Magnolia Bank was going to
break, and he never did have ' no confi¬
dence' in Bonner Macouley and Johnson
Fairburn, and he could have told Mr.
Loring from the first how it would be,
if father had asked his advice,—and so
on, till I could hardly keep myself from
breaking a chair over his head."
" I hope you were not rude to him,
Roy," said Mildred, anxiously, " for you
know how completely we are in his power
now."
" I don't care if we are," blurted out
Roy, losing all patience; "that's no
reason why he should come and bore a
fellow two whole hours about it. It's
bad enough to be ruined without being
bored to death on top of that. It was
real selfish in you, Mildred, to trot off as
you did and leave him on my hands,
when you know that you alone are the
cause of his coming here."
A faint flush overspread Mildred's
cheek for an instant, then left it more
deadly pale than before.
" Hush, Roy," she said, with a slight
shudder, " do not suggest anything so
preposterous."
" Preposterous 1 Yes, it is preposter¬
ous," cried the boy, breaking into a sud¬
den fit of laughter. " But he don't think
so. Why, do you know, Mil, I believe
the old fool has fully persuaded himself
that you will marry him to keep Hazel-
hurst—as if I wasn't here to do that for
you. And I suspect that is the true
motive of his generosity. He looked
around here in the possessive case, I can
tell you, while you were out, and told
what he would do if he lived at Ilazel-
hurst. Then he said the frescoes in the
hall needed renewing, and asked what
colors you liked best, and which you pre¬
ferred, pictures or statuary, just as if he
had been talking about pies and salads,
and then had the impudence to think I
couldn't see through it all."
" Roy, for heaven's sake, no more of
this!" cried Mildred, feeling her heart
grow sick at the very thought. " This is
no subject for jesting,—and at such a
time."
" No? then I'll break his head for him
the next time he hints at anything of the
kind," said Roy, in an irritated tone;
" and that'll be no jest, I can tell you, for
his head's as thick as a ten-foot wall,—
you couldn't shoot an idea into it with a
twenty-pounder rifled cannon."
" And to think how completely we are
at his mercy !" said Mildred, almost with
a groan.
"Tut, Mildred," answered Roy, "you
women are so absurd. I don't consider
that we all belong to Mr. Henlow, body
and soul, merely because he has got a
mortgage on Hazelhurst. The place is
certainly worth the money, so we owe
him nothing, after all."
"Nothing? Oh, Roy, if that were
all !" she exclaimed, in a tone of agony.
" But don't you know? Hasn't he told
you ?"
"Told me,—what, Mildred?" asked
the boy, looking puzzled.
"About Roger,—the shame,—the crime
that has broken our poor old father's
heart !"
Roy turned pale. Roger's name
sounded in his ear like an omen of evil.
" No,—what is it ?"
Her answer was almost lost in the
groan with which it was uttered.
" Roger has forged Mr. Ilenlow's name
for ten thousand dollars."
Leroy stood confounded at the sudden¬
ness and the horror of the intelligence,
lie could not take it in all at once, and
stood staring vacantly into his sister's
face like éne whom a sudden blow has
22
A MERE ADVENTURER.
deprived of reason. He was at an age
when our sensibilities are peculiarly ten
der and the favor of the world very dear
to us, for the philosophy of later years
has not yet come to sustain us under its
frown. And here he was, at the very
outset of his career, despoiled not only
of fortune, but of the good name which
is the last possession an honorable man
will ever surrender ; henceforth the name
of Loring, once so honored in the estima¬
tion of men, must be a badge of disgrace
to all who bore it.
It was some time before Hoy gould find
courage to speak ; then he asked, as if
unwilling even yet to admit the dreadful
fact,—
" How do you know it, Mildred?"
" It was discovered this morning,"
Mildred answered, "when Mr. Henlow
went to draw money from his bank to
pay for the mortgage. It is not publicly
known yet, but we have no money to pay
back Roger's robbery, and our only hope
is in Mr. Ilenlow's mercy."
Roy ground his heel upon the floor but
made no reply. Mildred left him and
went to look for Roger. She found his
room deserted, and some of the servants
reported that they had seen him a few
minutes before, with a valise in his hand,
hurrying towards a railroad crossing that
lay a few rods to the rear of the house.
Looking round the room to see if she
could discover any clue to his designs,
everything appeared in its usual state,
except that several small articles of value
were missing, and there was a heap of
fresh ashes in the grate where papers had
been recently burned. One soiled docu¬
ment had escaped, and on examining it
as well as the scorched condition of the
paper would admit, she saw that it was a
pressing demand from the writer for a
gambling debt contracted by Roger a few
nights before. She could not make out
the amount, but from the general tenor
of the note it was evidently a large one,
and knowing Roger's habits as she did,
it was probable that this was only one of
many such demands which had led him
at last from vice to vice's inevitable
end,—crime.
Mildred went back to Leroy and told
him of Roger's flight.
"It's the best thing he could have
done," said the boy, in no gentle voice.
" I wish he had taken himself off years
ago."
" Roy," said his sister, in a tone of
gentle reproach, " don't forget that he is
our brother."
" I wish to heaven I could forget it !"
muttered Roy ; and, snatching up his hat,
he hurried out of her presence.
CHAPTER V.
mildred enlarges her experience.
" Women arn born unto thralldom and penance
And to ben under manne's governance."
Chaucer.
The discovery of Roger's crime was a
crushing blow to old Mr. Loring. Bad
as his son was, he had never suspected
him capable of such a deed, and the
dreadful truth burst upon him like a
thunderbolt. He had borne his pecu¬
niary losses with composure, hard though
it was at his time of life to change the
whole tenor of existence and begin the
world anew. As a man of fortune, he
had never known the necessity of work¬
ing for a living, and his very ignorance,
perhaps, caused him to be the less dis¬
turbed at the prospect that was now
opened before him, since only those who
have actually taken part in the great
"struggle for existence" can realize what
a fierce, relentless struggle it is. He
had spent a life of elegant leisure in cul¬
tivating tastes and following pursuits
that enabled him to fill with dignity the
elevated station he occupied in society,
but were ill-suited to the rough-and-tum¬
ble business of earning one's own bread
and meat. He was one of the most fin¬
ished scholars of the day, was an experi¬
enced connoisseur in art, and besides a
valuable collection of pictures, he owned
the finest private library in the Southern
States.
But all this was of no avail for the
vulgar, but necessary, business of putting
bread into the mouths of a helpless family,
and Mr. Loring was sadly deficient in all
the arts that conduce to that important
end. Though he had occupied himself
much in literary pursuits, and had fre¬
quently written for publication articles
that were deemed well worth paying for
by the journal to which they were offered,
—the best test, after all, of real literary
merit,—still he cannot be said to have
made literature a profession, and he re¬
garded the money paid him rather as a
gratifying tribute to the merit of his
work than as a needed addition to his
income. In this way he had maintained
MILDRED ENLARGES HER EXPERIENCE.
23
for several years a sort of unofficial con¬
nection with the Metropolitan, one of the
leading New York journals, but as he
wrote only at intervals, when the " spirit
moved him," as the Quakers say, his
desultory labors were very different from
the unremitting, and often distasteful,
toil of the professional journalist.
This captivating, but unprofitable, oc¬
cupation of gentleman litterateur was the
only experience Mr. Loring had had in
what men call "business." He studied
law a little in his youth, as a mere mat¬
ter of form, because it is more respecta¬
ble in our country for a young man to
have some profession ; but, having no
need to work at it for a living, he had
used the liberty which the possession of
a princely fortune gave him to follow
the bent of his own inclination, and lead
a life of scholarly repose.
Under such training, even with the
best of intentions, with spirits and ener¬
gies unimpaired, Mr. Loring would have
stood a poor chance of winning in the
race of life which he had entered so late ;
but now the courage that had sustained
him under the loss of fortune gave way
entirely under the new calamity that had
overwhelmed him. If he could have
paid back to Mr. Ilenlow the money that
Roger had appropriated, it would have
been some relief to know that the legal
wrong, at least, was repaired, though the
moral guilt could never be washed away.
It would have been some comfort to the
father's heart if he could have shielded
the culprit from the shame of public ex¬
posure, by satisfying with his own means
the requirements of human justice ; but
poverty, that brings all other evils in its
train, denied even this poor solace. The
blow which some prosperous breeze of
fortune turns aside so lightly from the
rich man's path falls with crushing vio¬
lence on the unprotected head of the poor.
For the wretched father nothing was left
but to sit, naked and helpless, under the
burning eye of shame. His fortune was
gone ; he was already under obligations
to Mr. Henlow which he could scarcely
hope to cancel, even by stripping him¬
self and his children of all but the very
clothes on their backs. Shame and dis¬
honor, as well as poverty, had invaded
his home, and this the old man could not
bear. The son's guilt struck the father
to the earth, and the heart-broken parent
never raised his head, never smiled
again. From that day he was a changed
man. His iron-gray hair grew suddenly
white ; his form stooped as if under the
burden of an added score of years ; his
step faltered like an infant's, and his eye
grew each day more dull and listless.
The world around seemed a blank to
him ; he expressed no wishes, showed no
preferences, offered no suggestions about
anything. Passive as a child, he suffered
himself to be dressed every morning by
his servant, took mechanically the food
that was offered him, and then sat mo¬
tionless as a statue wherever they hap-
Eened to place him, with his head bent,
is eyes fixed on the floor, and his mind
apparently unconscious of aught that was
passing around him. Ile never men¬
tioned Roger's name after the day when
the wretched culprit fled from his father's
house ; he refused the visits of his old
friends, declined all the efforts of his
children to amuse him with books, and
turned away from the daily papers with
a shudder.
Mildred divined well enough the secret
cause of his avoiding the newspapers,
and opened them herself, each morning,
with a shuddering dread of seeing her
brother's shame emblazoned there. But
days passed by without any public ex¬
posure, and then she began to tremble
equally for fear of seeing or of not seeing
the paragraph she had so dreaded, for
she could not feign to herself ignorance
of the real motive of Mr. Henlow's for¬
bearance.
Mr. Ilenlow himself called nearly
every day, and sat and crossed his legs
and uncrossed them, and looked compla¬
cently at Mildred, and uttered oracular
sayings about the weather, and went his
way again. Mildred contrived to be oc¬
cupied elsewhere as much as possible
during his visits, and would not suffer
herself on any account to be left alone
with him. Roy or Fanny was kept con¬
stantly near her, under some pretext or
other, whenever Mr. Henlow was about,
and if either of them showed signs of
deserting their post, Mildred would im¬
mediately remember some pressing house¬
hold duties that would cause her to leave
the room and detain her outside till she
could return again safe under guard.
But Mildred had other anxieties just
now besides her apprehensions as to Mr.
Henlow's designs. Her father's situa¬
tion, in addition to the constant distress
and solicitude she felt upon his account,
seemed to throw upon her the whole
burden of thinking and providing for
the family. Her sister, clearly, had no
idea of making sacrifices, and was not a
person to Mb depended upon in emergen-
24
A MERE ADVENTURER.
cies ; while Roy's magnificent professions,
unbacked by any capacity of execution,
were like a paper currency without a
specie basis. Mildred saw that she had
no one else to look to, and must take
upon herself the maintenance of the
household. So unaccustomed a responsi¬
bility would have crushed a weaker spirit
to the earth, but Mildred was one of those
rare women, too often stigmatized by the
world as strong-minded, whose resolution
rises to meet the occasion, and instead of
giving way to sentimental repinings, she
began immediately to look about her for
work to do.
There are so few fields of labor open
to woman, especially at the South, and
so few of those are attended with either
profit or honor, that, to one who ven¬
tures to look for something better than
teaching school or taking in sewing,
the search for employment is very dis¬
couraging. Mildred did not know how
to sew, and though well qualified to fill a
high position as teacher, she had a mor¬
bid horror of the treadmill routine of the
school-room, and resolved to avoid it if
she could. She thought of the melan¬
choly governesses she had so often met
in the city, marshalling a band of gig¬
gling girls belonging to some boarding-
school or other, and mentally resolved
never to make one of such a procession
if she could help it.
While casting about her for something
to do, the very opening she desired seemed
to occur. There was in the city a wealthy
literary association, who paid their libra¬
rian a salary of fifteen hundred dollars a
year. The present incumbent, for some
reason or other, was about to resign, and
Mildred determined to apply for the posi¬
tion. It had never been filled by a woman,
but there was nothing in the duties it
demanded at all incompatible with the
dignity of her sex, or beyond the reach
of her capacity. She sent for Mr. Meade,
one of the directors of the association,
and an old friend of her father's, to con¬
sult him about the matter before formally
making her application. Mr. Meade was
a sensible man, and highly approved the
project.
" No," he said, in answer to her timid
inquiry as to the propriety of a woman
taking the place, " there is nothing at all
in the duties of the position that need
offend the sensibilities of the most deli¬
cate lady in the land, and I see no reason
why you shouldn't fill it as well as twenty
men. You will be brought a little more
in contact with the public, and in a some¬
what different way from what you have
been used to,—you can't work at anything
for a living and yet remain as independ¬
ent of the world as if you had a fortune,—
but don't let that scare you. People make
a great bugbear of. this word publicity
where women are concerned, as if any
woman, whose character is what it ought
to be, need fear criticism ! There is no
harm in putting yourself before the pub¬
lic, if you have got any good reason for
doing so. Queen Elizabeth, reviewing her
troops at Tilbury, was no more out of
place than Napoleon reviewing his armies,
nor was Mrs. Siddons any more out of her
proper sphere on the stage than Garrick
was out of his. There is no impropriety
in going anywhere or doing anything
when it is your duty. You are a brave,
good girl to be so ready to go to work,
and I hope you'll get the place. I'll
vote for you myself, and canvass the
board as hotly in your favor as if it was
to elect a President of the United States."
This was encouraging, and Mildred
returned to her father's side feeling more
hopeful than she had done since the
beginning of their troubles. There is
something in the mere act of exerting
ourselves that encourages hope. To be
at work, to feel that we are doing our
best under any circumstances, is a satis¬
faction to conscience and a gratification
to our self-respect.
Having once resolved to get work,
Mildred felt no misgivings as to the
possibility of carrying out her resolve.
She was too fresh a recruit in the great
army of toilers to appreciate the ferocity
of the " struggle for existence" that sets
one-half the world against the other. She
did not know that there were twenty-two
other applicants—all men—for the situa¬
tion she desired, and even if she had
known, would not have trembled propor¬
tionally for her own success. She had
never come into competition with men
before, and why should she doubt that
the gallantry with which they yield to
women in trifles would extend to serious
matters as well? A beautiful woman is
not used to encounter opposition from
men,—especially if she is rich, young,
and attractive,—and how could Mildred
Loring, the idol of every ball-room,
courted, flattered, worshipped all her
days, know that men have one code of
manners for show and another for use?
How could she suspect that the same in¬
dividual who, in the drawing-room, is so
obsequious to pick up your fan, and open
the^ door for you, and to show you a
MILDRED ENLARGES HER EXPERIENCE.
25
thousand little marks of deference be¬
cause you are a woman, would think
himself justified, for the self-same reason,
in snatching your staff from your hands
and trampling you under his feet in the
great highway of life ? She knew noth¬
ing of the elegant theory which holds
that a woman has "unsexed" herself so
soon as she ceases, whether from inclina¬
tion or necessity, to be occupied with
trifles and engages in the earnest work
of life ; the cursed theory which holds
that a woman struggling for bread is a
creature who has deserted her proper
sphere, and forfeited her title not only to
the respect which women claim from men
in virtue of their sex, but even to that
which honorable men pay to one another
regardless of sex. Mildred had as yet
experienced life in only one of its phases,
and now that circumstances compelled
her to step out of that pleasant but con¬
tracted circle conventionally known as
" woman's sphere," she did not realize
the full extent of the change. " Woman's
sphere" is a very nice place for the privi¬
leged few who can afford to stay there,
but for the sake of the toiling millions
who are shut out, great is the pity that
its limits are so narrow. There is a large
proportion of womankind upon whom the
curse of Adam, as well as the curse of
Eve, has descended,—a weary band of
toilers who must eat their bread in the
sweat of their brows,—and for these the
exclusive domain of " woman's sphere"
knows no place. The favored few who
are safely sheltered there look askance
at their less fortunate sisters as they pass
along the dusty highway of life, and,
hugging themselves in their sweet secu¬
rity, virtuously wonder how other women
can do " such dreadful things."
If all women were mediocre except the
few who are geniuses there would be no
difficulty, for genius can always make its
own sphere, while mediocrity is contented
with any. But, unfortunately, there are
women who are neither,—women of
talent merely, and superior ability, cor¬
responding to that class of men who fill
the higher ranks of the various profes¬
sions,—the successful lawyer, the skilful
physician, the brilliant journalist, the
learned professor, the busy politician,—
and for such women there is absolutely
no recognized place in our social
economy. They cannot trample on con¬
ventionalism and create a destiny for
themselves like the Siddonses, the Jenny
Linds, the George Eliots ; they cannot,
knowing themselves capable of better
things, be content to teach primary
schools, or take in sewing, or marry a
dullard for their "vittles and clo'es."
They are absolutely without a career in
life, and must either live all their days
in a state of painful suppression, or pay
the penalty the world imposes upon nun-
conformity.
It was to this unfortunate class that
our heroine belonged. She was not a
woman of genius, but she was a woman
of talent, and very superior talent at
that. Had she retained her fortune, she
would probably have found, in the studies
pursued with her father, varied by the
duties of her home and the active diplo¬
macies of fashionable life, a sufficient
outlet for her energies. Society is essen¬
tially the world of women, where they
play the leading part, and are acknowl¬
edged as the ruling power ; but Mildred
was about to descend from that privi¬
leged sphere into the public highway
where the common herd of toiling hu¬
manity plods along day by day. The
world allows no middle place to women.
If they cannot ride on high horses through
life, they must plod along as porters and
scavengers. Poor Mildred had no high
horse of genius to ride, but experience
had not yet taught her that therefore
she must not expect to ride at all. If she
could drive some modest dump-cart up
the hill of life, instead of trundling along
with her burden in a wheelbarrow, or on
her shoulders, where was the harm ?
Mildred, as we have said, had experi¬
enced life only at its best, and had much
to learn yet before she could fully realize
the nature of the struggle in which she
was about to engage. She looked for the
deference which is always paid to woman
in that privileged sphere she had just for¬
saken to follow her still, and it never
occurred to her thoughts that the men
who had stepped so carefully aside when
she passed up yonder would jostle her
here, and hustle her out of the way, with¬
out even looking to see whom they were
pushing aside in the race. She had yet
to learn that this work-a-day world of
ours is no respecter of persons. With her,
as with most of us, the first difficulty was
to swallow her own pride and make up her
mind, fairly, to come down ; and then,
having once conquered herself, she fan¬
cied the battle was already half won. It
was so meritorious in a person reared as
she had been to be willing to work, that
of course no one would oppose her in so
laudable a design. She had but to sig¬
nify her dtosire to enter, and every avenue
26
A MERE ADVENTURER.
of employment would be thrown open to
her.
It was with some such vague ideas of
what the work-a-day world is like that
Mildred prepared to take her place in it.
Mr. Meade's encouraging reception of her
application did not help to open her eyes.
A thought of serious opposition would
have frightened her out of the race with¬
out even showing her colors, but she
never dreamed of encountering opposi¬
tion. Remember, she had lived all her
life in a world where women are petted
and yielded to like spoiled children, and
how could she know that it would be
otherwise when she came to have a want
that was not childish, a need that was
real? Why, when she came to ask for
bread, should it give her a stone?
The first intimation she had of any
difficulty in her way came through Roy.
Mildred had said nothing to her family
about the step she had resolved to take,
in order that they might not share her
disappointment should the project mis¬
carry. But the business was not so easily
settled as she had flattered herself.
When her name was proposed by Mr.
Meade at the next meeting of directors,
the announcement created such a warm
discussion that it Avas plain the board
would have some difficulty in coming to
an agreement. The novelty of a woman
making application for the post was so
astounding to these modern Solons that
they could not take it in all at once; not
that there was anything in the du ties of the
office incompatible with the appointment
of a female, but it never had been filled
by one before, and therefore, by the logic
of precedent, it never could be. There
is a strong prescriptive tendency in the
minds of most men, which makes it hard
for them to realize that what never has
been ever can be or ever ought to be,—
a tendency productive in the main of
much good, though sometimes faulty in
particular applications. The twenty-two
other candidates also made common cause
against an innovation which they re¬
garded as a dangerous precedent. Mil¬
dred's friends were warm on their side ;
the other party were warm too ; discus¬
sion ran high, and the meeting finally
adjourned without coming to any decis¬
ion. The library Avas a sort of pet insti¬
tution in the city, and Mildred Loring
had played too important a part in its
social life for her share in the contest to
be viewed with indifference. The excite¬
ment spread from the directors to out¬
siders, and before night poor Mildred
and her little affairs were the talk of tha
town. Roy happened to go into the city
that afternoon, and getting wind of the
matter, rushed back home in high dud¬
geon. According to the strictly orthodox
views of female decorum usually enter¬
tained by gentlemen of his age, Mildred
had committed a fearful breach of pro¬
priety in applying for such a situation at
all, and a worse breach of discipline in
applying for any situation without first
consulting her natural protector,—that
is to say, Roy himself, as noAV virtually
the head of the family.
"Well, Mildred," he began, bursting
into the sitting-room and flinging his
gloves and riding-whip petulantly upon
the table, " what crazy notion will you
take up next? You have gone and made
yourself the talk of the town."
Mildred was used to Roy's lectures,
and generally received them in a spirit
of good-humored banter. Looking up
from her work, she inquired, in a tone of
provoking indifference,—
"And what does the town say about
me, Roy? Nothing bad I hope."
" Bad !" exclaimed Roy, with increas¬
ing vehemence. " It is always bad for a
woman to get herself talked about, no
matter what people say, and I thought
you had more delicacy than to go trying
to poke yourself into an office that no
woman has ever held before, or ever can
or ought to hold. I'll expect to hear of
you next trying to vote at the city elec¬
tions and strutting about the streets in
breeches, like Dr. Mary Walker or some
of that strong-minded set."
Mildred laughed.
" I dare-say the rules of the institution
won't require me to wear breeches, Roy,
if I get the place," she answered, with
impious levity.
" If you get the place !" sneered the
majestic Leroy in a withering tone. " No,
but you Avon't get it, with a hundred
other applicants against you, and you the
only woman immodest enough to push
yourself into a rabble of men like that !
It's indelicate, it's indecent, and you've
disgraced the family !"
Here Fanny dropped upon her lap the
bewildering tidy she was crochetting,
and, looking up with an air of blank dis¬
may. exclaimed in a startled A'oice,—
" Why, good gracious 1 Mildred, what
have you been doing?"
" IVIerely applying for the position of
city librarian, in the place of Mr. Ram¬
sey, who is going to resign," answered
Mildrad, quietly.
MILDRED ENLARGES HER EXPERIENCE.
27
"Mercy on us!" ejaculated Fanny,
looking utterly aghast. " What possessed
you to go and do that, Mildred? Every¬
body will know that you have to work
for a living."
"Well, some of us must work for a
living," replied Mildred, becoming a little
nettled, in her turn, under this double
fire, " or we will all starve."
" Now, there you are again at your
nonsense!" cried Roy, loftily. "As if it
was any of your business to provide for
the family, and you nothing but a woman !
Hasn't the family got me to depend upon?
It is a man's place to attend to all these
matters, and, of course, I expect to see
you all provided for."
" But while waiting for you to begin,"
Mildred answered, with mock gravity,
" the family must have something to live
upon, and so I thought I had better look
out for employment."
" AVell, if you must be at something,"
cried Roy, " why couldn't you be satis¬
fied to teach school or take in sewing,
in a quiet way, like other women, instead
of making yourself ridiculous by setting
up to do a man's work? If you had asked
my advice beforehand, as any well-regu¬
lated woman would have done, I could
have kept you out of this muddle, and
saved you from scandalizing the whole
family as you have done. It is very
wrong for women to take upon them¬
selves to decide any step of importance
without first consulting the male mem¬
bers of their family."
" Mildred never can be content to do
like other people," chimed in Fanny, in
a reproachful tone. "That's why you
always do contrive to go wrong, Mildred.
Aunt Clara says nobody in the world but
you would have signed away Hazelhurst
for the benefit of strangers, and turned
your own family out-of-doors."
"Aunt Clara had better keep quiet
about Ilazelhurst, and you too, unless
you can talk common sense," growled
Roy, ungratefully turning his guns
against his ally.
" I have got as much sense as you,"
retorted Fanny, warming for the conflict.
" You have a mighty poor way of
showing it, then," returned Roy, " always
pecking at Mildred about Hazelhurst."
" I have as good a right to peck at
Mildred as you have, Mr. Wisdom."
" You had better pull the beam out of
your own eye before you go to doctoring
Mildred's, Miss Amiability."
" Gna—gna—gna—gna—gna—a—a,"
was Fanny's only reply to this assault,
thrusting out her chin and making wry
faces, like a child, to add expression to
her gibberish.
Mildred rose, and leaving the bellig¬
erents to finish this promising quarrel at
their leisure, went back to her father's
room, where most of her time was spent.
It was not pleasant, certainly, to know
that her little affairs were furnishing a
subject of gossip to all her acquaintances.
A woman of delicacy never likes to be
talked about in any way, and there is
something humiliating in the conscious¬
ness that mere vulgar curiosity about
one's misfortunes has made her a "nine
days' wonder" among her little circle.
But Mildred felt that such mortifications
are the necessary consequences of the
position she was in, and however much
her own feelings may have suffered, she
did not allow them to affect her deter¬
mination in a matter where she thought
she saw her duty clearly.
As for Roy's disapprobation, that did
not disturb her at all. Roy was in a
chronic state of disapprobation at every¬
thing that the women of his family did,
and she was more disposed to be amused
at his objurgations than disturbed by
them. It was not until the next day,
when her eyes met the following para¬
graph in one of the morning papers, that
she became aware of the nature of the
struggle into which she had entered.
The article in question was a communi
cation signed " Vigilant," and headed
" woman's rights on the rampage.
"We had flattered ourselves, hereto¬
fore, that the strong-minded, shrieking
sisterhood was confined to a different
section from this, but, alas ! yesterday's
proceedings before the board of directors
of the city library awakened us from our
dream of security, and now that the con¬
tagion of thrusting themselves into men's
places has once seized upon those whom
we used to regard as the gentler sex,
there is nothing left for us unlucky male
bipeds but to fight the battle out with
them on the spot, or calmly resolve to
yield ourselves up forever slaves of the
broomstick. For our own part, the
writer has always been a peaceful man,
and willing to submit to the broomstick
in its own domain, but when it invades
foreign territory, and aspires to wear the
breeches also, it is time for the lawful
wearers of the breeches to look to their
rights. In plain English, we have a
great resjfect for women so long as they
28
A MERE ADVENTURER.
confine themselves to their proper sphere.
As a wife, a mother, the radiant divinity
of woman's true kingdom, home, we bow
to her, we adore her, we yield her the
homage due to angels ; but for those who
take upon themselves to abandon woman's
sacred mission upon earth ; who, instead
of hovering as a guardian angel at man's
side, seek to confront him as a rival,—for
such as theso, I cannot feel either venera¬
tion or regard. Miss Nancy doctors,
Miss Nancy lawyers, Miss Nancy politi¬
cians, Miss Nancy stump-orators, Miss
Nancy city-librarians,—for heaven's sake,
let us have none of these in our midst."
When Mildred read this compound of
coarseness, stale sentiment, and bad
grammar, her face crimsoned with shame
and indignation. Since she had entered
the arena of active life, she had no right,
perhaps, to expect that her sex should
shield her from criticism, but that it
should expose her to insult, this surely
was unjust. She hastened to her room,
and locking herself in, sat down to think.
Most women would have begun by taking
a good cry, but Mildred did nothing of
the sort. She sat awhile gazing indig¬
nantly at the offending sheet that lay
crumpled in her hand, then opening her
desk, she wrote a note to Mr. Meade, re¬
questing him to withdraw immediately
her application from before the board of
directors.
CHAPTER VI.
A bold experiment.
" Quocirca vi vite fortes;
Fortiaque adversis opponite pectora rebus."
Horace.
Mr. Meade did not answer Mildred's
note till next day, when he came to her
in person. He looked serious, though
he tried to make a show of treating the
matter lightly.
" So, little woman," he said, assuming
a cheerful air as Mildred came into the
room, " you have let them scare you out
of the battle without making any fight."
" They fought with weapons I could
not condescend to use," answered Mil¬
dred, with a bitter recollection of the
offensive paragraph.^
Mr. Meade's amiable face clouded.
"Ah, you have seen that paper," he
said, in a tone of regret. " I had hoped
that infamous paragraph might be kept
from you. It was a shame, a beastly
shame ; but such stuff as that can only
reflect upon the perpetrators, Mildred,
and I think they are heartily ashamed of
it already. The editor came to me of his
own accord yesterday evening and ex¬
pressed regret at the insertion of the ob¬
noxious article ; he said he had glanced
at it carelessly, and was not aware of the
personalities it contained, and offered to
make an apologetic statement to that
effect in his next issue."
" No, no, please don't let him !" cried
Mildred, hastily. " It can do no good
to draw attention to the matter ; the
sooner it is all passed over and forgotten
the better. You have withdrawn my ap¬
plication, I trust, as requested."
"Yes; I was about to do so anyway.
I found the idea of having a woman for
librarian was so novel that many people
would not take it in, though no one
could bring a rational objection against
it. There are some people, you know,
who object to novelty for the mere
novelty's sake, as there are others who
object to precedent for the mere prece¬
dent's sake, and the opposition was so
strong that, even if we had elected you,
it would have been* at the expense of
more wrangling and disputing than you
would care to be made the subject of ;
and besides, with a large minority dissat¬
isfied, the position could not have been a
pleasant one: hence I thought best to
withdraw your application."
" Thank you," said Mildred, aware
that Mr. Meade's words concealed more
than they revealed. " I wish I had
never made it."
" Don't be too easily discouraged, my
child," said Mr. Meade, soothingly.
" When you have been battling with the
world as long as I have you will find
there is no need to be disheartened be¬
cause you have lost one fight. I have
another plan for you, and one that the
narrowest interpreter of woman's duties,
such as old John Milton or Saint Paul
himself, could make no objection to;
everybody admits, nowadays, that women
may be school-teachers."
Mildred's heart sank within her. " So
it must come to that, after all," she
thought, with a secret sigh, and quietly
made up her mind to accept the inevitable.
"And you are well qualified," Mr.
Meade went on, unconscious of Mildred's
secret reflections, " to fill any position in
the profession. Now, what I have to
propose is this : there is to be a change
in ¿he constitution of the girl's high
A BOLD EXPERIMENT.
29
school in our city, and a female principal
is to be placed at the head of it, as is but
fair to the women, if one can be found
qualified. The salary is very good, being
about twelve hundred dollars a year; not
quite equal to that of the city librarian,
still a very comfortable thing to have
when one can do no better. I think there
is very little doubt that you can get the
position, if you will try for it; and as
there is no popular prejudice against one
of your sex acting in that capacity, you
need not fear a repetition of the coarse¬
ness to which you have been subjected
in your other canvass. Shall I lay your
name before the board of education?"
Mildred thanked him for the interest
he had taken in her affairs, and as nothing
better seemed likely to offer, meekly ac¬
cepted the proposal.
" The examination takes place three
weeks from next Saturday," Mr Meade
added, rising to depart, " so that you will
have ample time to do a little ' cramming,'
if necessary, or to brush up your knowl¬
edge on any subject upon which you may
have grown rusty."
Mildred, however, had no need of
"cramming." Owing to her constant
companionship with her father, and her
intimate participation in his. pursuits,
her educational acquirements had been
of a nature very different from those
usually considered suitable for young
ladies of her position in life. Besides
being an admirable historical and classi¬
cal scholar, she had gathered from the
practice of reading aloud to her father,
carried on from childhood, a fund of
general information that often astonished
the old gentleman himself. To a clear
and vigorous mind she added an accu¬
rate and retentive memory that rendered
always available for use whatever infor¬
mation she possessed, and thus endowed
her with a degree of intellectual power
that would have rendered her conspicu¬
ous for learning had she chosen to display
it. Not the least, however, among her
accomplishments was the tact with which
she avoided obtruding them, so that no
one ever felt himself overshadowed and
annihilated in her society. She seemed
to know exactly how far to let herself
out, so to speak, to all with whom she
came in contact, so that no matter
upon what subject she conversed, or with
whom, she always contrived, to send
her companion away convinced that he
was her equal, upon that point at any
rate, and happy in the comfortable infer¬
ence which naturally follows from the
flattering discovery that we are ourselves
the full equals of a person of acknowl¬
edged superiority. Next to her beauty
and her money, the chief source of Mil¬
dred's popularity with the other sex was
probably due to the skill with which she
always avoided letting any man suspect
that she knew more about anything than
he did.
If Mildred had had a mother to see that
she was properly educated, she would not,
in all likelihood, have had any of this
inconvenient learning to conceal. All
right-minded mothers know that litera¬
ture and science, and general history, are
not only very useless, but very objection¬
able things for girls to know, as tending
to divert their minds from the real and
proper business of their lives, the secur¬
ing of husbands. The more cultivated a
woman becomes, the more difficult and
exacting is she apt to be in her judgment
of men ; and as the same qualities which
make her more fastidious do not render
her more attractive to the other sex, it is
plain that cultivation, as an aid to matri¬
mony, must rank as a negative quantity.
A woman educated as Mildred had been
ceases to take a sensible and rational
view of marriage, as a convenient busi¬
ness arrangement by which a woman
gets her physical wants supplied with
greater or less profusion, according to
the value of the personal charms she
brings to market. In the cultivated
woman a new set of wants, unrecog¬
nized by society, the offspring of her
intellectual nature, are developed, and if
she thinks of marriage at all, it is not
with a just recognition of the duty she
owes her family in getting some man to
take her off its hands as soon as possible,
but with vain aspirations after the ideal,
where perfect sympathy of mind and
heart renders marriage something more
than a mere union of worldly interests.
If Mildred had been a properly brought
up young woman, capable of taking a
practical, common sense view of life, in¬
stead of shuddering at the bare thought
of Mr. Henlow, she would have seen in
him, from the first, a happy escape from
the family embarrassments — a special
providence designed to meet her case.
But Mildred Loring, as we have seen,
had not been properly educated. Her
father, ignorant on such points himself,
and blindly wishing to keep his beloved
daughter always near him, had never
instructed her in the first rudiments of
the first duty every woman owes to her¬
self and Ao her family,—the duty of
30
A MERE ADVENTURER.
getting "settled" in life. Hence Mil¬
dred never once thought of looking to
marriage as a final resort, and instead of
betaking herself to woman's proper busi¬
ness and angling diligently for a husband,
she stupidly relied upon her own exer¬
tions, and chose to work for a living
rather than haul up the big matrimonial
fish that was already wriggling at the
end of her neglected line.
Her second attempt to find employ¬
ment proved more successful than the
first. In the examination of candidates
she far distanced all competitors, for,
though the papers were made out with
the tender regard for feminine imbecility
that male teachers and superintendents
so considerately exercise in their dealings
with the scquior sexus, most of the other
applicants, as the result of too much such
complacency in their early education,
would stumble a little over the Latin
and mathematics, while Mildred came off
with flying colors on both. She was
even specially complimented upon the
accuracy and thoroughness of her ex¬
amination papers, the next day, when
Mr. Holroy, the superintendent of city
schools, called to inform her of her elec¬
tion, though her proficiency, as will ap¬
pear in the sequel, did not procure her
any solid advantage. Compliments and
flattery are the cheap currency with
which the world seeks to beguile women,
while it denies them the true coin of fair
pay for honest work.
" You will have a very snug little
place of it, Miss Loring," the superintend¬
ent went on, after notifying Mildred of
her success. " The work is light, and
the salary very good for a lady."
" The salary is twelve hundred dollars
a year, I believe," said Mildred, remem¬
bering that she had not yet been officially
informed upon that important point.
Mr. Holroy coughed, and rubbed his
hands with a slightly embarrassed air.
" It was that," he answered, putting a
strong accent on the verb, " when we
employed amale principal, but, of course,
we can't be expected to pay the same to
a lady ; your salary will be eight hun¬
dred dollars a year."
" Indeed ! Have you lowered the re¬
quirements of the position so much?"
asked Mildred, with artful artlessness.
" I thought I was to teach the same that
Mr. Bantam, my predecessor, did."
"Well—no—yes—that is, the duties
of the position will be the same," replied
Mr. Holroy, rubbing his hands very hard,
" except that you will have to teach
French in addition. You see, Miss Lor¬
ing," he continued, observing the pecu¬
liar expression with which she received
this announcement, " the city finances
are in a very embarrassed condition ; it
is necessary to retrench somewhere, and
so the board of education have decided
to reduce the salaries of all the female
teachers in the public schools."
"And why of the female teachers par¬
ticularly?' asked Mildred, with mali¬
cious pertinacity. " Have they proved,
as a class, less faithful or competent than
the others?"
"What! the ladies unfaithful or in¬
competent ! Oh, dear, no, Miss Loring !
The ladies, God bless 'em !" cried Mr.
Ilolroy, taking refuge in a running fire of
compliments. " I would knock any man
down who dared to hint such a thing. I
have the greatest respect for the ladies ;
they are angels compared to men,
but "
"We musn't expect pay for being
angels," said Mildred, with a smile, fin¬
ishing the sentence for him.
" The ladies are pearls above price,"
said Mr. Ilolroy, bringing out a big sugar¬
plum to sweeten the taste of that four-
hundred-dollar disappointment. " It is
useless to try to pay them according to
their true worth, for their value can't be
fairly estimated in dollars and cents."
" No, it seems not," said Mildred, with
a touch of irony in her voice ; and Mr.
Holroy not finding the situation alto¬
gether as agreeable as a tête-à-tête with a
pretty woman should be, seized the first
opportunity to make his retreat.
Mildred returned to her father's room
feeling bitterly depressed under this
second disappointment, and half inclined
to resent the injustice done to her sex by
indignantly refusing the position with
the diminished salary offered her. Ne¬
cessity, however, forced her to pause and
reflect before indulging in this piece of
moral Quixotism, and circumstances soon
settled the question for her in a way she
had not dared to hope.
About the time that Mildred received
her appointment from the school-board,
her father's health began to fail very
rapidly. For two or three weeks he had
scarcely left his bed at all, and seemed
each day more and more disinclined to
make the effort. Sometimes he would
suffer himself to be dressed for a little
while in the middle of the day, and
would sit gazing listlessly from an open
I window where they placed him to enjoy
the sunshine, but soon wearying of the
A BOLD EXPERIMENT.
31
prospect, he would drag himself back to
bed and lie there, with his eyes closed, as
insensible, apparently, to all that was
passing around him as if his soul had
already parted company with his body.
So rapidly was he failing, that Mildred
thought she could mark the change from
day to day, and it was plain the time
was not far distant when he would be
laid in the narrow bed from which no
man ever rises again.
A few days after her interview with
Mr. Holroy, Mildred entered her father's
room one morning, and found him turn¬
ing over, in a confused, absent way, a
number of loose manuscript sheets that
lay spread out before him. His chair
had happened to be placed near a table
at which he used to write, and where
still lay, untouched for many a day, the
rough notes and rudely sketched outlines
of a series of articles on " Capital and
Labor," which he was engaged in pre¬
paring for the Metropolitan newspaper
when sudden misfortune had paralyzed
his energies. He had not thought of the
work again till now, when the sight of
the papers brought back to his clouded
mind some vague notion of completing
the long-neglected undertaking. It was
the first time he had shown any disposi¬
tion to return to his old pursuits, and
Mildred, ready to hope against hope,
flattered herself for a moment that he
was going to rally at last from the dumb
apathy into which Roger's guilt had
plunged him.
He asked for his desk when Mildred
came in, and tried to write, but his fail¬
ing hand refused to guide the pen, and
it left only unintelligible marks and
scratches on the paper. He looked at
them with a confused, sorrowful expres¬
sion and tried again, but still with the same
result ; then, after a third vain attempt,
dropped the pen with a meek, despairing
look that it almost broke Mildred's heart
to see. There was something inexpressi¬
bly touching in the mute submissiveness
with which the old man made this last
surrender to fate, as the realization of
his own shattered and helpless condition
broke irresistibly upon his mind. Mil¬
dred felt her heart ready to burst, but
she forced back the tears that rose to
her eyes, and pushing aside the papers,
said, as she laid her hand tenderly on
his,—
" Never mind that, father, I will at¬
tend to all that for you ; I have always
done your copying, you know."
He looked at her a moment sadly, but
said nothing, and presently crept away
to his bed, which he never left again.
Mildred gathered up the papers and
sat herself down to work. That meek,
despairing look on her father's face had
inspired her with a new, and for a
woman a bold, resolve. She had long
been in the habit of copying her father's
articles for the press, and more than
that, had often proved a useful assistant
to him in preparing them, by hunting up
authorities, finding references, etc., till
she was almost as familiar with the sub¬
jects of which he treated as he was him¬
self, and not unfrequently was able to
suggest ideas which he was glad to em¬
body in his manuscripts.
Mildred accordingly formed the arro¬
gant design of taking up her father's
work where he had left off", and continu¬
ing, if possible, incognita, his connection
with the Metropolitan. It is true the
subject was one upon which a woman's
views would naturally be suspect, as the
French say, but there were her father's
notes and memoranda to guide her, and
they were sufficiently copious, if she fol¬
lowed them exactly, to insure her against
falling into any feminine absurdity. His
initials, which were the only signature
he gave his published sketches, were the
same as her own, and as she had always
done his copying for him, the editor,
happily, need never detect from her
handwriting the damning fact that she
was a woman. It only remained to
prove herself equal in other respects to
the undertaking.
Her first attempt was a success, not
uninfluenced, doubtless, by the innocent
fraud she had practised. The effusions
of journalistic raw recruits are naturally
regarded with suspicion by persecuted
editors, and often condemned, on prima
facie evidence, to the waste-basket.
Mildred's first essay, however, coming in
the name of an old and esteemed corre¬
spondent, received a fair examination, and
possessing undoubted merit, enjoyed a
happier fate. The return mail brought
her a check for fifty dollars, with a very
brief but satisfactory letter from the
editor, expressing a willingness to re¬
ceive further contributions from the same
source.
Here was something a great deal better
than teaching school on a reduced salary,
and Mildred congratulated herself that
she might now snap her fingers—meta¬
phorically speaking—in the face of the
board of education and its unjust dis¬
criminations. She could hardly believe
32
A MERE ADVENTURER.
her senses at first,—it seemed too good
to be true,—and she stood turning the
check over and over in her fingers to
make sure it was not a mere delusion,
like the enchanted sequins in the Arabian
tale. For that check was something
more than money to Mildred : it was the
certificate of success, the realization of
hope, the currency stamp of her own
intellectual coin. Not all the gold of
Ophir can purchase in later years the
gratification that comes from the first
money earned by one's own pen. It may
be, it probably is, only a trilling sum, for
unknown writers seldom draw large pay,
but what possibilities it opens 1 You
have found the philosopher's stone. You
can, with a stroke of your pen, convert
woi'thless blank paper into marketable
bank-notes of writterr wisdom. You are
young and inexperienced as yet, and have
not learned that a first success does not
always mean final success. You do not
know the long apprenticeship that must
be served before you are ready to take
permanent rank in the profession of let¬
ters, nor the salutary snubbings you will
have to undergo before the time arrives
that you so confidently expect, -when able
editors make you polite overtures and
humbly beg you to name your terms.
Mildred's first thought, on recovering
from the little rapture of joyous surprise
which a much-coveted success always
creates, was to hasten to her father and
cheer him with the good news. The old
man roused himself a little at her words,
and a brighter look came into his eyes
for an instant as they rested on her face.
He took the check in his hands and re¬
garded it for some time with a thought¬
ful countenance, and then the light
gradually faded out of his eyes.
" It would take two hundred of these
to make ten thousand dollars," he mur¬
mured, sadly. " Poor girl, you can never
do it." And, dropping the paper from his
hands, he sank listlessly back on his
pillow.
Mildred knew what he was thinking
about,—when did that inextinguishable
debt of shame ever cease to prey upon
his mind?—and a sudden impulse fired
her breast, only to be quenched the next
instant by the cold touch of sober reason.
Ten thousand dollars ! It was a great sum
for one woman's unaided efforts to com¬
pass. No, she could hardly hope to earn
it, even in a lifetime, and there was but one
other way. Her cheek 'grew pale at the
thought, but she felt, when she looked
at the grief-stricken face on the bed, that
she could almost nerve herself to take
even that way if it would bring peace to
her father's heart before he died.
CHAPTER VII.
mr. henlow proposes.
"For what is worth in anything
But so much money as 'twill bring?"
Hudibras.
While Mildred sat by her father's bed
with the editor's letter still open in her
hand, reflecting upon the possibilities and
impossibilities it seemed to unfold, a
servant entered and handed her a sealed
note. Mildred glanced at the address ;
it was in Mr. Henlow's handwriting.
Why the sight of it made her tremble
she could not have told, but tremble she
did from head to foot, and broke the seal
with a nervous hand.
Mr. Ilenlow wrote on plain commer¬
cial note, like a sensible business man
with no affectations, and what he had
to say he said in a plain business way,
so that there was no mistaking his mean¬
ing. Mildred saw it only too clearly as
she read the letter, of which the reader
will find a faithful copy below
No. 491 King Street, August 19,18—
Miss Mildred G. Loring, Hazelhurst.
Dear Miss,—To say that I love you
is unnecessary, since the proposal I am
about to make is itself a sufficient proof
that I prefer you above all other women.
I have considered the subject well, and
feel satisfied that a union with you would
secure my happiness, and that I can
make it greatly to your interest, and to
your family's, for you to marry me. You
have known me for years; you know
what my character is. I have no bad
habits ; I am moral and upright in all
my dealings ; I go to church regularly,
and will perform all the duties of the
married state with truth and fidelity. As
to my business capacities, no man's
stand higher. I can always provide for
you handsomely, and for your family, in
pledge of which I bind myself to settle
on you, the day we are married, fifty
thousand dollars in money, and the right
and title to Hazelhurst, besides ignoring
the ten thousand dollars due on account
of your brother. I say nothing of the
benefits I have already rendered, or of
MR. HENLOW PROPOSES.
33
the obligations incurred by your family,
except to remind you that all I have
done, and all I ani still ready to do, is
entirely for your sake. I leave it to
your own good sense to consider how
much is in my power for your happi¬
ness and for the welfare of your family,
and I feel confident that careful reflec¬
tion on the subject will convince you
that you cannot consult your interest,
nor theirs, better than by marrying me.
I will call to-morrow at half-past eleven
for your answer.
Yours, respectfully,
Thompson Henlow.
Most men, when very much in earnest,
would hardly be content to do their court¬
ing by letter, nor is such bashful wooing
the readiest way to a woman's heart.
But courting was not Mr. Henlow's forte,
and he was glad to dispose of an awkward
business in the manner least embarrassing
to himself. He had never done any court¬
ing in his life, and now, at the age of
thirty-seven, was about to make his first
proposal. He had had his eye on Mildred
for years, ever since he saw her carry off
the honors at a school exhibition when a
graceful girl of fifteen, and had been
quietly watching his opportunity ever
since. Now, at last, he judged that the
propitious moment had arrived. He had
just become virtually the master of
Hazelhurst, and then that crime of
Roger's,—what power did it not place in
his hands !
Mr. Henlow loved money, and making
it was at once the business and the pleas¬
ure of his life, but he was not in any
sense a stingy man, and could spend even
lavishly to gain his own purposes. If
that forgery of Roger's had been twenty
thousand, instead of ten thousand dollars,
it would have been all one to Mr. Henlow.
The Cephaloptera instincts in him were
stronger than the avaricious, and even
the loss of money he could view with
satisfaction when tending to promote the
object of his most earnest endeavors. I
do not say the object of his affections,
because Mr. Henlow's nature was incapa¬
ble of the grand passion that would be
implied in such strivings for love's sake.
It was the clutch of the devil-fish. Ile
had made up his mind to marry Mildred
Loring, and he held on to his purpose
through sheer inability to let go an object
when he had once taken hold. His in¬
stincts had told hira all along that he
could never win her by love, and as
Mr. Henlow's sensibilities were not very
delicate, any other means suited him
as well. He was not conscious of the
great want of generosity he betrayed in
turning to such account the power Mil¬
dred's misfortunes had given him. On
the contrary, he considered that he was
acting with extraordinary magnanimity
in offering himself as a medium of escape
from the family embarrassments ; nor did
his self-respect suffer at all at the thought
of allowing himself to be so used. To
Mr. Henlow's shopkeeper mind it was all
a pure matter of bargain and trade -, high
birth, beauty, refinement on one side,
integrity, industry, and, more than all,
solid prosperity on the other,—what
fairer exchange could any one desire?
Mr. Henlow was a thoroughly coarse¬
grained man, but not a bad one, and, ac¬
cording to his light, he was behaving
with noble generosity. Was he not offer¬
ing to bestow upon Mildred all the good
things of life, to save her ruined family
from want, and more than all, to cover
up, at a cost of ten thousand dollars to
himself, her guilty brother's shame?
And what did he ask in return ? Only
that Mildred would accept for her hus¬
band a prosperous, successful man, able
to establish her comfortably and securely
in life ; not a mere speculator, whose for¬
tune shifted and veered with every change
of the market, but a sound, substantial
merchant, whose house was built on the
solid rock of capital. His morality and
integrity, too, were as sound as his credit,
and what more could any reasonable
woman ask? The delicacy which a man
of chivalrous instincts would have felt in
approaching a woman situated as Mildred
was did not disturb Mr. Henlow in the
least; his obtuse sensibilities could not
see why the very weight of the obliga¬
tion that bound her made it ungenerous
in him to ask any return.
The letter slid from Mildred's hand
when she had finished reading, and a
sort of numbness came over her as if all
her powers had been suddenly palsied.
She had expected something of this sort
from Mr. Henlow ; the dread of it had
been on her, night and day, ever since the
discovery of Roger's crime had told her
how like a decree of fate itself such a
declaration would be.
She understood the proposal distinctly.
Her own person was to be the satisfaction
for Roger's fraud; she was to write on
her heart " for value received," and pass
it over like a note of hand to cover a
debt of ten thousand dollars. " You
have no money," the letter said to her,
34
A MERE ADVENTURER.
" but I am willing to take pay in slave
flesh and blood."
To these bitter thoughts succeeded a
pang of self-reproach. To feel that she
had power to shield those she loved from
the worst consequences of their terrible
disaster, and yet not to use it,—would not
their sufferings be a perpetual rebuke to
her? If their common calamity were
inevitable, past all power of hers to
remedy, she could nerve herself to bear
it with fortitude, but now she would be
made responsible for all, the real in-
flicter of the blow she refused to avert.
She could save the others if she would,—
at what cost to herself God only knew,
but had Bhe a right to think of herself
now, when by forgetting self she might
bring a little comfort to her poor old
father's broken heart? Her father! the
thought of him nearly killed her, yet it
was hard, even for his sake, to nerve
herself to the sacrifice. Was ither duty
to quench the brightness of her young
life in darkness blacker than death
merely to purchase one little flicker of
sickly light for a candle that was almost
out? Did God require that of her?
She buried her face in her hands and
sat for hours immersed in a painful revery.
When she roused herself she became con¬
scious of her father's eyes fixed upon her
with that mute appealing look which had
become habitual to them since his illness,
and seemed to increase in intensity as he
drew nearer to the grave. There is
always a pathetic look in the eyes of the
dying that stamps itself in characters of
fire on the hearts of those they leave
behind. To Mildred's excited fancy it
seemed as if her father was reproaching
her for refusing to purchase the one poor
boon his broken heart yet craved, and that
look almost settled her fate. Only those
who have watched a beloved parent with¬
ering away under the blighting influence
of sorrow can tell what sacrifices the heart
of the living will make on the altar of its
love for the dying.
To Mildred those meek, sorrowful eyes
of her dying father appealed with a power
that no heart could resist. He had been
more than a father to her ; he had been
the companion, the playmate, the confi¬
dant. as well as the guide and director of
her life, and now that he was going so
fast, oh ! what would she not give to
bring peace to his parting hour? She
knew what lay so heavy on his heart,
longing for utterance, yet shrinking from
the effort, and bending over his pillow,
she took his withered hand tenderly in
her own, and said, while tears almost
choked her voice,—
" There is something on your mind,
father,—something you wish to say to me
before you go. Tell me what it is, and
if there is anything that I can do, I
pledge my life to accomplish it, or at
least to labor and strive for it always."
The old man looked at her fondly a
moment, then closing his eyes wearily,
answered, in a despondent tone,—
" No, no, there is no use ; my poor child,
you can never do it. The time was when
ten thousand dollars seemed but a trifle
to me, and now I could not raise it if I
were to sell my soul for it. No, I see no
course but to leave your unhappy brother
to his fate."
He ended the sentence with a groan that
ffierced Mildred to the heart. Already she
elt her resolution taken.
"Do not despair, father," she said, in
a voice that tried hard to conceal the
despair in her own soul. " It is true
Roger's crime can never be undone, but
if restitution could be made,— if Mr.
Henlow "
The old man interrupted her with a
groan.
" Ah, if I could see my other children,"
he moaned, " shielded from the ignominy
that Roger's crime must bring upon their
innocent heads, I could die content."
" Then be at peace, father," she an¬
swered firmly, " for here, on my knees, I
Í)romise you the debt shall be paid. Mix
îenlow has forborne thus far, and I
answer for it he shall forbear to the
end."
Ile looked at her with a fond but in¬
credulous expression, and turned away,
too weary to say more.
From that moment Mildred's purpose
was fixed,—a purpose how fatal to her
own future, only the future itself was to
reveal. In vain she tried to persuade
herself that her aversion to Mr. Henlow
was a mere prejudice, a shallow regard
for externals which a more intimate
acquaintance with his solid, though not
Very attractive, virtues would remove ;
the more she argued with herself the
further was she from conviction. Hatred
itself is easier to overcome than that cold
repugnance for which we cannot render
a reason, but which, springing as it does
from utter incongruity of taste and feel¬
ing, has its root in the very foundations
of our being. We may hate from pas¬
sion or prejudice, we are repelled on
instinct. When a man who is naturally
distasteful to a woman assumes the posi
SIGNING HER DEATH-WARRANT.
35
tion of a lover, the distaste which would
have sunk into mere indifference had he
kept at a distance, immediately ripens
into disgust, disgust to aversion, aversion
to loathing, till, if fate forces him upon
her as a husband, the grave itself would
seem a happy refuge from the odious
union.
CHAPTER VIII.
signing her death-warrant.
"Go with me to a notary; seal me there
Your single bond, and in a merry sport,
If you repay me not on such a day,
In such a place, such sum, or sums as are
Expressed in the condition, let the forfeit
Be nominated for an equal pound
Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken
In what part of your body pleaseth me."
Merchant of Venice.
Next day, as the time for Mr. Hen-
low's visit approached, Mildred's nervous¬
ness increased to a painful degree, and
when at the appointed hour his knock
was heard at the door, it sounded like a
death-knell on her heart. But her mind
was fully made up, and she was not a
person to recede when her resolve was
once taken. Though she did not love
Mr. Henlow, neither was she in love
with any one else, and therefore con¬
science acquitted her of any wrong toward
him, at least, in taking upon herself
the obligations of a loveless marriage.
Glancing a moment toward the bed upon
which her father lay, as if to strengthen
her courage for the coming ordeal, she
hurried on down to the drawing-room,
not daring to give herself time to reflect
upon what she was about to do.
Mr. Henlow's talents were not of the
kind to make a man shine in ladies' so¬
ciety, or to help him out under embar¬
rassing circumstances ; and asking a
woman to be one's wife is a little embar¬
rassing to most men, especially when
they try it for the first time. Mr. Hen-
low, though disturbed by no scruples as
to the delicacy of the course he was pur¬
suing, still felt the situation an extremely
awkward one. Ile was not a graceful
man, to begin with, and in spite of his
conscious merit, an uncomfortable sense
of Mildred's superior culture oppressed
him, and kept him from feelingmt ease
in her presence. He advanced a step or
two as she entered, then retreated, ad¬
vanced and retreated again, before he
could make up his mind whether to shake
hands or not, and finally, as Mildred
settled the question in the negative by
bestowing upon him a very formal in¬
clination of the head, he disposed of
himself on the nearest chair, and after
some delay, proceeded to remark that the
weather was very warm. Mildred as¬
sented, and then there was an ominous
pause. The errand upon which he had
come was odious to Mildred, and she was
determined not to help him out with it.
Mr. Henlow crossed his legs once, then
crossed them over the other way,—a
movement habitual with him in critical
or embarrassing situations,—and after
some little effort to collect his ideas, next
proceeded to inquire after the health of
the family. Mildred answered with the
usual formula, but the tremor in her
voice did not escape Mr. Henlow, as she
added, with a vague hope of inducing
him to shorten his visit, that her father
was extremely ill. Mr. Henlow crossed
his legs over the other way, and having
got fairly started now, found less diffi¬
culty in bridging over those awful
chasms that Mildred's persistent brevity
kept constantly making in the conversa¬
tion.
" I didn't think he would ever get over
his troubles," said Mr. Henlow in an
oracular tone, " but at his time of life
you can't expect a man to hold out much
longer any way, so you mustn't take it
too much to heart. These bereavements
must come to all of us some time in our
lives, but it don't do any good to give
way too much to your feelings ; I never
do ; it ain't right. A person ought al¬
ways to consider what's right, and act
by that, without regard to their own
feelings; that's the way I do."
Mildred made no reply whatever to
this sage admonition, and another em¬
barrassing pause succeeded. Mr. Hen¬
low crossed his legs and uncrossed them
several times ; and at last, finding there
was absolutely no help to be gained from
Mildred, made a desperate plunge and
came abruptly to the real object of his
visit, by observing, after a longer silence
than usual,—
" You got my letter yesterday, I sup¬
pose?"
" Yes," was the laconic reply, and an¬
other of those inevitable pauses ensued.
This was without exception the most
troublesome piece of business Mr. Hen¬
low had ever undertaken. Nevertheless,
after shifting himself uneasily on his
chair several times, he made another
step.
36
A MERE ADVENTURER.
"Have you considered my proposal?"
he asked, in the same tone in which he
would discuss a trade for a bale of Osna-
burgs.
" I have," was the curt rejoinder, "and
am ready to submit to it on one condi¬
tion."
Mr. Ilenlow wondered what right a
woman in Mildred's situation had to be
talking about conditions, but he gra¬
ciously asked to hear her terms.
" That you give me one year," said
Mildred, " and if during that time I can
by any means pay back the money you
have lost through my brother's fault,
both he and I shall be forever released
from all obligations to you ; but, if the
money is not paid, then I agree to yield
myself as satisfaction for the debt and
become your wife."
It was a useless condition. She had
no hope of paying the money in one year,
nor in ten, nor twenty, but there would
at least be a respite, and she felt that un¬
less the horror of consummation was
softened a little by delay she could not
have the courage to pledge herself. In
a year many things might happen,—at
least, she might die.
Mr. Ilenlow did not regard the pro¬
posal favorably.
" What's the use of trying to pay back
the money," he answered, " when you
can settle the matter so easily without?
And then you forget Ilazelhurst and
the fifty thousand dollars I have agreed
to settle on you ; it ain't every day a
woman has such an offer as that."
" But I don't want your money, Mr.
Henlow," Mildred answered, with a touch
of irrepressible scorn in her voice ; " and
I would have you understand from the
beginning that if I consent to mari-y you
at all, it will only be to save my brother
from exposure,—to spare my father the
one pang more that his public disgrace
would occasion."
Mr. Henlow had been perfectly aware
of this before. Mildred's motive did not
concern him in the least, provided only
she would yield to his wishes, and instead
of being wounded or offended by her de¬
claration, he gathered from it the true
source of his power. There was a touch
of quiet triumph in his voice, but he did
not mean to be brutal, as he replied,—
" Then you might as well make up
your mind to it at once, for I suppose
you know that you can hope nothing for
your brother except through my gener¬
osity."
" I know, I know,—but at least give
me a little respite," Mildred answered,
imploringly. " I cannot bear it,—my
resolution will fail if you press me too
hard."
This was not very flattering certainly,
but Mr. Henlow's vanity, like his sensi¬
bility, was not easily wounded. He
thought it very unreasonable in a woman
to go on as Mildred was doing when the
proposal under consideration was so ob¬
viously to her advantage, but he remem¬
bered the shallowness of her sex, and
condescended to explain the matter to her
more fully.
" I don't think you have considered
the case clearly," he began, in an argu¬
mentative tone. " If I was a good-for-
nothing, trifling fellow, now, who couldn't
justly expect to make you happy ; if I
had no business capacity, for example, or
if my moral character was bad, you would
have some reason for wanting to put off
getting married ; or if I had proposed
any hard and mortifying condition,—if I
had turned you out of your home, or re¬
quired you to serve as saleswoman in my
store, you would have a right to object ;
but when everything I have proposed is
clearly for your advantage, when I have
shown myself influenced purely by a de¬
sire for your good, you ought to be able,
being a woman of sense, to see for your¬
self how much better off you will be when
married to me. There are many risks
and uncertainties in delay, and I am only
urging you to consult your own interest
in asking you to let the marriage take
place as soon as the necessary prepara¬
tions can be made."
" No, no, not yet!" cried Mildred, with
a shudder. " Let me have a little time
to nerve myself for it,—and a year is so
short," she added, imploringly.
" Well, even supposing I were to agree
to your conditions," said Mr. Henlow,
making one more effort to reason with an
irrational creature, " what chance have
you, a weak, helpless woman, without
means, without credit, without experi¬
ence, to raise ten thousand dollars in one
year ?"
" None whatever," she answered, de¬
spondently, " not even the shadow of a
hope. But give me one short year ; it is
not much to ask -when you are to have
all the rest of my life."
Mr. Henlow made some silent reflec¬
tions upon the strange idiosyncrasies of
women, about whom he reasoned entirely
from the specific stand-point, as men do
with regard to other inferior animals.
We never think of a mare or a hen being
SIGNING HER DEATH-WARRANT.
37
guided by individual character, but by
mare or hen instincts merely, and so, in
Mr. Henlow's eyes, Mildred Loring's in¬
comprehensible reluctance to marry him
was referable to some general proclivity
of the feminine mind.
However, twelve months was, after all,
a reasonably short time to a man who
had been keeping patient watch for as
many years. Mr. Henlow had none of
the ardor of a passionate lover, and as he
felt perfectly secure of his game, he had
no objection to a little delay, provided his
real end was not compromised. A little
actual experience of the evils of poverty
would have a more salutary effect, lie
thought, in bringing Mildred to her
senses than pages of mere argument, and
so, after a little consideration, he decided
that it would be better to yield a point
of no real consequence than to bother
longer with Mildred in her present frame
of mind.
"Well, I don't mind giving way to
women in trifles," he began, in a conde¬
scending tone, " but I'm a plain business
man, and there must be no room for mis¬
construction. I'll agree to wait on you
for a year if you will consent to go with
me to my lawyer's and sign, in his pres¬
ence, a written agreement that one year
from date, unless the ten thousand dol¬
lars forged by your brother is paid back,
with interest, you will marry me, and I
will pledge myself, on my part, not to
expose his guilt. In matters of business,
you know, it is always safest to have
everything down in black and white, so
that there can be no shuffling nor chang¬
ing on either side."
It could make little difference to Mil¬
dred whether she gave a written security
or not. Truth and fidelity were the
foundation-stones of her character, and
her word- once pledged was the strongest
engagement that could bind her. A
promise once given was as sacred in her
eyes as a vow to heaven, and if Mr. Hen-
low had been capable of understanding
such a character, he would have known
that he needed no other security than
her unfettered word. A man of the
strictest integrity himself, it is strange
that he should have been unable to rec¬
ognize the same quality in others, but
he was too self-centred to look for im¬
maculate virtue outside his own breast.
As for the indignity of requiring Mildred
to sign a written pledge in a matter
where a woman's plighted word has ever
been held the most sacred of pledges,
Mr. Henlow understood nothing of all
that, and Mildred did not think it worth
while to explain. There was one thing,
however, which she felt herself bound in
honor to make him fully appreciate before
entering into any contract with her. Ile
must understand clearly beforehand the
feelings with which she plighted her
troth to him. Anything like fraud or
deception was utterly repugnant to her
nature, and even when stooping to sell
herself, she would not conclude the bar¬
gain without letting the purchaser know
the exact value of the article he was
to receive. She felt that she was keep¬
ing back something, and though her
affections were probably a matter of small
consequence to Mr. Henlow, it was in¬
cumbent on her all the same to make him
aware of the reservation.
" I am ready to sign the pledge you
desire, Mr. Henlow," she said, in a low,
firm voice, " if there is no other way to
purchase your forbearance, but before I
do so, it is only fair to let you know that
if nothing should happen within a year
to release me from my engagement, and
you should still desire to hold me to it,
you will be choosing for your wife a
woman who can never feel one particle of
affection for you. I can only pledge you
my hand,—the heart it is not in my
power to control."
"You ain't in love with anybody else,
are you?" asked Mr. Henlow, with un-
mincing plainness.
" If I were," answered Mildred, indig¬
nantly, " I would not pledge you even
my hand."
" Then it'll all come right in time,"
said Mr. Henlow, complacently. " When
you are once safely married, and see for
yourself how much better off you are and
how much I can do for your happiness,
you will like me well enough. A woman
can't help loving a man who makes her
happy."
" Do not deceive yourself, Mr. Hen¬
low," replied Mildred, firmly. " I tell
you plainly you can never make me
happy, and I can never, never love
you."
The grasp of the Cephaloptera never
relaxed.
" You can't tell what may happen in
the future," replied Mr. Henlow, in his
most oracular tone. " I am not asking
you for the extravagant devotion people
read about in novels, where women get
their notions of love, for I never did be¬
lieve in that sort of stuff. I never read a
piece of poetry or a novel in my life, and
so I've kep^my head clear of all that
38
A MERE ADVENTURER.
nonsense. What you need is to give way
less to feeling and be governed more by
reason. If you would look at things
right you would soon learn to feel as I
do. Mutual respect and esteem are much
surer foundations for the happiness of
the married state than any of your fanci¬
ful notions about being in love, which
will soon pass away and leave nothing
but disappointment behind. I only ask
you to do your duty as a wife, and I
promise in return to do my part as a hus-
oand ; and then, when you see how faith¬
fully I consult your interest and happi¬
ness in everything, it will be your own
fault if you don't learn to love me. No
woman can hold out long against a man
when she sees that he is doing everything
for her good, and you ought to be satis¬
fied by this time how entirely I have
Îour interest at heart in everything I do.
have already given up ten thousand
dollars without a word, just to save your
feelings, and I have promised to settle
fifty thousand dollars on you besides the
day we are married, and to provide for
your family as long as any of them need
help,—and even that don't cover all I
intend to do for you."
Mr. Ilenlow was ordinarily a man of
few words, but when he once did get
fairly wound up on any favorite topic, he
could grind on as persistently as any self-
regulating machine when freshly oiled and
started. As the recital of his own good
deeds was not a less attractive topic to
Mr. Ilenlow than it is to most of us, he
would probably have gone on for some
time longer if Mildred had not inter¬
rupted him.
" Do what you will, Mr. Henlow," she
exclaimed, impatiently, "but you cannot
buy love with money,—no, not if you
had millions where you now offer thou¬
sands."
This was a statement Mr. Henlow
could not comprehend. Ile reflected a
moment, then answered in that slow, de¬
liberate, slightly nasal tone of his, which
added so much to the impression of
heaviness created by his Boeotian utter¬
ances,—
"Well, I am not afraid to trust my
happiness to your hands, anyway. I
have such confidence in your high moral
character, that I believe you would make
a man a good and faithful wife even if
you didn't love him."
The stolid insensibility of this remark
left no room for reply.
"Very well," said Mildred, making no
effort to conceal her disgust. " You are
going into the bargain with your eyes
open, and cannot reproach me with hav¬
ing deceived you when you discover in
the future what it is to have married a
wife who does not love you."
There was nothing more to be said,
and Mr. Henlow, always prompt and
ready for business, proposed that they
should drive to the city at once and con¬
clude the contract. Iiis carriage was
waiting at the door, and Mildred, seeing
no reason to delay about a mere form
when the decision that sealed her fate
was already made, put on her bonnet,
and merely leaving word for her family
that she had gone to the city on business,
quietly accompanied Mr. Henlow to the
carriage.
"I have one thing more to add," she
said, pausing with one foot on the step,
while Mr. Henlow held open the door.
" It is that during the year of respite al¬
lowed me I am to be perfectly free. You
are not to press your attentions upon me,
nor to claim any of the privileges of a
lover."
As Mr. Henlow had always understood
that courting was rather a troublesome
and expensive business, interfering much
with a man's regular occupations, he had
no special objection to this arrangement ;
and as neither of them had any further
conditions to impose in this singular
courtship, they entered the carriage to¬
gether, and drove in silence to the office
of Mr. Henlow's attorney.
There were two men talking with the
lawyer when they went in, but the
strangers politely gave way to the lady,
and, with well-bred reserve, retired to the
farther end of the room while she trans¬
acted her business.
Mr. Henlow and the lawyer conversed
together for a few minutes in an under¬
tone, after which the latter proceeded to
write something with a scratchy pen, ap-
Eealing to Mr. Henlow now and then, as
e wrote, for a name or a date. When
he had finished he rose, and handed
Mildred the paper, and even his stolid
legal countenance betrayed a touch of
curiosity as he watched her face while
she lifted her veil and read.
She looked over the paper hastily, then,
hardly daring to give herself time to re¬
flect, she seized the pen that was offered
her, and, before she well knew how it
came about, the deed was done.
As she raised her eyes after signing
the fatal bond she encountered the gaze
of one of the strangers fixed upon her
"Cith a look of wondering compassion.
MILDRED'S PROSPECTS IMPROVE A LITTLE.
39
He was a tall, handsome fellow, of some
eight-and-twenty or thereabouts, with a
bright, joyous countenance that did not
look as if it had ever been crossed by a
care. A faint blush overspread Mildred's
face as their eyes met, and, instantly
dropping her veil, she hurried out of the
office, followed by Mr. Henlow.
The strangers came forward as she
retired.
" That woman looked as if she were
signing her own death-warrant," said the
companion of the one whose gaze Mildred
had encountered. " What do you think
of that face, Rex?"
The person addressed as Rex made no
reply. He was gazing with all his might
after the carriage into which Mildred had
entered, and apparently did not hear the
remark of his companion. He watched
the vehicle till it had rolled out of sight,
then turning to the lawyer, asked, ab¬
ruptly,—
"Who is she?"
The lawyer smiled a tight, corked-up
smile, and began slowly replacing some
papers he had taken from a packet on the
table.
" That," he answered, at last, as he tied
up his bundle with the proverbial red
tape, " is one of the victims of the famous
Magnolia Bank swindle. A few weeks
ago she was the richest heiress in the
State ; to-day she has just signed away
her title to the last thing on earth she
possessed."
"And her name,—what is it? where
does she live?" asked Rex, eagerly; but
before he could receive an answer a cab
drove furiously up to the door, and an
excited voice called out,—
"Halloo, there, Yan Dorn! we've got
just four minutes and a half to catch the
train."
Yan Dorn seemed disposed to wait for
an answer to his question, but his com¬
panion started forward at the summons
from without.
" Come, come, Yan Dorn, there is no
time for fooling," he cried, giving the
dilatory Rex a shove that nearly took him
off his feet, and the next moment they
were whirling along at a furious pace
towards the train that was already heard
screaming in the distance.
Immediately upon returning home
Mildred went to her father's room.
There lay the patient, suffering face on
its pillow, and the dying eyes tttrned to
her as she entered with the same wistful,
pleading look that had haunted her so
long. Mildred felt that she would almost
have pledged her soul to bring back the
light of hope to those faded eyes once
more.
"Father," she said, kneeling beside
him and hiding her face on his pillow,
that he might not suspect, from its deadly
pallor, at what cost the boon had been
purchased. " Let your heart be at rest,
father ; Mr. Henlow will spare Roger ;
I have his written pledge."
A faint smile lit up the old man's
features for the first time since the cloud
had fallen upon his house.
" What is that, my child ? Are you
sure ?" he asked, eagerly.
" As sure as that I am kneeling here."
" May God bless him—and you !" He
laid his feeble hand on her head, and his
last act was to invoke a blessing upon it.
The next morning the old man was dead.
CHAPTER IX.
Mildred's prospects improve a little.
" Hasc studia adolescentiam alunt, senectutem ob-
lectant, secunda« res ornant, adversis perfugiurn ac
solatium prœbent; delectant domi, non impediunt
foris, pernoctant nobiscum, peregrinantur rustican-
tur."—Cicero.
The next few days were a time of
melancholy stir and confusion at Hazel-
hurst. There was a muffled tread of
busy feet through the old-fashioned cor¬
ridors, and voices hushed to a solemn
whisper held anxious consultation about
the funeral.
The death of Mr. Loring had made a
great sensation in the city, and follow¬
ing, as it did, so close upon the financial
disaster that had overwhelmed him, was
generally attributed to grief at the loss
of his fortune, the other and more bitter
sorrow that had befallen him being un¬
known to the public. One of the morn¬
ing papers, in a sensational notice of the
event, went so far as to hint at suicide,
but that rumor was quickly silenced by
the friends of the family,—their disaster
being too recent as yet for all the friends
of their prosperity to have disappeared.
Indeed, there is a certain dismal éclat
about any signal instance of misfortune
that invests the victims of it with a sort
of temporary importance as conspicuous
objects of sympathy, and causes them to
be courted for their very sorrow's sake
so long as there is anything new to learn
40
A MERE ADVENTURER.
or tell regarding them. There are some
people who enjoy the lugubrious excite¬
ment of a funeral above all things, and
who delight especially to figure as friends
of the family on such occasions. They
bustle about with officious importance,
wearing faces of set solemnity, which
they put on for the nonce, like their black
gloves or their funeral badges. They
love to be consulted about the smallest
details ; they profess themselves the au¬
thorized interpreters of the wishes of the
family, the only legitimate channel of
communication between the uninitiated
vulgar outside, and that closed, mysteri¬
ous chamber, where the mourners for the
dead sit apart in all the sacredness of
grief.
The present occasion was one of pecu¬
liar enjoyment to all lovers of the lugu¬
brious. Besides the tragic interest that
centred round the family, there was the
additional attraction of mystery in regard
to Roger's sudden disappearance, for
though no efforts had been made to bring
the criminal to justice, or even to dis¬
cover his hiding-place, and though the
family accounted plausibly enough for
his absence by the conveniently indefi¬
nite statement that he had " gone West,"
still society would not content itself with
this simple solution of the matter. Of
the real nature of his offence nothing was
known,—Mr. Ilenlow, true to his prom¬
ise, having kept that an inviolable secret,
—nevertheless, a strong suspicion per¬
vaded the public breast that there was a
delicious bit of scandal in the back¬
ground, of which it had been unjustly
defrauded. It was forced to content
itself, however, with vague surmises.
Roger's fate remained a sealed mystery,
and it was not till months afterward that
even his own family obtained any clue
as to his whereabouts.
The sudden downfall of a family of
such wealth and influence must, under
any circumstances, have produced no
small sensation in the circle where they
had held a sort of social autocracy for
generations. The misfortunes of the
Lorings were, for the moment, the all-
absorbing topic in the society where they
had moved, and public curiosity invested
with a sort of reflected importance all
who were supposed to be in the confi¬
dence of the sufferers. There had not
been time, as yet, for them to drop en¬
tirely out of their former sphere and sink
into the oblivion and nothingness which
is the inevitable doom pronounced by
society against those who can no longer
minister to its pleasure. On the con¬
trary, it was quite the fashion just now
to be overflowing with sympathy and
compassion for the aristocratic sufferers
at Ilazelhurst, and society was busy get¬
ting into its carriage to pay visits of con¬
dolence, and find out, if it could, all
about " those poor Lorings." The grand
old mansion was thronged for the time
with condoling friends. Mrs. Macouley
appeared conspicuous in an elegant new
suit of half-mourning, looking very orac¬
ular, and bewailing the dreadful event
as pathetically as if her husband had
been the chief victim, instead of the
chief perpetrator, of the swindle that
had plunged so many families into irre¬
trievable ruin.
Really, she didn't wonder that the
poor old gentleman had not been able to
survive it. It was a dreadful thing to be
overwhelmed with such misfortunes. Mr.
Macouley seemed almost distracted him¬
self. She really feared he would have
been tempted to do something dreadful
if she had not exerted herself so to cheer
him up. It was a mercy his poor sister
had died before it all happened ; she
never could have borne it,—never. Here
Mrs. Macouley's handkerchief went to
her eyes, and her voice grew so tremu¬
lous that, if you hadn't known her, you
would have thought she was really cry¬
ing. However, she soon recovered from
her little outburst, and went on : "As
for Fanny and Leroy, they would be an
additional weight on poor Mr. Macouley's
hands, for, of course, he could not see
his sister's children suffer. Dear Bon¬
ner, he was always so generous. It was
very hard on him, in his reduced circum¬
stances, when their only means of sup-
Sort for their own family was the trifle
Ir. Macouley had settled on herself and
the children. It needn't have been so
bad if Mildred had done her duty, and
kept together what she had for the use
of her own family, instead of throwing
it away so recklessly for the sake of a
mere sentiment ; but there were some
people in this world that never thought
of anybody but themselves, and Mildred
had been thoroughly spoilt by her father.
She had no mental balance, and there
was no telling what she would do next.
It would be no wonder if she were to
take to the stage, or study one of the
professions, or do some other dreadful
thing to mortify her friends."
So spake the Macouley oracles, and so¬
ciety echoed their words.
It was the policy of the Macouleys and
MILDRED'S PROSPECTS IMPROVE A LITTLE.
41
their accomplices, as it is of highly moral
swindlers in general, to represent them¬
selves as chief sharers in the ruin they
had caused ; and though the pretence was
a transparent one, and society had all the
time a shrewd suspicion that they had
lined their own pockets well in the trans¬
actions that had brought ruin on all the
other stockholders of the bank, still, as
they entertained well, and offered society
a liberal share of their stolen goods by
contributing in various ways to its pleas¬
ure, society, in return, considerately shut
its eyes, and kept its opinions to itself.
If they had committed a vulgar theft,
now, and got caught at it and sent to
the penitentiary, like the wretch who
stole a loaf to keep his children from
starving,—that would have been a very
different thing, and society would have
a right to be scandalized ; but quietly to
transfer the property of others to your
own pockets by a clever operation in
stocks,—society has nothing whatever to
say against that. It is none of its busi¬
ness to inquire how people get their
money, provided they spend it liberally.
Rem;
Si possis recte ; si non, quocunque modo rem.
It was many days before Mildred could
rouse herself from her grief sufficiently
to reflect upon the situation or make any
plans for the future. When death invades
a house, all other sorrows are swallowed
up for the moment in the one over¬
whelming catastrophe, and it is only by
slow degrees that the unhappy bereaved
ones can recover from the shock for
which no amount of warning can ever
fully prepare us. Mildred knew that
henceforth all was changed for her, and
the future seemed so dark and desolate
that she hardly had courage, as yet, to
look it in the face.
The first step to be taken was to leave
Hazelhurst and seek an humbler home.
It was like tearing out her heart by the
roots to leave the old place, but there was
no help for it. Mr. Loring's estate was
utterly insolvent, and as her own prop¬
erty had been voluntarily sacrificed to
meet his obligations, there was nothing
left to pay even the interest on the mort¬
gage that Mr. Henlow held upon Hazel¬
hurst. Mildred had reasons of her own
for not wishing to incur fresh obligations
to Mr. Henlow, and so determined to
settle the matter by leaving ILtraelhurst
and giving him full possession of the
property.
Mr. Henlow behaved magnificently.
He wrote to Mildred, desiring her to re¬
main at Hazelhurst just as if nothing
had happened, and not to worry herself
about the mortgage. Money was no ob¬
ject to him, he added, with characteristic
indelicacy, where her happiness was con¬
cerned, as he hoped he had already proved
to her. He consulted her good alone, he
declared, in everything, and desired her
to call upon him for whatever she might
need as freely as if they were already
married.
This letter settled Mildred's determina¬
tion, and she replied in a short curt note,
informing Mr. Henlow that as soon as the
necessary arrangements could be com¬
pleted Hazelhurst would be vacated by
its present occupants and placed entirely
at his disposal.
This step being once decided upon,
Mildred did not have to deliberate long
upon the course she was to pursue next.
The Macouleys had offered Fanny a
home, and as self-help was a word
utterly unknown to her, she did not
scruple to accept charity—or should we
not rather call it restitution ?—at the
hands of those who had robbed her.
Fanny had always been fond of her
uncle's family, and as the Macouleys
really were very good-natured sort of
people, and noted for their generosity,
she had every prospect of being happy
with them. To Leroy, also, his uncle
had generously offered, in place of the
fortune of which he had robbed him, a
position in the office he was going to
open on Wall Street, with board and a
salary of twenty-five dollars a month,—
and who could say, in the face of all
this, that Bonner Macouley was not a
model of generosity and disinterested¬
ness? Society nodded its head approv¬
ingly, and declared that Macouley was a
real good fellow after all, and deserved
great credit for being so attentive to his
poor relations.
The younger children being thus pro¬
vided for, temporarily, at any rate, Mil¬
dred did not feel much concern about
herself. She had contrived through all
difficulties to continue her contribu¬
tions to the Metropolitan with tolerable
regularity, and her woi-k, being well re¬
ceived and well paid for, had supplied
her necessities thus far, and left her a
little spare cash besides, to live upon
while looking for more regular employ¬
ment. The income of a mere guerrilla
in the literary service is always more or
less fluctuating and uncertain, and Mil¬
dred was beginning to fear that she had
42
A MERE ADVENTURER.
acted too hastily in declining the respect¬
able position of schoolmistress, for which
she had formerly applied, when fortune
came once more to her aid.
Her contributions to the Metropoli¬
tan, prepared with care and industry, had
made such a favorable impression at head¬
quarters, that upon the retirement about
this time of one of the editors, the vacant
place, with a salary of eighteen hundred
dollars, was offered to Mildred. The
business of her predecessor, which she
was to continue, had pertained chiefly
to literary matters, book reviews, criti¬
cisms, etc., a department for which Mil¬
dred's extensive literary culture peculi¬
arly fitted her, and as it required little or
no night-work, the post seemed specially
suited to one of her sex. The fact of
her being a woman was not yet suspected
at headquarters, as was evident from the
conventional " Dear Sir" with which the
editor's letter to her began, but as she
had already proved herself by actual ex¬
periment capable of performing the duties
required of her, she did not hesitate to
accept, without going into explanations,
the position tendered her so opportunely.
There is, perhaps, no human triumph
comparable, in the pleasure it affords, to
a first assured success in any literary
calling, because there is none so flattering
to self-respect, or so gratifying to a just
pride. It gives a sense of inherent
power,—a something within ourselves
and of ourselves that is not justified by
those grosser successes of life where
chance and opportunity play so large a
part. There is nothing base or grovelling
about the money earned by a man's
brain. The dollars of the drudging
tradesman, of the shrewd speculator, are
measures of his earthiness, but to the
author or the artist, every dollar he earns
is a tangible estimate of brain-power, a
token of homage from the lower world
of money to the higher world of art, and
better than all, a certificate of something
within himself that commands his own
respect and kindles a generous enthusi¬
asm for what is highest and best in man.
It is true some literary work, so called,
may be very dirty work, and the dollars
earned by some authors and editors may
be very dirty dollars,—worse than the
gains of the dishonest speculator or
fraudulent tradesman, but for all that it
still remains true that literature, in its
highest and best sense, iç the calling in
which man's intellectual nature finds its
greatest expansion, and it is also true,
in the present status of modern journal¬
ism, that the best class of newspapers
are no mean representatives of the liter¬
ary development of the age.
But there were no stirrings of ambi¬
tion in Mildred's breast. She knew that
she had not the genius to become really
great or famous, nor did she care for
those things now. A new hope sprung
up in her heart,—a hope not born of
fame or of gain, but a hope of freedom,
dearer than either. With eighteen hun¬
dred a year assured and what she might
add to it from other sources, it seemed
not too preposterous to hope that in a
year she might be able to make such a
showing as would warrant some generous
friend in advancing, on the security of
her future labors, the ten thousand dol¬
lars necessary to ransom her from Mr.
IIenlow'8 power. True, it was a forlorn
hope at best, but the drowning will catch
at a straw. Alas for the vanity of human
hopes ! Who could have told that where
Mildred was anxiously looking for a door
of escape, there she was to find only the
entrance to a lower depth of woe !
CHAPTER X.
A FAMILY QUARREL.
Petbuchio.—Oh Kate, content thee ; prythee be not
angry.
Katharina.—I will be angry ; what hast thou to do?
Taming of the Shrew.
Ror expressed great disapprobation
when informed of Mildred's intention to
embark in the unwomanly calling of
journalism ; it was almost as bad as if
she had undertaken to be a lawyer or a
doctor. He held the rigid ideas of female
propriety usually entertained by sages
of his years, when the future president
or commander-in-chief, as he believes
himself, first begins to enjoy the inesti¬
mable privilege of going out o'nights, and
to display his superiority over the com¬
mon herd of mankind by talking a little
watery skepticism now and then, to the
horror of maiden aunts and other plain
honest folk to whom such ideas are an
impious novelty. He was very incredu¬
lous as to any woman's having the
capacity to perform what Mildred
had undertaken, and when his doubts
on that score were silenced by the
irrefragable argument that she liad al
ready been employed on similar work for
A FAMILY
QUARREL.
43
three months or more,—in fact, her
whole life had been more or less devoted
to literary pursuits,—he began to hold
forth vehemently upon the general
naughtiness of women's invading the
sphere of the other sex, as if teaching
school and taking in sewing had been
marked out by some principle of nature,
immutable as the law of gravitation or
the correlation of forces, as the utmost
limit of independent female effort.
"You'll be wanting to go to Congress
next, I suppose," he concluded, testily,
" or set yourself up as a candidate for
the presidency, since you can't be content
to stay where you belong and live quietly
and decently like other women of your
rank."
Mildred only laughed at the hoy's
vehemence.
" What would you have me do, then,
Roy?" she asked, with mock deference.
" Suggest something better and I am
ready to follow your advice."
"Do? What are you to do?" answered
Roy, impatiently. " Why do—do—do
what other women do."
"And what is that?" asked Mildred,
with aggravating precision.
Roy reflected a moment, then answered,
ex cathedra, " Get married."
The smile faded from Mildred's lips as
she remembered the terrible bond she
was under to make those idle words of
Roy's a reality. Her family knew no¬
thing as yet of her compact with Mr.
Henlow, and she shrank from opening
to the thoughtless boy and girl before her
a misery with which she felt no human
heart could fully sympathize. Forcing
from her mind the unwelcome thought
Roy's words recalled, she resumed her
bantering tone, and continued to disgust
Roy by turning his sage admonitions into
a joke.
" You must first instruct me how to
carry out your advice," she said, with a
forced smile. " You forget that I can't
get married to myself ; you must first
find some man willing to take me."
" Pshaw, Mildred ! don't go to putting
on airs of mock modesty," returned Roy,
petulantly, who was in a mood just then
for taking everything in earnest. " There
is no use pretending not to know that
you have had more offers than any dozen
other women in the city."
"Have had is a verb in the p^st tense,
and you must remember that my attrac¬
tions are now diminished by several hun¬
dred thousand dollars," said Mildred,
with a touch of cynicism in her voice,
not warranted, perhaps, by her experi¬
ence.
"I don't care; you are as handsome
and as clever and as well-bred as ever,"
argued Roy, planting himself in front of
her and taking a critical survey of her
person.
Mildred's only reply was the line from
Horace,—
" Et genus, et virtus, nisi cum re, vilior algâ est."
" Now, Mildred, for goodness' sake,
don't go to spouting Latin !" cried Roy,
turning from her with a peevish jerk.
" It sounds awfully pedantic, and you'll
scare all the fellows away, sure enough,
if you let them hear you talking like a
blue-stocking."
" Rule 1st. Do not quote Latin. Now
favor me with some further instructions
in the important art of capturing a hus¬
band," said Mildred, beguiled, in spite
of herself, into a genuine laugh at the
boy's comic earnestness.
" Stay at home and mind your own
business,—there's the proper rule for all
women," growled Roy, piqued beyond
endurance at Mildred's incorrigible per¬
versity.
" There are two small difficulties in the
way of my observing that rule," said
Mildred, in a more serious tone. " The
first is, I have no home to stay at,—we are
to leave Hazelhurst next week, you know ;
and, secondly. I have no business of my
own to mind except that newspaper busi¬
ness which you consider so objectionable."
" Well, then, go live with some of your
family, and let them take care of you till
you can marry, and don't go strutting
about the streets of New York writing
trash for newspapers, and talking poli¬
tics like some of those strong-minded
women."
" My engagements with the Metro¬
politan don't include either strutting or
talking politics that I am aware of,"
answered Mildred, beginning to laugh
again ; " but I cannot follow the first
part of your suggestion for the very good
reason that I have no friends to go to,—
none, at least, in a situation to take care
of me."
" You have got me," answered Roy, in
the tone in which Caesar might have
pronounced his famous "Qntd times?
Cœsarem vehis."
I' You simple child," said Mildred,
going up to him and patting his cheek
caressingly, " what could you do towards
providing for me, with your poor little
44
A MERE ADVENTURER.
twenty-five dollars a month? "Why, Roy,
that will hardly keep you in shirt-collars
and pocket-handkerchifefs."
" Oh, but that is only temporary,"
said Roy, mollified by his sister's caress
even into overlooking the indignity of
being treated like a boy. " Of course 1
am going to do ever so much better than
that."
"I hope so, in time; but when, and
how ?"
This was an inconvenient question.
" Oh, well, I can't tell exactly," he
answered, carelessly. " You musn't be
so particular; a 'feller' can't know
everything at once. But I mean to do
something some time or other, so there's
no need for you to bother."
"And, in the mean time, I must do
something too," answered Mildred, who
considered the prospects held out by Roy
as rather too vague to be depended upon.
" I don't think, my boy, that your
prospects are sufficiently definite yet
awhile for me to throw away nearly two
thousand dollars a year on the strength
of them."
Fanny had been a silent witness of
this interview from the beginning. She
was secretly inclined to Roy's opinion,
but long habits of opposition made her
hesitate to join forces with the enemy.
However, when she saw Roy thoroughly
routed, she ventured to take the field on
her own account.
"Well, I do think, Mildred," she be¬
gan, in a protesting tone, " you show very
little consideration for your friends. You
are always doing something different
from other people. Aunt Clara says if
you go on making yourself so conspicu¬
ous, she is afraid you will cause the con¬
nection with you to be very unpleasant
for the rest of us."
" Your aunt need not disturb herself
on that account," said Mildred, with
difficulty restraining her impatience at
Fanny's childishness, " for I can assure
you Í shall not be forward in asserting
any connection with her family."
"But there are Roy and I," persisted
Fanny, more through want of sense, to
do her justice, than want of feeling.
"You ought to think how awkward it
will be for us, living with fashionable
people like the Macouleys, and going into
the very first society, to have our sister
doing things that "
" I can relieve you, also, of^any embar¬
rassment that may arise from acknowl¬
edging the relationship, if you desire it,"
answered Mildred, quickly, interrupting
her sister; then, checking herself, lest
she should say something that words
could not undo, she moved away to the
window, and a tear stole unbidden down
her cheek.
Leroy, who the moment before had
been opposing himself so strenuously to
Mildred's designs, could never resist the
temptation to break alance with Fanny,
and accordingly, no sooner had she shown
a disposition to range herself on his side
of the question than he forthwith deserted
to the enemy.
" Now, Fanny, that's just like some of
your nonsense," he began, with as much
assurance as if he had not himself, the
moment before, been giving utterance to
very similar nonsense, " to be turning up
your silly nose at Mildred because she is
going to make an honest living for her¬
self ; and as for our precious Macouley
kin, I think it would be much more to
their credit if they had worked for their
money instead of making it in the way
they did."
"That's just your way," answered
Fanny, pouting. " No matter what peo¬
ple begin talking about,.you always con¬
trive to lug in Uncle Bonner, and abuse
him as if he had been to the penitentiary."
" That's just where he would be if he
had his deserts," retorted Leroy; "but
the big thieves always get off. If it had
been some poor devil, stealing a mite to
keep his wife and children from starving,
he would have been clapped into jail
quick enough ; but a plausible old scoun¬
drel, who is sharp enough to make a big
haul, can always find means to bring
justice over to his side."
" Why, Roy, I am afraid you are turn¬
ing Radical, and will be advocating uni¬
versal suffrage and the ' rights of man'
next," said Mildred, playfully, as, forget¬
ting her own injuries, she returned to
Roy's side, intent upon restoring har¬
mony to their little circle once more.
" lie thinks of everybody's rights but
mine," said Fanny, in a persecuted tone.
" You are a woman, and oughtn't to
have any rights," answered Roy, laugh¬
ing.
" I wouldn't have any if you had your
way," retorted Fanny, unmoved by Roy's
returning good humor. " I'm to be only
a poor dependent on the Macouleys all
my life any way," she added, in a whim¬
pering tone, " and nobody will ever
regard my opinion."
" You needn't be a dependent if you
would go to work like Mildred and I
do," said Roy, complacently.
HOMELESS.
45
Fanny burst into tears, her usual re¬
source when all other tactics failed.
"You needn't be throwing that up to
me," she sobbed, " as if it was my fault.
I don't know how to work : I wasn't
brought up to it, and our property is all
gone, and all the hardships and miseries
of our lot must fall upon me. You and
Mildred know how to take care of your¬
selves, hut I can't do anything except
crochet tidies, and nobody will buy them,
and so I have got to be a poor hanger-on
of the Macouleys all my days."
Mildred's resentment against Fanny
died away completely at the first exhi¬
bition of real distress on her part. There
was a great deal of genuine affection be¬
tween the brother and sisters at bottom,
though they were not very forward about
making a show of it.
"No, no, my little sister," said Mil¬
dred, drawing her chair close to Fanny's
and putting her arm round the girl's
neck, " you shall not be dependent on
the Macouleys, if you don't want to, as
long as I have a crust to share with you.
I can't promise you the luxury you will
find in your uncle's home, Fanny; but,
if you are willing to lead a plain, quiet
life, and to do without fashionable so¬
ciety, my home, whatever and wherever
it may be, is open to you, and whatever
I can do for myself you are more than
welcome to share. It may be but a poor
living I can offer you, Fanny, for the
present, but at least it will be given
freely and ungrudgingly."
"I know that, Mildred, I know it!"
cried Fanny, melted by her sister's ten¬
derness, " but I can't, oh, I can't! You
will live in a poor way in some narrow
street that nobody ever goes to, and—I
know it's very mean and hateful in me,
Mildred, but I can't stand poverty,—in¬
deed I can't. I will have to be a con¬
temptible pensioner on the charity of the
Macouleys. It would be a great deal
nobler and better to go with you, I know
it would ; you are better than anybody
else, and I do love you, Milly dear,—
but I haven't got the courage you have,
and you mustn't be angry with me,
Mil."
" There, there, Fan, don't cry," said
Roy, coaxingly,' touched by his sister's
distress. "Just wait till I can do some¬
thing to restore the fortunes of the family,
and buy back Hazelhurst, and we'lksoon
be as comfortable and happy as ever."
Roy was by no means as savagely dis-
Eosed towards his sister as their frequent
ickerings would lead one to imagine,
and her grief really distressed him.
Fanny, however, did not seem at all
reassured by his consoling words, and
continued to weep as bitterly as if this
happy prospect of recovering home and
fortune had not been held out to her.
" Hush, hush, Fan, I wouldn't cry any
more," Roy continued, casting about in
his mind for fresh consolations. "You'll
get married some day, and that will set
everything right."
" I don't want to get married," blub¬
bered Fanny.
" But you will, though," answered
Roy, reassured by the little spirt of
temper in her voice; he felt that Fanny
was herself again as soon as she began
to quarrel. "You are a pretty little
thing, though you do get cross now and
then, and some fellow will want you yet
in spite of your poverty. Who knows
now, but Frank Meade may come back
from California, after all, with afortune?
Or perhaps you'll cut out Mildred yet
and catch old Henlow."
" I wish you would mind your own
business and let me alone !" screamed
Fanny, suddenly drying her eyes and
turning upon Roy in a blaze of anger.
" You are always saying something that
has no sense in it."
This was promising. Roy retorted in
kind, and in a few minutes the young
caballers had forgotten their troubles,
and were quarrelling away as comfort¬
ably as if nothing unusual had happened.
CHAPTER XI.
HOMELESS»
"Must I leave thee, Paradise? Thus leave
Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades
Fit haunt of gods ? Where I had hope to spend,
Quiet, thougli sad, the respite of that day
That must be mortal to us both."
Miltos.
The day of parting came at last ; a day
that was to try the souls of the new-made
exiles as they had never been tried before,
and bring them to a bitter realization of
what imagination had but dimly pic¬
tured. Fatherless, motherless, friend¬
less, are dreary words, God knows, but
the misery and desolation of the home¬
less those alone can tell who have turned,
forlorn and heartsick, from the hospitable
door that must henceforth be closed to
46
A MERE ADVENTURER.
them, as the gates of Paradise to fallen
man, strangers and wayfarers now on
the very threshold where once they were
greeted by a father's kiss and fondled on
a mother's knee. Homeless! Think,
you who sit in your warmly curtained
rooms with your household gods about
you, and take into your minds, if you
can, all the bitter meaning of the word.
To be shut out from light, and warmth,
and love ; to be cut off from life's sweet¬
est and holiest influences ; to be denied,
in short, all that earth has nearest to
heaven, and condemned to wander for¬
ever through the arid desert of life with¬
out one oasis, one single blade of verdure
to refresh the weary soul,—this it is to be
homeless.
But banishment brings with it a keener
pang when the wanderer is driven from a
noble old homestead that has sheltered his
family for generations. This is more than
a home : it is a temple, a shrine, a sanc¬
tuary. There are memories and associa¬
tions about such a place which do not
change hands with owners, and to which
money can never purchase a title. It is
these that endear it to the native lord of
the soil, and make the new owners seem
to him as aliens and intruders, no matter
how well their title may be secured by
legal documents. Money cannot buy
memories ; law cannot transfer the asso¬
ciations which bind a man to the home
of his ancestors, and make it "home" to
his heart forever by a title which no
human law can dissolve. The very soil
is holy ground to him. He cannot real¬
ize that the objects upon which he has
looked from childhood, till they have
grown like old familiar friends, can be
insensible to his affection, and he almost
feels that they must share his resentment
at the presence of the intruder. The
very trees seem to know him and nod
him a friendly welcome as he reposes
beneath their shade. But some day he
turns to go his way, a ruined exile from
the home of his fathers, and sees the old
walls freely extending to a stranger the
shelter that is denied to him who was
born within them, and the trees spread¬
ing their grateful shade over the usurper's
head, and the grass springing fresh and
green beneath his feet, and all nature
smiling as of yore; then with a bitter
sense of his own nothingness, deserted,
desolate, outcast, he feels in all its bitter
import the dreary meaning of the word
" homeless."
It was with heavy hearts and tearful
eyes that Mildred and Leroy Loring pre¬
pared to take a final leave of their child¬
hood's home. It was their last day at
Ilazelhurst,—the Hazelhurstof old times,
for Mildred dared not contemplate the
possibility of her future residence there
as Mr. Hen low's wife, a prospect which
made the thought of returning seem bit¬
terer than exile itself. Fanny had gone
the day before to her aunt, the servants
had all been discharged, and Roy was
only waiting, before joining his younger
sister in the city, to accompany Mildred
to the railroad station, where she was to
take the train to New York. Mildred
had on her hat and gloves, and was all
equipped for travelling, but there was
stiir a little time to spare, so they went
to take a farewell ramble together through
the old house before turning their backs
on it forever.
All was silent and deserted, and the
fall of their own footsteps startled them
with a strange, mournful echo as they
rang through the long, empty corridors.
There was a melancholy, gusty sound
among the trees outside, and the wind
whistled through the deserted chambers
and made the windows rattle till it
seemed as if the old house were shud¬
dering at its own desolation. Mildred
was weeping bitterly, and even Roy's
bright boyish nature yielded to the sad¬
dening influence of the occasion, and he
made no attempt to conceal the tears that
flowed undried down his rosy cheeks.
At such a time it does not take much to
provoke tears ; the sight of some familiar
object occupying still its accustomed
place: an untrimmed lamp, an open
book, a paper lying where some careless
hand had left it, is enough to call up a
flood of old associations and melt the
heart to tears.
The homeliest utensil, the humblest
article of household service, is invested
with a poetry of its own when sanctified
by recollections of the past ; and what
object was there at Ilazelhurst that did
not speak to the brother and sister of the
happy home that was now no more?
With their household gods broken and
scattered around them, soon to be dese¬
crated by the hands of strangers, they
found cause enough, aye, and more than
enough, for tears.
There was to be a public sale after
they had left, of the furniture and house¬
hold goods. The parlors and other apart¬
ments not in constant use were all dis¬
mantled, and their elegant furniture piled
in unsightly heaps over the floor; but
those portions of the mansion that had
HOMELESS.
47
been more recently occupied were left
still in their usual state. The old clock
still ticked in the hall, but sounded
strangely loud and solemn amid the
silence that reigned around. In one
room was a vase of flowers, hot-house
plants, that had been forgotten in the
general overturning and left there to
wither and die alone,—fit emblem of the
fortunes of her whose hand had gathered
them. In the library, which had scarcely
been opened since Mr. Loring's sickness
began, they found a pen, with the ink
caked and hardened around it, still stick¬
ing in the inkstand, as their father's
hand had left it. Mildred could not en¬
dure the sight.
" Oh, Roy !" she sobbed, giving way to
an uncontrollable outburst of grief. " I
can bear it no longer,—let us go."
They silently retraced their steps
through the vacant halls towards the front
door. They paused a moment as they
passed by the old sitting-room and looked
in. The ashes of yesterday's fire were
lying cold on the hearth, with chairs
drawn around where the brother and
sister had sat together for the last time
on the evening before. A basket of keys,
a withered geranium leaf, and two or
three newspapers, whose margins were
covered with unfinished diagrams and
rude outlines of machinery from Roy's
pencil, lay upon the centre-table, while
the old gray house-cat, looking very for¬
lorn and bewildered, was hovering over
the desolate hearth, vainly seeking for
the warmth and comfort of other days.
They called the creature to them, and
walked on in silence down the great,
lonesome hall, where the old clock ticked
with such a solemn sound. A gust of
wintry wind rushed in as Leroy opened
the front door, and went moaning
through the empty corridors like a great
wail of sorrow as the last heirs of Hazel-
hurst crossed for the last time the thresh¬
old of their ancestral home. They closed
the door and locked it, shutting in peace
and prosperity behind them : shutting
themselves out into the cold, bleak world.
It was a chill, raw day, towards the
close of November. The sky was gray
and cheerless, and a fine drizzling rain
was falling, that froze as it came down,
covering the earth with a cold, slçety
crust. The brown, dead leaves that lay
heaped upon the ground caught tfife icy
mist as it descended, and prevented it
from melting on the warm earth, so that
the feet, at every step, broke through the
thin, frozen crust and sank into the bed
of soft, wet leaves beneath. Overhead,
the tree-tops crackled in the wind as they
smote their frosty branches together, and
sent down, from time to time, little
showers of broken ice and frost-laden
twigs upon the heads of the lonely pe¬
destrians. The station was not far off,
and bleak as the day was, Mildred had
insisted upon walking, that her feet
might linger as long as possible on the
soil of Ilazelhurst. She was in that
state of despondency in which unre¬
strained grief is a luxury, and the heart
craves its indulgence as a relief.
At the end of the avenue they paused
in their walk to take a last look behind.
The gray old walls, just visible through
that lofty archway of leafless boughs,
drooping under their sleety burden,
looked cold and lifeless as some en¬
chanted castle ; yet with all its gloom and
loneliness it seemed to Mildred that the
old place had never looked so beautiful
and so grand.
While they stood there gazing sadly
back at their deserted home, a solitary
figure was seen shuffling across the frozen
lawn with eager steps, hurrying to over¬
take the loiterers. As the bent form
drew nearer they recognized one of their
old family servants, with a staff in his
hand and a wallet on his back, as if
equipped for a journey.
"Well, Uncle Moses, what do you
want?" asked Mildred, in a friendly
voice, as the old man halted and uncov¬
ered his head before her,—a head that
had grown white in the service of her
family.
" Nothin', Miss Mildred," he answered,
"'cept jest to see you and Mass Roy
once more."
Mildred was touched. " Put on your
hat, old uncle," she said, kindly, while
Roy considerately extended to the old
darkey the shelter of his own umbrella.
" You must not stand bare-headed in the
rain."
"'Tain't no matter what come o' old
Moses' head now, Miss Mildred," said
the old negro, ruefully, as he replaced
the battered beaver that covered his
thin, woolly locks. " Old Moses ought
to been dead 'fore de day come when he
go 'way from Ilazelhurst."
" What ! are you going away too,
Uncle Moses?" asked Mildred, with sur¬
prise. "I thought Mr. Ilenlow had
given you permission to remain in your
little cabin at Ilazelhurst as long as you
lived ?"
"Yes'm, so he did'm, but I couldn't
48
A MERE ADVENTURER.
stand it, Miss Mildred," said the old man,
wiping his eyes on his sleeve. " It don't
seem right for me to be livin' dar and my
massa's chillun turned out. I'se done
been in de family so long, till I can't
stand to see no stranger livin' at Hazel-
hurst."
Mildred was deeply moved at this evi¬
dence of the old negro's fidelity, yet, for
his own sake, she thought best to warn
him against too great devotion to a fallen
house.
" Yes, it's a sad change for us all, old
man," she said, kindly, " but you will get
used to it after awhile. The new owner,
I have no doubt, will be kind to you, and
you can hardly hope to find so comforta¬
ble a home anywhere else as you had at
Hazelhurst."
The old man shook his head.
"Ah, Miss Mildred," he answered,
sadly, "'tain't like home no longer, and
old Moses too old now to git used to new
things. My family has been servants to
yourn now for four gineration. It was
your father's great-grandfather what
bought my grandfather from the traders
that brought him out from his own coun¬
try, and your pa and me, we growed up
right here together. Ole master, your
grandpa, give me to him for his body-ser¬
vant when we was both not much better'n
babies, and many's the time him and me
has rode stick horses together when we
was boys, up and down this here very
avenue, and hunted squirrels yonder
among them very trees ; and if my chil¬
lun had a lived, they'd 'a been your
niggers to-day, Miss Mildred, all de same
as if there wasn't no freedom. I never
would 'a lef' de family I was borned in,
for nobody ; but now it's all changed :
Ilazelhurst's done gone to strangers,
Mass George is dead, an' it's time for ole
Moses to git ou ten de way too. I ain't
never see nobody but 'stocracy livin' at
Hazelhurst since I was born, and I ain't
a gwine to stay dar now an' see it in de
hands o' no upstarts."
" But what can you do, Uncle Moses ?
How can you live ?" asked Mildred, with
a painful sense of her own inability to
make suitable provision for the faithful
old servant.
"I'se done got a place," he answered,
proudly, " with Mr. Meade ; he's a gwine
to take me for his butler."
Mildred was sensible of the motive
that had induced Mr. Meade.—a man of
moderate fortune—to add to his house¬
hold a superannuated pensioner of her
own family, for whose services he could
have no real need, and she blessed him
for it in her heart.
" I am glad," she said, with a feeling
of satisfaction, " that you have found
such a pleasant home. The Meades are
excellent people, and will be very kind
to you."
"Yes'm, they's real gentlefolks, you
know, Miss Mildred," replied old Moses,
patronizingly, " an' I'se been used to
livin' wi' de quality all my life, and I
couldn't git along with no common trader
people like Mr. Ilenlow, what dunno no
better'n to be talking about changin' of
de shrubbery garden yonder into a yarb
garden for sellin' of vegetables to de city
market, as if Hazelhurst was any place
fur truckers ! It's a bad day, Miss Mil¬
dred, for more than themselves, when the
Lorings has to leave Hazelhurst; but I
trust de Lord'll bless you and Miss
Fanny too, and make you true Chris¬
tians, and give you both good husbands
at last."
Mildred could not help smiling at this
climax to the old man's good wishes, but
her smiles on that day had more of sad¬
ness in them than of mirth. She gave
him her hand in silence, and hurried
away with Roy towards the station.
There was no time to lose. They arrived
just as the train came thundering up to
the platform. Roy put his sister on
board, and the train went thundering on
again towards the great Babylon where
her fortune was now to be cast.
CHAPTER XII.
mildred accommodates herself to cir¬
cumstances.
"Quand on est pauvre, il ne faut pas être fier."
Octave Feuillet.
There was no time for Leroy to go on
board with his sister, so Mildred entered
the car alone. Two gentlemen, with the
tranquil; imperturbable air of experi¬
enced travellers, raised their eyes for a
moment, and directed a careless glance
towards the door as she entered, then one
of them immediately turned again to the
newspaper he was reading, but the other,
struck by something in Mildred's appear¬
ance, though he could not see her face
through the heavy crape veil in which it
was enveloped, suddenly chunked up his
MILDRED ACCOMMODATES HERSELF TO CIRCUMSTANCES. 49
companion, exclaiming in a startled whis¬
per,—
" By Jove, Harry, there she is!" An-1
before the latter well knew what he was
about he found himself hustled out of
his seat, and his companion politely in¬
viting the strange lady to occupy it.
"What the dickens is all this about,
Rex?" asked the person addressed as
Ilarry, after they had, with some diffi¬
culty, procured themselves accommoda¬
tion in another part of the crowded car,
" and who is that woman you are chunk¬
ing people out of their seats so uncere¬
moniously for?"
"Why, don't you know?" said the
enthusiastic Rex, scarcely moving his
eyes from the spot where the lady sat.
" It is she,—the one I told you about
that Frank and I saw in the lawyer's
office that day, signing the paper, you
know, when I came South to write up
that Chesapeake and Potomac Railroad
business for our paper."
" Pshaw! I thought it was some friend
of yours," growled Harry, who was not
very well content with his change of
quarters, " though I might have known
better," he added, laughing, " for it's
just like you, Van Dorn, to be making a
fool of yourself over some woman you
know nothing about."
" Hush, Lockwood, wait till you see
her face," answered Van Dorn, excitedly,
" and then say who's the bigger fool.
You can't tell what she looks like through
that confounded crape thing she's got her¬
self shrouded in, but she wasn't in mourn¬
ing then, and I saw her a minute with
her face unveiled, and, by heaven, Harry,
it was the loveliest countenance I ever set
my eyes upon ! So touching, too, in its
look of utter, hopeless misery,—it made
a fellow feel as if he would give his right
arm for the privilege of being her com¬
forter."
Lockwood laughed out at his friend's
enthusiasm.
"Well, Rex," he answered, after a
leisurely survey of the unconscious ob¬
ject of Van Dorn's admiration, "that is
a privilege which I dare say a good-
looking fellow like you could obtain
without much difficulty ; for my bottom
dollar on it she's a young widow, and
they are generally marvellously willing
to be consoled after the first few weeks."
Rex started, with an impatient gesture^
and fixed his eyes upon his friend.
" Confound you, Harry !" he muttered,
" what put that infernal suggestion into
your head?"
4
" Oh, well, she looks like a widow,"
replied the sagacious Harry, " and, be¬
sides, notice her mourning; you don't
often see anybody but widows shrouded
in such uncompromising weeds as those ;
it's a good advertisement, you see, that
they are in need of a consoler."
Rex did not echo his friend's laugh,
and an expression of annoyance came
over his handsome face as the reasonable¬
ness of young Lockwood's suggestion
forced itself upon his mind.
" The devil take you and your conjec¬
tures, too, Harry!" he said, in a tone of
irritation that was not altogether affected.
" A widow ! Ugh ! the idea of wasting
sentiment on a widow ! But, by Jove,
Harry, " he continued, more seriously,
" if you had but seen her that day,—her
look of haughty resignation, of proud
but hopeless despair,—such a look as a
fallen queen might ascend the scaffold
with ; I shall never forget it as long as I
live."
" No, and you seem determined not to
let anybody else forget it, either," an¬
swered Lockwood, with an unsympathetic
yawn, as he unfolded his paper and set¬
tled himself again for reading. " You
have been making a spooney of yourself
about that veiled wonder ever since you
first met her."
" Well, you know, Harry," replied Van
Dorn, apologetically, "when a fellow sees
a beautiful woman, and in such evident
distress, too, it does go to his heart,—he
can't help it."
" Especially if she is a young widow,"
returned Lockwood, still in his bantering
tone, " and, in all probability, breaking
her heart about some other fellow."
"No, but, by George, she wasn't a
widow then," cried Van Dorn, warmly,
" because she didn't wear mourning, and
the old fellow, the lawyer, said something
to us after she had gone about the great
misfortunes she had suffered in the loss
of property and the like, but not a word
about the loss of a husband."
"Oh, well, husbands, you know, are
secondary considerations to property,"
said Lockwood, dryly ; "and a widow,"
he added, with astute cynicism, " who has
lost her property isn't even a secondary
consideration ; a widow, Rex, is nothing
if she isn't rich."
Rex shrugged his shoulders.
" You go to the devil and take your
philosophy with you !" he muttered, as
he drew out his knife and commenced
absently cutting the leaves of a new
magazine. SomeJiow he did not relish
50
A MERE ADVENTURER.
Lockwood's jesting on this particular
subject, and, though half inclined to
laugh at his own enthusiasm, he was
half provoked, too, that anybody else
should laugh at it.
Meanwhile, the unconscious subject of
this sage discussion sat absorbed in her
own melancholy reflections, little dream¬
ing or caring that she was an object of
interest to any one. As the train moved
away from the depot, she had caught a
glimpse of Roy standing on the platform
watching it with a mournful look on his
young face. She thought of the poor
boy's lonely walk back to Hazelhurst, of
his melancholy drive to the city, where
he was to deliver the keys of the old
home to its new owner, and then he, too,
would go his way into the wide world,—
with what different prospects from those
to which he had always looked forward,
and with how little realization of the
difficulties that stand in the way of the
poor man's son ! Then, as a bend in the
road brought into view for the last time
the tall gables and chimneys of Hazel¬
hurst, she heard all around her murmurs
of admiration and wonder at the grand
old place, and people asking each other
whose property it was ; then she heard
some one on the next seat pronounce her
father's name, and a strange voice repeat¬
ing for the entertainment of strangers
the story of the downfall and ruin of her
family. Their grandeur was already a
thing of the past, and their name served
now only " to point a moral or adorn a
tale."
She strained her eyes after the rapidly
receding landscape till the last vestige of
Hazelhurst was lost in the wintry mist,
and then, bowing her head on the win¬
dow-ledge, she gave herself up in silence
to the luxury of unfettered grief. Still
the iron horse sped on, bearing her at
every turn farther and farther from the
spot to which her heart was bound by a
cord stronger than life itself.
As they advanced northward the land¬
scape became more bleak and wintry,
and a sheet of pallid snow replaced the
sleety rain that was driving among the
trees at Hazelhurst. Across the Poto¬
mac the busy, stirring life of the North
began ; that life whose intense activity,
whose restless excitement, straining ever
onward, yet never reaching its goal,
is at first so full of bewilderment, then
of strange, terrible fascination for the
slow-moving- but ardent-feeling South¬
erner ; that life whose stern disregard
of the individual in the relentless onward
march of the many, presents at once a
spectacle of terror and of grandeur ; that
life whose cold absorption of mind and
energy in a blind " struggle for exist¬
ence," intensified by the artificial neces¬
sities of an artificial civilization, oppresses
the stranger, accustomed to a more genial
social system, with a sense of his own
nothingness, that for the moment almost
fills him with despair.
To Mildred, however, at that time, all
surroundings were equally indifferent.
Sorrow is prone to seclusion, and where
is one ever more alone, more unheeded,
than in the world's great thoroughfares ?
Sorrow, too, in its bitterest moments, is
self-absorbed, and not one atom in all the
seething mass of humanity which goes
to make up what we call the travelling
public thought less or cared less, on
that day, for what was passing around
it than did Mildred Loring. Populous
cities lay thick along their route, but for
all she knew the way might have lain
through a wilderness. Busy travellers
came and went, sometimes pausing to
cast a look of cold curiosity at the veiled
and drooping figure, oftener passing by
as unconscious of her presence as she
was of theirs. With thoughts wandering
backward, peopling the deserted old home
with ghosts and phantoms of the dead
past, she journeyed on in silence toward
that new life where so much of stern
reality was awaiting her in the unknown
future.
On alighting at the Jersey City depot.
Mildred was overcome with a feeling of
helplessness and bewilderment unusual
to her self-reliant nature. Like most
Southern women of her rank in life, she
had seldom or never stirred from home
without the presence of a male protector,
and felt now sadly at a loss how to pro¬
ceed in the unaccustomed duty of taking
care of herself. Had the enthusiastic
Van Dorn been at hand, he would doubt¬
less have made use of the occasion to
venture an offer of assistance, which his
appearance and manner would probably
have caused to be accepted without hesi¬
tation, but he had been detained at
Washington City on business, and there
was no one else in the hurrying, panting
crowd that a New York express train
disgorges likely to concern himself about
an insignificant stranger.
Mildred's embarrassment, however,
was only momentary. She knew the
city well, and, giving her checks to an
express carrier, she crossed over at the
Courtlandt Street ferry and followed the
MILDRED ACCOMMODATES HERSELF TO CIRCUMSTANCES. 51
crowd into Broadway, where a few steps
brought her to an old-fashioned, quiet
hotel, frequented mainly by business
men and Southerners of the plain mer¬
chant class, among whom she was not
likely to meet any one personally known
to her. In her altered circumstances,
she had a morbid horror of encountering
the friends of more prosperous days, and
receiving at their hands the patronizing
condescension which society accords to
those from whom it has no longer any¬
thing to gain.
We may prate as we will about the
ignobleness of money as a basis of social
distinction, but under the present organi¬
zation of our social system no other
standard seems possible. It is all very
well to talk about an aristocracy of birth,
an aristocracy of intellect, of culture, of
morality, or what you will, and there
may be those of us who have our preju¬
dices, theoretically, in favor of such
things ; but for all that, the oligarchy of
wealth is the acknowledged power in so¬
ciety. Even in feudal England, where
birth has, perhaps, a greater influence
than in any other country, what is a
nobleman, even of the highest rank, if he
has not money to sustain the dignity of
his title ? It is the effect of the entail,
in keeping property in the same family
for generations, rather than the power of
blood or birth, that gives the English
nobility their influence. It is an ugly
fact, a fact which none of us like to look
squarely in the face, still less to admit
in its reflection upon ourselves, yet it
remains an undeniable fact that the social
standard of the nineteenth century is a
standard of money, and its aristocracy is
an aristocracy of wealth. The whole
tendency of the age is material ; its civ¬
ilization, its hopes, its aims, its aspira¬
tions, its progress, are all material. Life
becomes more artificial, the world more
luxurious every day, and those who can
minister to its taste for material pleasures
necessarily rise in importance.
Nor is society altogether in the wrong.
It is wealth long continued in the same
hands that gives culture and refinement
to its possessors ; it is wealth that minis¬
ters to the cultivated tastes of others, and
wealth that gives leisure for those num¬
berless and often onerous duties which
fashion imposes and which are necessary
to the existence of elegant society. It is
hardly fair to blame society if a man,
when he loses his fortune, drops oöt of
fashionable circles. His old friends may
be ever so willing to receive him, but he
has no longer the time nor probably the
inclination for the performance of social
duties and the cultivation of those little
arts and graces which are necessary as a
passport into the world of fashion. He
no longer has time to interest himself in
the gossip of his set ; he does not keep
au courant of the latest slang or the
newest dances ; gradually his mind is
turned away to other pursuits ; he has
no longer anything in common with his
former associates, and so, by degrees, he
is dropped out of their circle, not through
anybody's fault in particular, l5ut accord¬
ing to the established laws of social evo¬
lution, where "survival of the fittest"
may readily be interpreted " survival of
the richest." Or if he chooses to cling
to his former position, to grasp at the
shadow after the substance has left him,
he soon finds himself pledged to the im¬
possible task of serving two masters.
With the cares of business, the anxieties
and necessities of poverty pressing him
on one hand, and the scarcely less absorb¬
ing duties of society calling on the other,
the chances are that neither will receive
proper attention. Besides, the demands
of society are often expensive, and no¬
blesse oblige is a doctrine that fashion
rigidly enforces. A certain style of dress
and living, a certain liberality of expen¬
diture incompatible with a very slender
purse, are indispensable to one who
would move in the world of fashion on
terms of equality with those who give
tone to that world, and he who aspires
to a place in the glittering ranks of high
life, without the means of giving sub¬
stance to his claim, will find himself
forced to occupy a secondary place, driven
to the miserable expedients of a " sponge"
and "dead beat," or worse than all,
tempted into dishonesty. In any case,
he places himself in a false position, and
thus becomes an object of contempt.
Mildred Loring appreciated all these
things, and determined, when she lost
her fortune, to resign voluntarily a posi¬
tion which could not be maintained with
dignity without it. She was a woman
of solid good sense as well as of brilliant
accomplishments, and could adapt her¬
self readily and gracefully to her changed
fortune. Proud and self-reliant, she pre¬
ferred to assume at once the homely
character of a laboring woman to sinking
into the pitiful rôle of a shabby-genteel
aristocrat. Then, besides a natural re¬
luctance to expose her altered condition
to the curious gaze of those who had
known her under such different circum-
52
A MERE ADVENTURER.
stances, the deep affliction in -which she
was plunged at that time was enough, of
itself, to render the gay society in which
she had formerly moved not only distaste¬
ful but repugnant to her. The death of
her father, the disgrace of her brother,
none the less painful because hidden
from the world, and more than all, the
hateful pledge by which she had bound
herself to Mr. Ilenlow, hung over her
like a perpetual nightmare, and made
her almost shun the light of day. At
times a bitter feeling would rise in her
heart against Roger, the guilty author
of so much misery, then sorrow and pity
for the wretched outcast would come the
next moment to rebuke her harshness.
Fallen and depraved as he was, she could
not forget that Roger was still her
brother, nor banish from her mind all
concern as to the fate of the wanderer
who had fled self-condemned from his
father's house.
Staggering, and almost crushed, under
such a load of misery, it is no wonder
that Mildred shrank from the scenes and
associates of happier days, and chose to
shroud herself and her sorrow in the veil
of obscurity. She was well known in
some of the upper circles of New York
society ; indeed, there was scarcely a city
in the Union where she had not been
heard of as a famous belle and heiress.
She had travelled a great deal in her life ;
had been abroad once or twice, and had,
for several summers, attracted much at¬
tention at Newport and Saratoga for her
beauty and elegant toilets. She had
visited the metropolis almost every win¬
ter, and made many friends, not only
among the Southerners constantly so¬
journing there, but among the most
aristocratic circles of residents. New
York, however, is a world in itself,—a
world big enough for one to get lost in
if one chose, and Mildred felt that by
keeping quiet, and avoiding the fashion¬
able parts of the city, she could escape
notice as effectually as if she were in
South Africa ; indeed, to the fashionable
denizens of the realms above Madison
Square, Ethiopia itself is hardly a more
unexplored region than those dense,
dingy streets, down towards the bay,
where labor and traffic have their haunts.
She was further attracted toward these
ungenteel localities from motives of econ¬
omy, to which her present situation com¬
pelled her, and also by the desire of being
within easy reach of Park Row, where
her business lay. Accordingly, leaving
out of account the fashionable establish¬
ments up-town, where she used to sojourn,
she determined to devote the next day,
after reporting for duty at the Metro¬
politan office, to the business of hunting
up lodgings suited to her present condi¬
tion.
Before going to bed that night, she
posted a note to the editor, informing
nim of her arrival in the city, and
stating that she would present herself at
the Metropolitan office on the following
morning, as directed. It occurred to her
now that the editor's mistake as to the
sex of his correspondent might prove a
little embarrassing to correct in person,
so, by way of gently unveiling her literary
incognito beforehand, she subscribed to
the note, instead of her usual signature,
M. G. Loring, her full feminine name,—
Mildred Gertrude Loring.
CHAPTER XIII.
the wise men of gotham.
" There was a man in our town,
And he was wondrous wise;
He jumped into a bramble bush,
And scratched out both his eyes.
And when he found his eyes were ont,
With all his might and main,
He jumped into another bush,
And scratched them in again."
Nursery Rhyme.
The great cylinder presses under¬
ground had done their work. Hundreds
of huge paper coils had passed through
the magic rollers, and come out changed
from mere meaningless blanks into winged
messengers of civilization, carrying light,
and knowledge, and truth into the re¬
motest corners of the earth. The throng
of saucy urchins that beset Park Row,
at the early hour when the morning
papers are issued, had dispersed long
ago, and scattered their printed stores of
truth and falsehood, wisdom and folly,
news, gossip, rumors of every descrip¬
tion, through all quarters of the city.
The morning papers were out, and those
mysterious apartments of the great news¬
paper buildings, known as the " editorial
rooms," the " adytis imis" of modern
inspiration, whence issue oracles more
potent than Delphic or Dodonean utter¬
ances, were now in a state of comparative
repose, the bustle of preparation for to¬
morrow's issue having not yet begun.
The Metropolitan newspaper, though
THE WISE MEN OF GOTHAM.
53
one of the leading journals of the coun¬
try, had not its home in one of those
huge palace printing-houses that mark
so well the importance of modern jour¬
nalism. Its brilliant leaders and caustic
criticisms were concocted in a common¬
place brick building of rather dingy
aspect and not very imposing dimen¬
sions, to judge from its narrow strip of
front, but whose immense capacities in
height, and depth, and length, and unex¬
pected back projections, it is impossible
to calculate.
On one of the uppermost floors, in a
long, dingy room, redolent with tobacco
smoke, and filled with desks and easy-
chairs, a group of gentlemen were gath¬
ered round the fire, enjoying a little
friendly chat before proceeding to their
several duties. Among them was the
young journalist, Van Dorn, who had
arrived a few hours before, on the
" limited express," from Washington.
Van Dorn had begun his career as a
reporter, and soon so distinguished him¬
self by his energy and accuracy, that
whenever a special correspondent was
needed at any point of public interest,
or if any matter of importance was to
be investigated requiring unusual tact
and energy, Yan Dorn was sure to be
despatched to manage the affair. The
thoroughness with which he did his
work was equalled only by the ease and
celerity with which it was accomplished.
He seemed born to be a journalist, as,
indeed, a man must be born to whatever
he greatly excels in. All the qualities
that go to make up the successful news¬
paper man were developed in him to their
fullest extent, and to a natural aptitude
for the duties of his profession he added
an enthusiastic, almost a Quixotic devo¬
tion to it. He was indefatigable in col¬
lecting the latest and most reliable news
on all topics of public interest, and would
have made his way from the heart of
Africa to the tops of the Andes, if any¬
thing could have been gained thereby to
the journal he represented. He had
already travelled over nearly half the
world in the service of the Metropoli¬
tan, and his journeys were character¬
ized by the same dash and impetuosity
that distinguished everything he did.
Before his employers could well realize
that he had left New York, he would
send them a telegram from Louisiana or
California, and while the ink was still
wet that printed his message they would
hear of him again in Cuba or Central
America. Lightness, activity, impetu¬
osity, were the salient points of Van
Dorn's character. He was a man of
action rather than of reflection. While
other men were stopping to think about
a thing Yan Dorn would do it, and stop
to reflect afterwards, if he reflected at all.
His style of writing was in keeping
with his other traits,—brilliant, easy, and
to the point. He had the happy faculty
of always saying the right thing at the
right time, and in the right way. His
terse, pithy paragraphs had given the
Metropolitan a new character since his
connection with it, and gained it, de¬
servedly, the reputation of being the
wittiest paper in the metropolis.
Such qualifications, backed by untir¬
ing industry and energy, could not be
long overlooked. Yan Dorn rose rapidly
in his profession, and at the age of thirty-
two found himself occupying an impor¬
tant position on the editorial staff of per¬
haps the most influential paper in the
country ; for though there were other
journals in the metropolis that could
boast a larger circulation than the Met¬
ropolitan., there was not one that ap¬
pealed more strongly to the best element
of society. Supported by a large clientèle,
belonging to the most cultivated and in¬
fluential classes throughout the nation,
while it did not reach the masses directly,
yet it probably^ had a larger share in
controlling public opinion than any of its
contemporaries ; for it is the educated
classes, after all, who are the real leaders
of public sentiment everywhere, and
through these, with whom it carried
great weight, the Metropolitan wielded
a tremendous influence throughout the
length and breadth of the land. Its high
character was due in a great measure to
the exertions of Yan Dorn, who, though
nominally a sub-editor, stood so high in
the favor of his chief and had acquired
such an ascendency over him, as to rank
almost as the controlling spirit of the
paper.
Van Dorn was a man of cultivated lit¬
erary tastes, and had greatly interested
himself in that department of his journal.
He sometimes also found time to con¬
tribute, under his convenient sobriquet
of " Rex," articles of merit to the leading
periodicals of the day, and had even ac¬
quired some reputation as a poet. The
polished elegance of Mildred's style com¬
mended itself to his taste from the first,
and as the vacancy on the staff of the
Metropolitan happened to occur about
the time that her Contributions began to
attract attention, she was invited, at Van
54
A MERE ADVENTURER.
Dorn's own suggestion, to fill the place,
—no suspicion that the M. G. Loring who
penned such solid logical articles in such
a bold, angular hand could be a woman
having ever entered his mind or that of
his chief. The fact, however, was soon
to be made apparent to them both with
startling suddenness.
While Van Dorn and his companions
were enjoying a few leisure moments to¬
gether, Mr. Gault, the editor-in-chief, was
in his sanctum busily overhauling a pile
of letters that the morning's mail had
placed upon his table. He was a tall,
spare man of about sixty, with deep-set,
penetrating gray eyes, a high forehead,
decidedly bald, and a tight, obstinate-look¬
ing mouth that gave you an impression
of his being a very undesirable person to
come into conflict with. He was a bach¬
elor, with no ties in the world and no
special attachment for anything except
his paper. He had founded the Metro¬
politan and grown old with it, and his
whole interest in life seemed bound up in
its welfare. He had come to New York
years before, a poor printer, nobody knew
or cared from where. He had succeeded
somehow, and was now the sole proprie¬
tor of a great newspaper, which, from
very humble beginnings, had become a
mighty power in the land.
Next to his paper, Mr. Gault seemed
to value the young man whose services
were of such consequence to it. He had
been the first to discover the capabilities
of the young journalist and to open to
him a field for exercising them,—a ser¬
vice for which Van Dorn had never ceased
to be grateful. The importance of the
young man's services to the paper that
was the idol of them both, and his sym¬
pathy with the professional enthusiasm
of the founder, would account, in some
degree, for the old man's partiality, but
not for the unbounded influence Van
Dorn seemed to possess over him almost
from the first moment of his connection
with the Metropolitan. Mr. Gault was
a bluff, dogmatical old fellow, and not
very popular, as a general thing, with
his subordinates ; but though he took
the liberty of giving Van Dorn a blow¬
ing up now and then as well as the rest
of them, if he saw fit, yet the privileges
allowed him were so great, and the con¬
fidence reposed in him so unbounded as
to excite much comment; and give rise
to strange surmises among those who
witnessed them. He had assumed a sort
of paternal supervision over the young
man from the beginning of their ac¬
quaintance, and Van Dorn had fallen
into the arrangement quite naturally,
submitting to the old gentleman's occa¬
sional blowings up as a matter of course,
and receiving his favors with equal com¬
posure. Indeed, the assurance with
which he could make the most exorbi¬
tant demands upon the indulgence of his
employer was equalled only by the pa¬
tience of the latter in submitting to them,
—always after a deal of wrangling, it is
true, yet somehow, first and last, Yan
Dorn contrived to have pretty much his
own way about everything, so unbounded
was Mr. Gault's partiality for him. It
was even whispered about the office that
he had helped Van Dorn out of one or two
bad scrapes, and had even paid off debts
of considerable amount that the young
man had been led into by an unreflecting
and pleasure-loving disposition, which
sometimes tempted him into extrava¬
gances beyond the reach of a man with
no fortune but his brain.
This was the most remarkable proof
that could be given of Mr. Gault's singu¬
lar infatuation for his young subordinate,
for he had acquired, whether justly or
unjustly, among those who had business
dealings with him, a reputation for par¬
simony that was by no means to his
credit. He had made an immense for¬
tune by his paper, and received from that
source alone a princely income, yet in
all his tastes and habits he retained the
simplicity of his early years of poverty.
His economy, however, from the capri-
ciousness with which it was exercised,
appeared to be more the result'»of whim
and the practices of his early life than
of a deliberate disposition to parsimony.
He would preserve carefully the un¬
written margins of letters for his own
correspondence, and raised a tremendous
row if any of his employés wasted a
postage stamp or lit his cigar with a bit
of blank paper, but yet he could be im¬
posed upon by any well gotten up beggar
in the streets as readily as if he nad been
a tender-hearted old lady from the coun¬
try. His dress was shabby in the ex¬
treme, but his footman was splendid
enough to make up for it. He would
higgle with his tailor for half a day over
the price of a coat, grumble at gas bills,
and drive hard bargains with contribu¬
tors ; but somehow, in spite of it all, he
contrived to pay out more money in the
long run for what he got than it would
have cost a less intriguing financier.
Ta^e him all in all, this Jupiter Tonans
of the press was no unfair dispenser of
THE WISE MEN OF GOTHAM.
55
his favors, and, where he took a notion,
could be not merely generous but lavish
of his bounty.
On the morning of which we are writ¬
ing, Mr. Gault proceeded as usual, delib¬
erately and methodically, in the examina¬
tion of his correspondence, now labelling
a letter to be answered by a clerk, now
flinging one into the waste-basket, and
now laying one aside for personal atten¬
tion, and carefully cutting the blank
margins from all with a thrifty eye to
future use. He had gone through about
two-thirds of the pile, when he came
upon a communication that suddenly
arrested his attention. He read and re¬
read it with an expression that grew
more and more puzzled at each perusal,
picked up the envelope, examined it from
every point of view ; then, with his spec¬
tacles pushed back over his forehead and
his thin gray hair standing up like pick¬
ets all around his bald crown, he rushed,
letter in hand, into the room where Van
Dorn and his confrères were assembled,
exclaiming as he entered,—
"Van Dorn,—where is Van Dorn?
Van Dorn, I say, here is the devil to
pay !"
" Well, and what the devil has he been
doing?" asked Van Dorn, quietly, remov¬
ing a cigar from his lips.
" It's a woman !" cried Mr. Gault, not
heeding the question.
" The devil a woman?" said Van Dorn,
laughing. "That is bad news; he was
more than a match for most of us before."
"Worse than that, Van Dora, worse
than that !" exclaimed Mr. Gault, placing
the letter in the young man's hand. " It's
the fellow Loring that has been writing
those splendid articles, and that we have
engaged for one of our regular contribu¬
tors. See here, he signs himself Mildred
Gertrude,—ain't that a woman's name?"
An expression of rueful astonishment,
worthy of Mr. Gault himself, came into
Van Dorn's face as he glanced at Mil¬
dred's signature.
" Thunderation !" he cried, crumpling
the unoffending paper in his hand.
"What the deuce are we to do with a
woman here?"
"I didn't think that was a question
that would ever puzzle you, Rex," said
his friend Lockwood, who stood by,
laughing.
" Cela depend," answered Rex, shrug¬
ging his shoulders. "A literary old
maid in blue spectacles,—I am sure she
wears spectacles,—who writes heavy
political articles and makes literal quota¬
tions from Cicero, would puzzle any man
to dispose of her. I shall make applica¬
tion to be sent immediately as special
correspondent to Afghanistan, or start on
a voyage of discovery to the South Pole."
" How happens it that you never found
out before that your correspondent was
a female?" asked Lockwood. "I should
think you could have told from the hand¬
writing."
" Oh, the women all write such in¬
fernal scrawls nowadays," said Rex,
glancing again at the letter, "that you
can hardly tell any of them from Egyptian
hieroglyphics : it is one of their fashiona¬
ble affectations, and women would make
their letters upside down, and then stand
on their heads to read them, if that was
the fashion."
" But literary old maids in blue spec¬
tacles, who write leading articles and
talk politics, generally have a sublime
contempt for fashion and other feminine
follies," said Lockwood, taking the letter
from Rex's fingers and eying it closely.
" Besides, I like this hand ; it looks more
like that of a woman of fashion than a
literary old maid."
"Whew! my bottom dollar on it she
is forty at least," said Rex, emphatically,
" with a red nose and blue spectacles,
and a foot as long as the Brooklyn bridge.
Women don't take to literature and the
classics spontaneously. If they are young
and attractive they can find something
pleasanter to do than meddling with
men's business. But, by Jove ! she did
send us some splendid articles,—there is
no denying that."
" She must have had help," said Mr.
Gault, waking from a revery into which
he had fallen while the young men were
discussing the personal attractions of the
unknown. " No woman could have
written such articles without assistance."
" No ; she's a fraud," cried Rex, laugh¬
ing, " and must be got rid of somehow."
"But how shall we manage it?" said
Mr. Gault, anxiously. "We have al¬
ready engaged her, and she is to be here
in person this morning. We may look
for her at any moment."
Van Dorn cast an uneasy glance
towards the door.
"Write a note, quick, before she comes,
and tell her the work is not suitable for
a woman,—she can't do it," he sug¬
gested.
" But she has already been doing it
for several months," said Lockwood,
dryly, " and doing it a great deal better
than any of us men."
56
A MERE ADVENTURER.
"Another reason for rejecting her,"
laughed Van Dorn. " It is a great piece
of impertinence in any woman to beat
men on their own ground, and proves
her one of the strong-minded sisterhood.
I'll bet she advocates woman's suffrage,
and makes speeches in their conventions,
and talks through her nose loud enough
to be heard from here to Iloboken."
" Go on," said Lockwood, laughing ;
" I am curious to see what accomplish¬
ment you will invest her with next."
Here Mr. Gault waked from another
little revery.
" If we employed her," he said, bright¬
ening up a little, " of course she could
not expect full pay. A woman never
does command the same salary that a
man would." And fixing his eyes upon
remotest space, while he drummed loudly
with his fingers on both arms of his
chair,—habits peculiar to him when bur¬
ied in thought,—he relapsed again into
his meditations.
"And a fellow couldn't smoke in the
office with a woman poking around,"
continued Rex, paying no attention to
the enlightened observation of his chief,
" nor go in his shirt-sleeves in hot
weather, nor "
" It certainly would be cheaper," so¬
liloquized Mr. Gault, still drumming on
his chair and keeping his eyes fixed in¬
tently upon some point in the orbit of
Neptune.
"It would be a confounded nuisance,"
growled Van Dorn, still pursuing his own
reflections; but before he had finished
speaking the door opened, and the words
died upon his lips as he beheld on the
threshold, instead of his ideal spinster in
blue spectacles, the tall, elegant form and
classic features of the beautiful stranger
whose face had haunted him with such
mysterious fascination ever since he had
first beheld it. She was draped from
head to foot in the deepest black, which
set off in striking contrast the pearly
whiteness of her complexion, suffused at
the moment by a faint flush of embar¬
rassment that rendered her beauty, in
spite of the sombre habiliments that en¬
veloped it, almost dazzling. Lockwood
clutched Van Dorn's arm and exclaimed
in an excited whisper,—
"By Jove, Van, it's your widow!"
while Rex stood confounded at the un¬
expected apparition, and even Mr. Gault
withdrew his eyes from the contempla¬
tion of interplanetary space and gave to
beauty the involuntary homage of his
wonder.
Mildred cast a timid glance around the
room, advanced a step or two, hesi¬
tatingly, and inquired, in a voice as dif¬
ferent as possible from that of Rex's
stentorian female orator, if the managing
editor of the Metropolitan were present.
Thereupon Mr. Gault came forward and
announced himself as that important per¬
sonage.
"And this, I presume," he added, with
an awkward bow, " is—is "
"Miss Loring," answered Mildred,
coming promptly to his assistance.
Rex Van Dorn, though more confounded
by the appearance of the new-comer than
any of them, was the first to recover him¬
self sufficiently to offer her a chair. Mr.
Gault resumed his seat at the same time,
gave his attention during the ominous
pause that followed, to the proceedings of
a mass-meeting in Uranus, then, return¬
ing to mundane affairs, fixed his eyes
upon Mildred and remarked, briefly,—
" You have had us at a disadvantage,
Miss Loring; we were not aware until
this morning that our correspondent was
a lady."
Mildred remembered her former expe¬
riences, and the words sounded ominous.
" I did not suppose that my sex was a
matter of any consequence," she an¬
swered, in a deprecating voice, " pro¬
vided I could do the work required of
me."
"Ah ! but there are other things. The
position is not suitable for a woman,"
answered Mr. Gault, dryly.
Mildred's heart sank at the words, and
she fixed upon the old man's hard, cold
face a look of mute entreaty which might
have moved even his heart but for the
fact that he was looking now no longer
into Mildred's face, but straight through
it into the outermost bounds of space.
But the silent appeal was not lost. The
logic of lustrous eyes and velvet cheeks
is more powerful over the hearts of men
than arguments clear as the demonstra¬
tions of Euclid, and Rex Van Dorn,
though an editor and a poet, was but a
man after all. Consistency is not a vir¬
tue for which impulsive characters are
distinguished, and the cool effrontery
with which Rex now proceeded to over¬
turn his own propositions made his com¬
panions smile.
" But you cannot deny, Mr. Gault,"
he began, in barefaced contradiction of
himself, " that Miss Loring has already
given perfect satisfaction, and the work
to be allotted to her is such as can very
well be performed by a woman."
THE WISE MEN OF GOTHAM.
57
Mr. Gault began drumming on his
chair, and continued gazing through the
realms of space in ominous silence. Mil¬
dred turned upon Rex a look of grateful
acknowledgment. He could have gone
down on his knees to serve her.
" I have had a good deal to do with
the literary affairs of the paper," he con¬
tinued, still addressing himself to Mr.
Gault, " and my opinion ought to have
some weight in this matter, I think."
" You gave your opinion before Miss
Loring entered," whispered Lockwood,
with pardonable irony. Rex was not in
the least disconcerted.
In truth, the two young men were
both of them completely won over to
Mildred's side the moment she entered
the room. It. is humiliating to think
upon what trifles a woman's destiny often
hangs. A pair of dimples, a golden curl,
a few frail roses and lilies will frequently
accomplish more for her than the most
brilliant talents, the most angelic virtue,
the most exalted heroism. Mildred Lor¬
ing would certainly have felt anything
but flattered by Yan Dora's warm advo¬
cacy of her claims could she have known
how sudden had been his conversion to
her cause.
As for Mr. Gault, he had pretty well
made up his mind from the first what he
was going to do, but Mr. Gault was a
diplomatist, and when he had a bargain
to drive, he went about it coolly and sys¬
tematically. There was a short pause
after Lockwood's last remark, during
which Mr. Gault seemed to be carefully
exploring the regions of space, then
bringing his eyes back to earth once
more, he said, decisively,—
"We have never employed a woman
in this office, and I don't think it would
suit to have one."
Tears of disappointment came into poor
Mildred's eyes. This was more than the
impulsive Yan Dorn could stand.
" But you forget, Mr. Gault," he cried,
reproachfully, " that you have already
concluded an engagement with Miss Lor¬
ing, and that she is here this morning by
your own appointment."
Rex had conveniently forgotten what
readiness he had himself expressed, a few
minutes before, to disregard that engage¬
ment, but as his proposal had been made
half in jest, perhaps the reader will par¬
don him.
" I made my agreement under the sup¬
position that Miss Loring was another
person," said Mr. Gault, dryly.
" She is the same person who wrote
the articles that you approved so highly,"
replied Van Dorn, boldly.
" But I never suspected the author
was a woman," returned Mr. Gault.
"Eighteen hundred dollars! It's a big
salary for a man who is new at the
business ; I can't pay a woman man's
wages !"
" But if she does a man's work," began
Lockwood, making common cause with
his friend.
"I'll pay nine hundred,—not a dollar
more," said Mr. Gault, in a voice that
admitted of no compromise.
Mildred looked towards Van Dorn, who
had espoused her cause so warmly, as if
she would ask him what to do.
" Better accept," he whispered, an¬
swering the look ; " our chief will come
round after awhile and do better than
you think."
Mildred's former experience had not
tended to inspire her with confidence in
her little encounters with the world, and
remembering that she had now no choice
but to accept Mr. Gault's offer or give up
her last chance of earning a subsistence,
she acted upon Van Dora's suggestion,
and answered, meekly,—
"Whatever you think fair compensa¬
tion for my services, Mr. Gault, I shall be
constrained to accept."
" And besides your regular work,"
continued Mr. Gault, " you will be ex¬
pected to write fashion notes now and
then, and do occasional watering-place
correspondence during the summer holi¬
days,—that is a woman's legitimate busi¬
ness,—are you agreed?"
Crushed by repeated disappointments,
Mildred was fain to accept the hard
terms so often forced upon her sex, of
double work and half pay, as on these
conditions alone it seemed would the
ranks of even the most liberal of all the
professions be opened to her.
" Whatever labor you think me capa¬
ble of performing," she answered, with
the air of a Griselda, " I am willing to
try."
" Very well," replied Mr. Gault, rising
to close the interview ; " Mr. Aran Dorn
there will explain your duties to you,
and on Thursday morning, Miss Loring,
you will report to him for work."
Chuckling over the bargain he had
made, Mr. Gault withdrew in high good
humor to his sanctum. lie had a pecu¬
liar sagacity in detecting merit before it
had made itself known to the world, and
to his acuteness in turning this faculty to
account he owefl much of the pecuniary
58
A MERE ADVENTURER.
success of his paper. lie always kept a
few old, experienced hands in responsible
positions as a guide to the others ; but by-
employing, to a great extent, young wri¬
ters of undoubted merit, who had not yet
emerged from obscurity, he secured their
services at a cheaper rate, and often got
better work than from those who have
already won a name and have nothing
but their pay to labor for.
Nor was the arrangement so unfair to
Mr. Gault's employés as might seem at a
first glance, for the experience they ac¬
quired under his somewhat rigid but
wholesome discipline,—the judicious lop¬
ping, and pruning, and " discreet blot¬
ting" they learned to practice, were useful
capital laid up, and the prestige of having
been on the Metropolitan was a sure
stepping-stone to more lucrative employ¬
ment in other offices, even if Mr. Gault
himself did not see fit to retain them at
advanced salaries.
Mr. Gault, with all his close financier¬
ing, was not a constitutional miser. His
stinginess was ji whim rather than a pas¬
sion. He had a lot of pet economies to
gratify, and he could not let money go
out of his hands without a deal of fret¬
ting and scolding ; but he had none of a
miser's greedy love of lucre for its own
sake. Though small salaries were the
rule in his office, those who served him
faithfully never failed, in the end, to reap
a sure reward. He had pensioned off two
of his old foremen printers before they
could be fairly considered superannuated,
and the widow of a reporter, who had
lost his life while on duty during a street
riot, was so liberally provided for by Mr.
Gault's generosity, that in less than two
years her money had .got her another
husband. Many other instances of his
bounty might be given, but let these
suffice to secure him the toleration, at
least, of the generous reader.
CHAPTER XIV.
the fourth estate.
" The journalists are now the true kings and clergy ;
henceforth historians, unless they are fools, must write
not of Bourbon dynasties,and Tudorsand Hapsburgs,
but stamped and broad sheet dynasties, and quite new
successive names, according as this or the other able
editor, or combination of able editors, gains the world's
ear."—Cablvle.
It was a relief to Mildred when the
hard-visaged old editor withdrew to his
den and she felt at liberty to retire.
Van Dorn followed to conduct her down
to the street, and wondered, as he walked
by her side, to find the prosaic interior
of a newspaper office suddenly invested
with all the charms of Elysium. To
Mildred, on the contrary, unaccustomed
to frequent the business haunts of men,
the purely masculine surroundings of her
future field of labor caused a feeling of
diffidence that betrayed itself in her voice
as she asked, a little nervously,—
" Will I have to come here often?"
" Yes, every day, I suppose," answered
Van Dorn, with feelings very different
from those which he had professed in re¬
gard to the advent of his blue-spectacled
spinster.
"What are the office hours?" she con¬
tinued, not much encouraged by his for¬
mer answer.
" That depends a good deal upon the
position one happens to occupy," he re¬
plied. " You will not have any night-
work, I presume, and so can exercise a
little more liberty of choice in regard to
your hours than some of the rest of us.
But you must always remember," he
added, with an admonitory air, "never
to be absent from your post at two o'clock
in the afternoon ; it is then Mr. Gault
meets his subordinates in solemn con¬
clave, and punctuality is a virtue that
our commander-in-chief greatly insists
upon. If he should happen to have any
special directions for your department,
and you were not at hand, I won't answer
for Mr. Gault's gallantry so far as to in¬
sure you against a very outspoken expres¬
sion of his displeasure."
" Thank you," said Mildred, with a
smile that seemed to Rex like a light
from heaven. "I shall remember your
timely warning, and endeavor not to
bring down his wrath upon my head."
" Punctuality is not a favorite virtue
with your sex, is it?" asked Rex, catch¬
ing at any pretext for continuing the
conversation.
" Perhaps a woman who is capable of
occupying such an unfeminine position as
mine can manage to compass it," an¬
swered Mildred, with a touch of bitter¬
ness in her voice. " Was it Mr. Gault's
horror of that feminine foible," she con¬
tinued, " which made him object to em¬
ploying me after he found that I was a
woman ?"
" Oh, no," replied Van Dorn. " Ile is
too inveterate an old bachelor to know
much about feminine foibles, or virtues
either ; I made that sage discovery in re-
THE FOURTH ESTATE.
59
gard to your sex out of my own experi¬
ence."
"Why was it, then?" continued Mil¬
dred, returning to her muttons, as the
French say.
The question was somewhat of a poser.
Van Dorn reflected a moment, then an¬
swered, hesitatingly,—
" Well, there are some things, and
some of the most necessary, perhaps,
connected with keeping up a newspaper
that it would not be exactly suitable for
a lady to undertake,—though they some¬
times do it,—and Mr. Gault, unaccus¬
tomed to having women about him in
any capacity, had never taken upon him¬
self, I suppose, to distinguish the fas et
nefas. There is what I may call the
' impudence business,' for instance, such
as interviewing distinguished characters
and prying into their affairs for the grati¬
fication of public curiosity. Certainly
you do not look, Miss Loring, as if you
were very well qualified for the impudence
business," he added, fixing his eyes upon
her with a look of admiration more ex¬
pressive than he was aware of. They
had reached the foot of the long stairway
by this time, and he paused involuntarily,
while he looked into her face. Mildred,
unacquainted with Rax's real character,
felt her dignity offended by the act, and
prepared at once to resent it.
" My experience would not lead me to
suppose," she answered, steadily return¬
ing his gaze while she spoke, " that it
would be very difficult to find a proxy
for that part of my duties."
He was not conscious how intently he
had been regarding her till admonished
by her covert rebuke that he had trans¬
gressed. He understood thoroughly the
well-bred art of disarming a woman's re¬
sentment by the retort courteous, and
without appearing in the least discon¬
certed, he answered, with a good-natured
laugh,—
" And you think I would fill the rôle
creditably, do you? Believe me, Miss
Loring," he added, with a deferential
bow, " I would gladly fill any capacity
in which I could be of service to you."
The conversation had taken a slightly
embarrassing turn for Mildred, so she
moved on without another word, and
stepped out into the street.
Rex followed, placed her on board a
horse car, and then proceeded straight to
Mr. Gault's room. His tap at the door
was answered by a sort of two-syllabled
growl, which Rex interpreted to mean
' Come in." The old gentleman looked
up over his spectacles as the young man
entered^ and, without laying aside his
pen, greeted him merely with an inter¬
rogative,—
"Well?"
" I have come to speak about Miss
Loring," said Rex, without any preface.
Mr. Gault gave a monosyllabic growl.
" Umph ! will she do ?"
"Do! she'll do for anything! But
the way we are doing," cried the diplo¬
matic Rex, adroitly including himself in
the blame, " is enough to make the very
devil ashamed of himself."
" What ! has she complained about
the pay?" asked Mr. Gault, a little anx¬
iously.
"No; though she has only too good
reason to complain, if she did but know
it," was the blunt reply. " I declare,
Mr. Gault, it's outrageous to make a
magnificent woman like that work all
day in a dingy den of a newspaper office,
that isn't fit for her to button her shoes
in, for a pitiful nine hundred a year."
Mr. Gault laid down his pen, gazed
straight through the earth to the antip¬
odes, and commenced drumming vio¬
lently on both arms of his chair.
" Nine hundred dollars is as much as
any woman is worth," growled the mon¬
strous Mr. Gault.
" Nine hundred million isn't half her
worth !" cried the enthusiastic Rex. " I
tell you, Mr. Gault, you have got the
most ' magnificent woman in America
working on slave's wages. I don't know
who Miss Loring is, or by what necessity
she came to occupy her present position,
but she is a lady, every inch of her, and
a lady of the very first water."
Mr. Gault continued drumming omi¬
nously.
" I don't pay her for being a lady,"
was his curt reply.
" And the most beautiful "
" You are a fool !" blurted out Mr.
Gault, losing all patience.
Rex suddenly became aware that he
was going on in rather a foolish way,
and coloring slightly, he replied, with a
laugh,—
" And if I can only succeed in making
a fool of you, too, I shall be satisfied."
Rex was the only one of his subor¬
dinates that ever ventured to joke with
Mr. Gault. The old gentleman appeared
to take no notice of the pleasantry, but
sat drumming awhile in silence, then
asked, abruptly,—
"Well, what do you want?"
" I think," said Rex, not without some
60
A MERE ADVENTURER.
misgiving, " that you ought to give her a
better salary."
Mr. Gault drew his face up into a tight
knot, as if he had been eating green per¬
simmons, and sat looking straight into
the centre of the earth for full five min¬
utes before he would utter a word ; then,
bringing his fist down with an emphatic
thump on the arm of his chair, he ejacu¬
lated, angrily,—
" No ; you must think I can spit
money !"
This was a favorite expression of Mr.
Gault's whenever he wished to make it
understood that he considered a demand
as signally preposterous. But Rex was
not ready to give up yet.
" But you get her so cheap," he per¬
sisted ; " it's downright robbery."
"I don't get you cheap," replied Mr.
Gault, not at all to the point.
Van Dorn took refuge in another joke.
"Not get mqjcheap!" he cried, laugh¬
ing. "Why, if you were the heroine of
the ' Toads and Diamond's' fable you
couldn't spit money enough to pay for
me in ten years."
"You are an impudent young dog,"
said Mr. Gault ; but he was smiling, and
the drumming had nearly ceased.
Rex acknowledged the propitious signs.
" Make it twelve hundred," he urged,
seizing the auspicious moment.
After a little pause, the drumming
ceased altogether, and Mr. Gault, with
the air of one bracing himself for a sur¬
gical operation, turned to his desk, and
tearing off a bit of the margin of an old
letter, wrote something on it which he
handed reluctantly to Van Dorn.
" There," he said, with a funereal
countenance, "is an order for Bagby to
put her on the books for twelve hundred ;
now I hope you are satisfied."
Rex did not give the old gentleman
time to change his mind, but, taking pos¬
session of the order, hurried out of the
room, well content at having gained his
point so easily.
Since Rex Van Dorn is to play rather
a prominent part in this narrative, the
reader may feel curious to know some¬
thing of his private character and his¬
tory.
À more dangerous contrast to Mr.
Thompson Henlow could not well have
been introduced to the notice of one who
felt that she must learn " to love^ honor,
and obey" the latter. Elegant in ap-
Eearance and brilliant in conversation,
e added to the attractions of a handsome
person that indescribable charm of man¬
ner which can come only of a natural
aptitude for the graces cultivated by con¬
stant intercourse with the best society.
By some critics he would doubtless be
stigmatized as a " fop" or a " puppy,"
because he was always well and fashion¬
ably dressed, after the prevailing mode,
à VAnglais. Yes, he even parted his
hair in the middle, and was not altogether
indifferent to such trifles as the state of
his linen.
There are some men who seem to re¬
gard decency of attire in their own sex
as a mark of effeminacy. They consider
it manly to go with their hair all in a
mess, their beards scraggy, their shirt-
collars crumpled ; or perhaps they ignore
collars altogether. They find a special
merit in creaking shoes and gloveless
hands ; they flourish their toothpicks in
the face of society, commit- untold hor¬
rors of spitting, and assert a general
independence of the proprieties of life by
way of showing their manhood. I have
never observed, however, that men who
habitually disregard the smaller ameni¬
ties of life acquit themselves any better
in its higher duties on that account. I
do not see that they make more consid¬
erate husbands, more affectionate fathers,
more trusty friends. I fail, in short, to
perceive the inherent merit of neglected
finger-nails and unkempt beards, or to
appreciate the magnanimity of a disre¬
gard for " tubbing." It is true, a man
may sometimes be a man " for a' that,"
but oftener it is the case that " a man's
nae man for a' that."
Van Dorn's elegant tastes were accom¬
panied by a disposition to extravagance,
which was kept within bounds only by
his want of means to gratify it. During
the first years of his connection with the
Metropolitan he had lived very frugally,
on account, he said, of a debt, which he
seemed greatly concerned to discharge.
How the debt was contracted, or when,
or to whom, he was never heard to say,
but the perseverance with which he set
to work to pay it off proved that to the
untiring energy of his character he could
add, when occasion demanded, the rarer
virtue of self-denial. His austerity, how¬
ever, did not outlive the motive that in¬
duced it, for no sooner was his conscience
satisfied with regard to the obligation in
question than he proceeded to spend, as
if it were a religious duty, every dollar
that he earned, though his income at this
time, with the liberal salary he received
from Mr. Gault, increased by his frequent
earnings from other sources, was no
THE FOURTH ESTATE.
61
contemptible one. Ile had stepped with
comparative ease to the topmost round
of the social ladder, and we all know the
expensive conditions of social success in
New York City.
A success, in one sense of the word,
Van Dorn certainly was, although not
regarded, on account of his poverty, as
matrimonially eligible ; and his atten¬
tions were rather discouraged by prudent
papas and mammas, as involving a waste
of time on the part of their daughters
that had better be directed to the pursuit
of more serious game ; but the daughters
themselves were always ready to flirt
with him, and flatter him, and lionize
him to the utmost extent that human
vanity could desire. It was all the fash¬
ion to rave over his pretty verses, and
each fair coquette that came in his way
was fired with a secret ambition of seeing
herself immortalized in them some day,
like Burns's Mary or Petrarch's Laura ;
each was eager to distinguish herself by
adding so notable a captive to her list of
conquests. It is true, no right-minded
girl in her senses would have thought
seriously of marrying the penniless ad¬
venturer ; at least they all declared,
when laying their little traps for a flirta¬
tion with him, that they were " only
going into it for fun but it is much to
be questioned whether many of them did
not become more serious than they had
bargained for, and Van Dorn, if he had
chosen to exert his persuasive eloquence
so far, might have caused even his pov¬
erty to be forgotten. Women will have
hearts, steel them as they may, and a
handsome face and an eloquent tongue
can always find its way to them.
But Van Dorn was not himself a
marrying man. He admired handsome
women, and could make love to them by
the hour ; he was enthusiastic, impulsive,
but, strange to say, not susceptible. His
profession had been his grand passion,
nor until the sudden apparition of Mil¬
dred Loring's beautiful face had woven
such a singular spell around him, had
he ever dreamed seriously of asking any
woman to be his wife.
Of Van Dorn's antecedents little or
nothing was known among the gay set in
which he moved, except that he was a
Western man,—a convenient phrase that
somehow seems to do away with the
necessity for supposing any antecedents
at all. We generally think of a West¬
ern man as having grown up with the
country, like a border town, and do not
stop to reflect upon the necessity of more
definite ancestry in his case. As Rex was
extremely reticent in regard to his private
history, especially everything concerning
his origin and early years, it seemed
natural to suppose he had never had any
origin in particular, but had grown up
with the country, like any other Western
institution. His full name was Reginald
Yan Dorn, called Rex for short,—a so¬
briquet which was becoming distinguished
as the nom, de plume under which the
sketches and verses that had just begun
to attract the attention of the literary
world were published. His connection
with the Metropolitan, veiled under the
ambiguous editorial " we," was not so
conspicuous a fact as his lighter literary
pursuits, but one of far greater moment
in determining his real weight and im¬
portance in the world.
Times have changed since Grub Street
was a name of reproach and the pub¬
lisher Cave painted St. John's Gate on
his carriage-door as a sign of humility.
In our generation the "Fourth estate"
has become a power that overshadows all
the other three,—and justly so, for its
empire is an empire over mind, its
weapons are reason and knowledge.
Journalism, being the most liberal and
progressive of callings, presupposes ne¬
cessarily a relative degree of enlighten¬
ment among those who follow it. The
journalists, as a class, must be men not
only of broad general culture, but of
wide-awake, observant minds, incapable
of intellectual stagnation. It is this uni¬
versal wide-awakeness, this quality of
alertness and progressiven ess, joined to a
culture rather broad than deep, that gives
to men of this class their peculiar apti¬
tude for society, and renders them the
delight and ornament of the circle in
which they move. A journalist may be
shallow, but he cannot be ignorant; he
may be superficial, but he cannot be nar¬
row ; and he must, of necessity, be a man
of extensive general information and en¬
lightened ideas. Of course, there are
exceptions to the rule, for there will be
quacks and pretenders in every profes¬
sion, but whatever deficiencies he may
possess, a practical journalist, even of the
most moderate pretensions, is rarely or
never that bête noir of polite society,
expressively termed, in feminine phrase¬
ology, " a poke" or " a stick." He
always knows the latest slang,—perhaps
he even invented it ; he can tell every¬
thing that is going on everywhere a great
deal better than the people who live there ;
he has always seen the last new play, and
62
A MERE ADVENTURER.
can tell all about the coming prima donna
before anybody else has heard of her ;
knows what new pictures will be on ex¬
hibition at the Academy, has read the
last new novel before it is well out of
press,—in short, he knows something of
everything and is never at a loss for con¬
versation. The slight professional stiff¬
ness that clings to men of purely literary
callings, as the clergy and authors, for
instance, is rubbed off the journalist by
active contact with the world. He is not
merely a writer and a student, but gen¬
erally something of a politician, and a
practical business man besides. Begin¬
ning his career usually as a reporter or
correspondent, and working his way by
successive stages to the editorial dignity,
he often adds to the refining influences
of literary culture the advantages of
extensive travel, and a wide experience
of men and things. He is a better-bal¬
anced man, every way, than the purely
literary character, who usually sacrifices
the practical too much to the contempla¬
tive. For the promotion of a full, healthy,
vigorous intellectual life, with nothing of
the book-worm mouldiness about it, there
is no calling comparable to the higher
orders of modern journalism.
Rex Van Dorn fully appreciated the dig¬
nity of his profession, and he gloried in it,
as in olden times youthful heroes have
gloried in war. He had a strong current
of ambition in his veins that directed
him, with steady aim, towards the high¬
est journalistic honors. In his eyes the
press was the lever that moved the world,
the pen a sceptre before which thrones
have tottered and faiths have been swept
away. To rule one of the great powers
of the press, such as the London Times,
for instance, seemed to him a grander
thing than to rule one of the chief powers
among the nations. To his finely organ¬
ized fancy there was something peculiarly
alluring in the conception of editorial
power, which, working silently in some
dim, neglected corner, can make itself
felt in shaping the destinies of a people.
A man of fashion is not usually an
enthusiast ; enthusiasm is vulgar, but
Rex Van Dorn did not let that pre¬
vent him from being enthusiastically
devoted to the advancement of his jour¬
nal. It was the ambition of his life
to make the Metropolitan the leading
newspaper of America, and to this end
his most untiring efforts were directed.
Careless often of his private interests,
he was keen as a Jew where those of
his paper were concerned, and no one
doubted that when old Mr. Gault was no
more Yan Dorn would be the next auto¬
crat of the Metropolitan.
CHAPTER XV.
madame valley.
" The withered frame, the. ruined mind,
The wreck by passion left behind,
A 8lirivelled scroll, a scattered leaf
Scarred by the autumn blast of grief."
Bybon.
Mildred returned to her hotel with a
feeling of deep depression. The faint
glimmer of hope she had entertained of
doing something towards emancipating
herself from the terrible yoke under
which Mr. Henlow had bound her was
entirely extinguished by Mr. Gault's en¬
lightened financiering. With nine hun¬
dred dollars a year she could not do
more, in New York, than barely to live in
a very economical way, and save, per¬
haps, a trifle to help Fanny and Roy ;
but for her own redemption there ap¬
peared not the shadow of a hope. The
only thing that made the prospect endur¬
able was the long respite that intervened.
It was nearly a year before Mr. Henlow
could claim the payment of his bond, and
in that time many things might happen.
She might lose her beauty, Mr. Henlow
might cease to admire her, or she herself
might die. Yes, there at least was a door
of escape always open to the wretched,
though that door she dared not yet dream
of opening with violent hands.
Her thoughts were somewhat diverted
from the contemplation of the future by
the more urgent duty of providing for the
present. The necessity for practising a
rigid economy was now rendered more
peremptory than ever, and the first step
to be taken was to find less expensive
lodgings than her present quarters. Mil¬
dred's practical knowledge of such things
was confined to one or two elegant board¬
ing-houses up-town, where she had some¬
times sojourned for a few weeks' enjoy¬
ment of metropolitan life when returning
southward in the autumn from a season
at Newport or Saratoga. How or where
to find cheap lodgings in New York she
had no more idea than of where to look
for the island of Liliput or the kingdom
of Prester John.
In her perplexity, she turned to the
MADAME
VALLEY.
63
columns of a paper she had brought
from the Metropolitan office, and there,
among innumerable announcements of
"to let," her attention was arrested by
the following:
" Cheap lodging for a single gentleman
or lady. Apply to Madame V. Valley,
115 Bloomfield Street."
She first consulted a city directory, to
learn where Bloomfield Street lay, and
finding that it débouched upon Broadway
below the City Hall, in that far down¬
town region where her business would
call her, she put on her bonnet and sallied
forth to inspect the cheap lodgings adver¬
tised by Madame Valley.
No. 115 was soon reached, and proved
to be a dingy brick building, with a very
narrow front facing on an old-fashioned
street, that appeared, from the scents
pervading it, to be tenanted mainly by
druggists and chemists. The ground-
floor was occupied by a musty apothe¬
cary's shop, and smelt strongly of drugs
as Mildred passed. On the left was an
arched opening, disclosing a narrow stair¬
way that led up directly from the street,
and on one side of the opening a rusty
brass plate with the inscription,—
"V. Valley—up-stairs."
With some trepidation at the idea of
venturing alone into this terra incognita,
Mildred ascended and pulled the bell-
handle, which she found on the closed
door of the first floor-landing. Her sum¬
mons was quickly answered by an elderly
negro woman, very black, and of extraor¬
dinary size, with large gold rings in her
ears, and a slightly foreign accent, such
as one hears in certain of the creóle
parishes of Louisiana. On Mildred's in¬
quiring if Madame Valley were in, this
remarkable usher replied in the affirma¬
tive, and conducted her to a small parlor
lighted by a single window in the rear of
the building. The room was scantily
furnished,—a hair-covered sofa, some
half-dozen chairs, two old-fashioned card-
tables, and a dilapidated étagière, with a
few books, completing the stock of mov¬
ables. The carpet was threadbare, and,
the blankness of the walls unrelieved by
a single ornament. While Mildred was
contemplating these unpromising sur¬
roundings, the black giantess, who had
gone to announce her, returned, and,
opening a double-leaved door at the
opposite end of the room, invited her
into Madame Valley's presence.
Seated by a scanty fire, in an invalid's
chair, Mildred beheld one of the most
striking objects she had ever seen. With
a form shrunken by disease, and reduced
to a state of such pitiable helplessness
that she could scarcely even raise her
hand to her mouth with food, there still
shone in the face of the sufferer a fire
and energy that neither age nor disease
seemed able to subdue. The great black
eyes, undimmed by years of suffering,
glowed with a strange piercing bright¬
ness, and on every feature was written
defiance and rebellion against the fate
that afflicted her. The firmly-pressed
lips, the fine aquiline nose, the fiery,
restless eyes, even the very pose of the
head, all told of fierce warfare still raging
in the soul of the wretched old woman.
It was terrible to see such a face upon
that poor withered frame, and Mildred
gave an involuntary shudder when the
burning eyes of the invalid first flashed
upon her.
Madame Valley was apparently some¬
where between fifty and sixty years of
age, and her strongly-marked creóle
physiognomy would seem to indicate
that she was better entitled to the foreign
prefix of Madame than to the plain Eng¬
lish patronymic which accompanied it.
In spite of age and suffering, she re¬
tained still about her person the shat¬
tered wrecks of a beauty that must have
been extraordinary in its prime. Her
hair, white as silver, and very abundant,
was caught up in a large loose knot on
top of her head, to be out of the way of
the cushions that supported it, and added
something quaint and picturesque to the
already marked singularity of her appear¬
ance. Her attire, a loose gown of gray
and black, with a white linen handker¬
chief pinned close around the throat, was
scrupulously clean, but coarse and shabby
in the extreme. In fact, all her surround¬
ings betokened the most abject poverty.
The room looked bare and cold. There
was no carpet, except a faded strip before
the grate ; a bed, an old-fashioned chest
of drawers, two or three cane-bottomed
chairs, and a table with a few books on
it, composed the principal part of the
furniture. The chair of the invalid was
drawn close to the grate, where two small
lumps of coal were endeavoring to make
a feeble glow, and the table of books
stood within easy reach of her hand.
She looked up with a quick, penetrating
glance as Mildred entered, and motioned
her, with a slight wave of the hand, to a
chair which the black giantess placed for
her. Mildred was so impressed with the
64
A MERE ADVENTURER.
remarkable appearance of her hostess
that for the moment she forgot her
errand, and Madame Valley was the first
to introduce it.
" You come on business, I presume,"
she said, in a short, dry voice, still re¬
garding the visitor with that keen, pierc¬
ing look of hers.
" Yes," replied Mildred, collecting her¬
self. " I have come to inquire about
some lodgings I see advertised in the
Metropolitan."
" Ah ?"
The monosyllable was uttered in a
tone of dubious interrogation, as if the
speaker were waiting to hear something
more. Evidently this was not the sort
of tenant one would expect to see looking
for apartments in Bloomfield Street.
" The lodging has not been taken
yet?" asked Mildred, slightly embar¬
rassed by the pause that followed Madame
Valley's last utterance.
" Ño,—the last tenant was turned out
for not paying his rent ; you could pay
in advance ?" And the words were accom¬
panied with a look so searching and sus¬
picious that Mildred wondered if Madame
Valley had not begun life in a pawn¬
broker's shop.
" I certainly expect to pay promptly
whatever I bargain for," she answered, a
little stiffly ; " but I would like first to
see the rooms."
" There is only one," said Madame,
correcting her. " You can't expect more
for five dollars a week, but then you can
have the use of my parlor for visitors,
and that is a great consideration ; it is
equivalent to having a private parlor of
your own, for I have not been in it for
twenty years, and don't expect to for
twenty more. You have seen the parlor,
—my servant can show you the other
room; Judith!"
The black giantess, who had stood dur¬
ing the interview motionless as a statue
behind her mistress's chair, now came
forward and awaited her orders.
" Show the lady our vacant room,
Judith."
Mildred rose, and followed her sable
guide back to a small chamber situated
in an extension at the rear of the build¬
ing. It was furnished rather better than
Madame Valley's own apartment, was
beautifully clean, and well lighted by two
good windows. The grate smoked, but
that objection was finally settled by ex¬
tending to Mildred the privilege of using
Madame Valley's vacant parlor for a pri¬
vate sitting-room, on condition that she
would get a rug at her own expense, and
be careful not to wear out the carpet by
walking over it too much. It was a
great advantage, in Mildred's unpro¬
tected situation, to have only her land¬
lady for a neighbor on the same floor.
Motives of economy, too, which in her
present circumstances were a paramount
consideration, pointed in the same direc¬
tion, and decided her, without much
hesitation, to take Madame Valley's lit¬
tle room.
" Are there any other lodgers in the
house?" she asked, after completing her
inspection, during which the black giant¬
ess stood awaiting her pleasure with
statuesque immobility.
" Dr. Bugg, the apothecary down
stairs, with his two sisters, and their
aunt, Miss Mary Bugg, has the third
floor," replied Judith, without relaxing
a muscle in her stony rigidity.
" And is there no one else ?"
" No one except the Irish girl, Bridget
O'Flannery, that lives in the attic and
does service for the people in the house,
when she can get it. She goes of errands
for the Misses Bugg, and sometimes does
a turn of cleaning up for Madame."
" Ah, then that will just suit me if I
take the room," said Mildred, seeing in
this convenient circumstance another rec¬
ommendation to the lodging. " Do you
know anything about her, what sort of a
girl she is ?"
"She is a very good girl, I believe,
miss," answered Judith ; " at least Í
never saw nor heard nothing to the con¬
trary. I can send her to you if you
would like."
" After I have arranged matters with
your mistress I will speak to her," said
Mildred.
The business with Madame Valley was
soon settled, Mildred paying two weeks'
rent in advance, and observing, with some
disgust, the avidity with which the old
woman's fingers clutched at the money.
Her right side was paralyzed, and she
used her left hand, which Mildred noticed
was beautifully white and soft, though
the other was withered and deformed by
disease, the fingers being drawn inwards
till the curve of the joints was almost
reversed.
" "When will you take possession ?"
asked Madame Valley, after counting
the money.
" I would like to move in at once,"
replied Mildred.
" Very well ; Judith will give you the
key."
MADAME VALLEY.
65
There was something in the old
woman's tone that seemed to imply
dismissal, and Mildred turned towards
the door. Madame Valley followed the
retreating figure with that keen, search¬
ing look of hers, till it had vanished, then
leaning back wearily on her pillows, she
exclaimed, in a bitter tone,—
" The same old story,—misery, misery,
misery,—I see it written in every line of
her young face."
Mildred was soon installed in her new
quarters, and then it was, as she stood
alone in the narrow chamber, so dif-
erent from the spacious apartments at
Hazelhurst, that her poverty first came
fully home to her. The dingy, con¬
tracted walls, the windows with their
dreary outlook upon pent-up court-yards
and piles of angular masonry, seemed
little better than a prison, when she re¬
membered the ample halls and lofty ceil¬
ings of Hazelhurst, with its glorious
views from every side, far and wide, over
the broad, beautiful earth. A choking,
suffocating sensation came over her, and
she felt, in all its terrible intensity, that
most agonizing of heart maladies,—home¬
sickness. There is no suffering under
heaven comparable to that unutterable
longing of the exile for his home. Like
the prophet of old who daily turned his
face toward Jerusalem when he prayed,
the heart of the homeless wanderer turns
forever to some spot of earth that is the
holy city of its love.
In order to drive away the gloomy
thoughts that oppressed her, Mildred
began to unpack her trunks, and busied
herself disposing her little effects about
the rooms so as to give them a more
homelike appearance. A picture of
Hazelhurst was placed over the little
parlor mantel-piece, with small portraits
of her father and mother on either side
of it, and her Bible and prayer-book,
with one or two favorite volumes of
poetry, underneath. A bracket or two
on the walls, and a friendly face here
and there looking from its frame, gave
the place a more cheerful aspect, and
when she had laid out a few of her own
little ornaments that used to adorn her
room at home, and placed her desk and
writing materials on the table, her hum¬
ble domicile began to look less strange
and comfortless.
The next thing was to secure a ser¬
vant, and sending for the girl that Judith
had recommended, she was so pleased
with Bridget's honest, amiable counte¬
nance that she engaged her on the spot,
without further question, notwithstand¬
ing a somewhat objectionable tendency
to loquacity betrayed by the good-natured
Hibernian in her first interview.
" Sure, and a very pretty room yees
have made of it, miss," she began, glan¬
cing round the chamber when the terms
of her service had been agreed upon.
" Ye'd niver know it for the same place
that the last tinent left it, with his ould
pipes and impty bottles ; he was a poor,
miserble crature, to be sure, and dhrunk
all the time."
" How long did he stay here?" asked
Mildred, not much edified by this account
of her predecessor.
" For two weeks, miss, and I nussed
him all the time, and runned of errinds
for him, and claned up his room,—which
there was a sight o' claning to be done
too, for he was a dirty crature, and sick
or dhrunk all the time, and niver a cent
of pay have I seen for it, and he even
chated the old hathen yonder," pointing
toward Madame Valley's door, " out of a
hull week's rint. I didn't have the heart
to complain meself, for he was a poor,
starved body, to be sure, with hardly a
shirt to his back, and so I thought mebbe
he couldn't help it ; but oh, miss," she
added, dropping her voice to a mysteri¬
ous whisper, " it's orful to think how
that ould woman in yonder do love
money, and she so near her grave, too."
" She is very poor, I suppose," said
Mildred, with a charitable intention of
apologizing for her singular landlady.
"Och, la, no indade, miss! that's the
worst of it," cried Biddy, still preserving
her mysterious undertone, as if awed by
the very mention of Madame Valley's
name. " You'd think, to look at her.
that she was some p'oor, starving crature
what couldn't pay for the coffin that was
to bury her in, but it's all, just stinginess
and a grasping spirit. She's as rich as
a queen, they say, and owns houses on
the Avenue, and stores on Broadway,
and railroads and factories, and thou¬
sands upon thousands in bank, and yet
she won't give herself so much as the fire
she needs to kape the blood warrum in
her ould veines, but goes on a pinching
and a saving and a laying up, as though
she'd'a thousand year to live, and niver
a sowl to save."
Mildred could not help being amused
at this absurdly improbable story.
" How did you hear all these marvels,
Bridget?" she asked, with an incredulous
smile.
" Och, mum, everybody knows it,"
66
A MERE ADVENTURER.
was the prompt reply. " I heard Dr.
Bugg himself say one day, as he come up
from payin' of his rint, how it was a
shame, and it was, that the richest
woman in all Now York should be as
keen after a dollar as any starving street-
beggar -, and there is a man, miss, comes
onst a month, which Miss Mary Bugg
says he is a lawyer, comes to bring in
her rints from up-town, and put the
money out again on intrust ; there ain't
no counting, miss, how much she got on
intrust, besides all the other property.
What she can mean to do with it all sure
an' I can't tell, and she an ould crature
ready to drop into the grave, and with
no one to come after her. She'd better
be a having masses said for her wicked
sowl."
" Has she no children ?" asked Mil¬
dred, interested, in spite of herself, in the
girl's extravagant tale.
" Niver a one in the world, miss," an¬
swered the emphatic Bridget.
" Nor any relations or friends?"
" Niver a sowl but that ould black
pagan which is no better than she is her¬
self. It's dreadful, miss, how them two
does live,—like a couple of hathen bar-
bariums. They won't let a praste nor
a clergyman of no sort come anear them ;
many has tried, miss, but the ould
woman always drives thim away like
bastes. One day when I wint in to pay
me rint, she was a lying on her bed sick,
and looking as if she was about to die
right thin. I couldn't help feeling pity
for her, miss, it seemed so dreadful for
her, in a Christian land, to die like an
unbaptized hathen ; so I wint to Father
Mullony, which he can talk so beauti¬
ful, miss, you would think it all come
out of a book; and I tould about the poor
ould crature there, dying like a pagan
barbarium, and he wint to see her and
talked to her, oh ! so beautiful, miss, and
tried to pray over her, and held a crucifix
for her to kiss ; and och ! would ye
b'lieve it? she snatched the holy image
from his hand and flung it in his face,
and drove him from her chamber like a
baste! Ah, miss, it's orful to see a ould
crature like that, ready to drop into her
grave, and can't even say a pater noster.
Miss Mary Bugg says she b'lieves Ma¬
dame Valley has committed the unpar¬
donable sin, and is destined to final
reprobation. Please, miss, can you tell
me whatever that may mean ? It must
be something very dreadful."
" It is something, Bridget, that no hu¬
man being has a right to say of another,"
answered Mildred, "for God alone can
judge."
"Ah, but her conscience is heavy, ye
may be sure, miss,—that's what Miss
Mary Bugg says,—and you can see it in
her face. Did iver ye see anything like
it, miss?"
" She certainly looks very unhappy,"
said Mildred, " but that can come from
misfortune as well as from crime, and
you must remember that she has been
terribly afflicted. Do you know how
long she has been an invalid?"
" Oh, la, no'm ! She was just so when
I first come to the house, six year ago
next May. Dr. Bugg has had his drug¬
store down-stairs for twenty year, and I
heard him tell Mr. Renwick, the minister,
that she has always been as she is now—
no oulder nor no younger—ever since he
first knowed her. But, lawk ! there
comes the doctor now," she continued,
as a shuffling step was heard on the stair
outside. " I must go and help the ladies
about their dinner. At what time will
you like your tea, miss?"
" You needn't come back this evening,
Bridget," she answered. " I am not
hungry, and shall not want any tea."
She dreaded the first lonely meal in
that dull apartment, and the thought of
it took away her appetite, for there is
nothing so unappetizing as solitude. For¬
tunately for her, her mind was so occu¬
pied with all that she had just heard and
seen of the wretched old woman her
neighbor, that it was diverted for the
moment from her own troubles. She
opened her writing-desk, and while the
loquacious Biddy was entertaining the
Misses Bugg up-stairs with a glowing
account of the "real born lady" who
had taken the rooms below, Mildred was
penning for Roy a cheerful account of
her adventures, and of the new world in
which her lot was now cast,—a world
as strange and new to the boy as it was
to her.
A STANDING ADVERTISEMENT.
67
CHAPTER XVI.
a standing advertisement.
" Newspapers are to the whole civilized world what
the daily house talk is to the members of a house¬
hold : they keep up our daily interest in each other;
they save us from the evils of isolation. To live as a
member of the great white race of men, the race that
has filled Europe and America and colonized or con¬
quered whatever territories it has been pleased to
occupy ; to share from day to day its cares, its
thoughts, its aspirations, it is necessary that every
man should read his daily paper."—Hamerton.
Having settled her private affairs,
Mildred was ready on the day appointed
to begin her labors at the Metropolitan
office. She had gone up-town first on
some business of her own, and stepping
into an omnibus on her return, was
slightly confused, at first, on perceiving
that its single other occupant was her
recent acquaintance, Van Dorn. He had
a newspaper in his hand which he seemed
to be reading intently, and a few others,
with some magazines and reviews, were
lying on the seat beside him. He glanced
up from his paper as Mildred entered,
and a glow of pleasure lighted up his
features as he recognized the new-comer.
" I am glad to have met you so oppor¬
tunely, Miss Loring," he said, after the
usual salutations had been exchanged.
"I had just been thinking about you,
and wondering if I should find you at
the office."
" Had you, indeed?" said Mildred,
with an incredulous smile, while she
glanced significantly at the paper in
which she had just found him so deeply
absorbed.
"Yes, really, though you don't believe
it. I see," he continued, following the
direction of her eyes, " that you are like
all the rest of your sex,—jealous of a
man's attention to his newspaper, even
though you don't care a fig for his atten¬
tions yourself. You will be more toler¬
ant, I hope, when you come to be better
acquainted with some of our pleasant
friends here." And he pointed as he spoke
to the little pile of papers beside him.
" I think I am well acquainted with
several of them already ; let me see,"
said Mildred, moving over to Rex's side
of the omnibus, and taking from his
budget a copy of the Deux Mondes, an
Edinburgh and a Saturday Review, " these
are all old friendly faces that I have
seen about the centre-table at home all
my life."
"Is that so?" said Rex. "Well, I
might have guessed as much. Do you
know," he continued, folding his paper
and laying it with its companions on the
seat, " I have often thought a good gauge
of people's intellectual standing would
be found in the newspapers and periodi¬
cals they subscribe for. I think I could
go to the post-office in any town in
America and give a tolerably accurate
intellectual classification of the inhabit¬
ants, merely by inquiring what publica¬
tions went to each address."
" I don't doubt that you could," replied
Mildred ; " and whom would you place in
the first rank?"
" Why, at the top of the list," answered
Rex, smiling, " way up at high-water
mark, would be the readers of the Deux
Mondes, and the best English reviews,
—the Contemporary, Fortnightly, West¬
minster, Quarterly, etc., with glances at
lighter reading,—the greater always in¬
cluding the less, you know."
" And next in order," added Mildred,
" would come the subscribers to purely
literary publications, such as Black¬
wood, and the best class of American
magazines."
"Yes; with selections from current
English publications, such as LittelVs
Living Age, and the like. Then would
come the inferior class of magazines,
fashion papers, illustrated weeklies, etc.
A grade lower we would find the intelli¬
gent farmer who takes a tri-weekly news¬
paper and an agricultural journal; then,
almost at the bottom, comes the chamber¬
maid literature furnished by such sheets
as the New York Weekly or the Led¬
ger ; and last of all, we find the stagna¬
ting rustic who takes nothing but a sec¬
tarian religious weekly of the narrowest
type, and goes to sleep over it every Sun¬
day afternoon trying to read it."
Mildred laughed. " And the people
who never read a newspaper at all?" she
asked, looking up at Rex with a bright
ness in her eyes that they had lacked for
many a day. She had forgotten now all
about the little snubbing she had thought
it necessary to administer at their last
interview, and was enjoying his society
with a satisfaction that would have
frightened her had she stopped to think
about it.
" Oh, we'll give them over to Mr.
Darwin as his 'missing link,'" said
Rex, carelessly; " they don't deserve to
rank with intelligent beings."
Mildred had been idly turning over
the leaves of one of the reviews she held
in her hand during this conversation.
The heading of an article in it seemed,
all at once, t<i have arrested her attention,
68
A MERE ADVENTURER.
and after the "short pause that succeeded
Van Dorn's last remark, she asked, a little
abruptly, pointing with her gloved finger
to the title,—
" Have you read this ?"
"What?" said Rex, drawing nearer
and bending over the page to see. " ' The
Heroines of Shakspeare,'—yes,—that is,
I have glanced at it and found it original,
to say the least. The critic, being a
Frenchman, proceeds with true Gallic
assurance, and pitches into Shakspeare
with as little reverence as Möns. Taine
showed for Milton in his famous work
on English literature."
"I think Taine's the best criticism
upon Milton that has ever been written,"
said Mildred.
"Do you?" answered Rex. "Then
perhaps you will like this Frenchman's
views concerning Shakspeare. English
critics stand in a kind of superstitious
awe of Shakspeare ; they feel, justly,
perhaps, that it would be presumptuous
to find fault with one so much above the
greatest of his critics; but our French¬
man is troubled with none of this super¬
fluous modesty, and says his say without
fear or favor; he objects, particularly, I
remember, to Juliet and Desdemona."
"Well, I must confess," said Mildred,
laughing, " that I always did consider
Desdemona a young lady of singularly
perverted taste."
" And what would you object to Ju¬
liet?" asked Rex. "Our Frenchman
says that neither she nor Romeo could
have known very well what they were
about ; that their acquaintance with each
other was too slight for the tremen¬
dous consequences that resulted from it.
Grand passions, that lead to madness
and to death, he says, are not born in a
day."
" There he may be both right and
wrong," said Mildred.
" I should say it depended a good deal
upon the character of the persons con¬
cerned," said Rex. " Some people are
not capable of a grand passion at all."
" But when two people are destined to
exert a powerful influence on each other's
lives," continued Mildred, " I do not be¬
lieve they often regard each other with
indifference, even the first time they meet,
though the feeling may not always, at
first, be the same in kind or degree that
it afterwards becomes; still, the moving
power is there, and it must be felt."
"You are a fatalist, then, as regards
the passions," said Rex, with a thrilling
consciousness of the feeling he had him¬
self experienced the first time he had
ever set eyes upon Mildred's face. " You
believe that our affections are swayed by
an inevitable destiny over which we have
no control."
"No more than over the stars of
heaven. In fact," she added, with an
unconscious sigh, " the harder we try to
love any one the more impossible does
the task become."
"But why should we ever try to love
anybody if we don't want to?" asked
Rex, ignorant of the secret thought that
inspired her words.
Mildred felt his eyes upon her, and
colored deeply. She had almost betrayed
by her words the slavery in which Mr.
Henlow held her bound, and never be¬
fore had her chains seemed to hang so
heavy about her. Fortunately for her,
the entrance of other passengers put a
stop to the conversation and gave her an
opportunity to recover herself.
At the City Hall Park Mildred and
her companion alighted, and made their
way through the swarming thoroughfares
that centre there, to the Metropolitan
building. As they were passing the door
of the advertising office, they were de¬
tained a moment by the crowd, and Mil¬
dred observed among those who entered
a little dried-up old man, with a secretive
countenance, who silently deposited a
slip of writing on the desk of the adver¬
tising clerk, accompanied with the sum
necessary to pay for its insertion, and
then withdrew as quietly as he had en¬
tered, exchanging not a word with any
one, nor looking to the right hand or to
the left as he went along. Mildred was
struck with the tight, hard, impervious
look of the man, and fixed her eyes upon
him with an expression of passing curi¬
osity which we sometimes feel about a
face that strikes us in a crowd. Rex ob¬
served her look, and said in an under¬
tone, as the old man brushed past them,—
" There goes the depositary of a mys¬
tery that rivals in a small way the Iron
Mask or the authorship of Junius.
Would you have imagined that so pro¬
saic a thing as a daily newspaper could
have a romance going on in its advertis¬
ing columns ?"
" The old man looks mysterious enough
to have been the depositary of state se¬
crets since the foundation of the world,"
said Mildred, turning to take another
glance at the stranger. "Who and what
is he?"
" His name is Yandergrieft," said Rex,
leading her on towards the private en-
A STANDING ADVERTISEMENT.
69
trance, "and that is all I can tell you
about him, except as regards his con¬
nection with a singular advertisement
which has been standing, with little
variation, in the columns of our paper
for a quarter of a century. See here."
He unfolded, as he spoke, a copy of
that morning's Metropolitan wbich he
carried in his hand, and pointed to a
paragraph not very conspicuously placed
in a crowded advertising column. They
had entered the building now, and while
they were waiting for the elevator to
come down and convey them to the edi¬
torial floor, Mildred had time to run her
eyes over the curious paragraph to which
Rex had called her attention, and here is
what she read :
" W. C. K. $425,000 given if you will
restore what I have lost. All former
stipulations observed. Address same
party as before. M. Y. K."
" That appeal, just as it stands to¬
day," said Rex, looking over her shoulder
as she read, " has appeared in the Metro¬
politan without a single interruption,
they say, for something over a quarter of
a century, the only change being a con¬
stant increase in the reward offered. At
stated intervals, on the day before the
term expires for which he has prepaid
his advertisement, the old fossil you met
just now comes with the regularity of a
machine and hands in the pay for an¬
other three months, all told to a penny,
and accompanied by a brief note, order¬
ing the figures in his notice changed to
larger ones, but otherwise altering not a
syllable. The additions were small in
the beginning,—not more than a few
hundreds at a time,—but have constantly
augmented with the regularity of a
geometrical series, and go on every year
increasing with accelerated velocity, till
now they mount by tens of thousands."
Mildred listened with deep interest to
this singular story.
" It is very strange," she said, when
Rex had finished. " What can it be that
the old man is trying to recover?"
" What would you imagine," said Rex,
"could be an object of such value?"
Mildred reflected a moment, then
answered,—
" I can suppose nothing less than some¬
thing human,—a lost child, perhaps,"
Rex laughed a hard cynical laugh, un¬
natural to him.
" Why, my dear Miss Loring," he ex¬
claimed, in a mocking tone, "you set
your value on human flesh and blood at
an unconscionably high figure ; the ma¬
jority of us wouldn't bring six and a
quarter cents, if put up at auction and
knocked down to the highest bidder."
" Ah, but our only value is not that at
which the world estimates us," said Mil¬
dred. "Every human creature, however
worthless in fact, is or has been, let us
hope, unspeakably precious to some
other being of his race."
"I don't know about that," said Rex,
dubiously. " I have never discovered
that I, for instance, was unspeakably
precious to any one."
"You were to your mother," replied
Mildred, innocently; "the worst of us
are something to our mothers, at least."
Rex colored deeply as she spoke, but
whatever unpleasant chord her words
may have touched, he quickly silenced
it, and returned to the original subject
of discussion.
"I fear," said he, resuming his ordi¬
nary tone, as they took their seats in the
elevator, " that we are wasting our inge¬
nuity on empty surmises. In my opinion,
it is more than probable that the lost
article of the advertisement, and the re¬
ward too, are both mere figments of old
Yandergrieft's brain."
"You think he is crazy?"
" Yes; or at least there is a screw loose
about him somewhere, as they say."
" Yery likely,—but his mind must
have received a shock from some sudden
calamity that made his insanity take
this turn. Does Mr. Gault know noth¬
ing about him ?"
" Nothing, except that he is a good
advertising patron."
" I wonder," said Mildred, reflecting a
little, "even if there is no real person
answering to the W. C. K. of the adver¬
tisement, that the offer of so large a sum
has not tempted impostors to play off on
the old man."
" Doubtless it has, time and again,"
answered Rex ; " but there's ' method in
his madness,' and he is fully capable of
protecting himself. The advertising clerk
undertook to have a little fun out of him
one day, and suggested that W. C. K.
must be dead by this time, or the offer
of so large a sum would certainly have
brought him to light. Old Vandergrieft
merely replied, ' My business, young
man, is mine, and yours is yours.' With
this quiet snubbing he left the office, and
nobody has ever ventured to meddle with
him since."
The elevator had by this time landed
70
A MERE AD VENTURER.
them on the upper floor, and there was
no time to pursue the subject further.
Opening the door to a comfortable private
office which she was to occupy, Rex left
Mildred at her desk, where she found
sufficient employment to divert her
thoughts effectually from old Vander-
grieft and his advertisement.
CHAPTER XVII.
mammon.
" There are communities in which successful fraud,
especially on a large scale, is respected as the proof
of smartness."—IIamebton.
The art of making bankruptcy profit¬
able is one of those mysterious processes
of financiering which are understood only
by the most accomplished professors of
the art. Your ordinary bungler, when
he finds his affairs going to the bad, will
either default in a vulgar way, which is
sure to end in exposure and disgrace, or,
what is scarcely less stupid, will make
an honest consignment of his property
for the benefit of creditors, not even re¬
serving enough, the heartless monster, to
keep a carriage for his wife, and provide
his daughters with the simple necessaries
of new suits from Worth's twice a year.
But the intelligent, level-headed finan¬
cier does nothing of this sort. He sees
the crash coming far ahead, before the
uninitiated have begun to dream of
danger, and with commendable prudence
he takes measures to secure himself
against its consequences. Ile gets up a
prospectus with a lot of honorable names
appended, to show what strong claims
his bank, or his factory, or whatever it
may be, is entitled to hold upon the con¬
fidence of the public ; or, if that will not
answer, he borrows money at twenty per
cent., and pays an enormous quarterly
dividend, which at once silences gain-
sayers, and carries conviction to every
mind. The stock goes up like a rocket,
and he takes advantage of the occasion
to issue a few hundred thousand dollars'
worth of new coupons, which he sells at
a high premium, for the ostensible pur¬
pose of enlarging a business which has
proved so lucrative. The sums thus
realized he puts away in some safe place
which law has rendered secure against
justice, and then, when the crash comes,
and widows and orphans are turned pen¬
niless on the world, and the hard-earned
savings of the laboring man are swept
away forever, and the old, and the weak,
and the helpless raise in vain their im¬
potent cry for justice ; when beggary
and ruin have overtaken thousands who
trusted in him, and relying on his prom¬
ises, committed their goods to his hands ;
then this affectionate father and prudent
man of business rejoices in the pious
thought that his own tender little ones
are safely sheltered from the storm that
is beating about less provident heads, and
he smiles to himself as he hears the state¬
ment of his case in court, and reflects
that the excess of his liabilities over his
reported assets represents the clear
amount of his gains by this clever " oper¬
ation." Verily, "the children of this
world are wiser in their generation than
the children of light."
Meanwhile, the world looks quietly on,
and declares that our financier has made
a devilish sharp move. It does not ex¬
actly approve of the transaction,—oh, no,
not by any means,—but then he spends
his money so generously, he gives such
glorious dinners, his wife and daughters
are so charming, his establishment so
elegant, that the world cannot find it in
its heart to be severe on such a good fel¬
low, and finally ends by turning its back
on the stupid victims who have now no
good dinners to offer it, no elegantly-
dressed wives and daughters with leisure
to devote themselves to its amusement,
no handsome houses to be opened for its
entertainment. If people have no better
sense than to allow themselves to be
made fools of, how can they expect the
world to trouble itself about them ?
So it comes to pass that the victims of
the fraud sink into obscurity and are for¬
gotten, while our clever financier rises
from glory to glory, and after a few more
successful bankruptcies, is able to retire
with a princely fortune from business.
He then goes abroad, and buys up a
count or so for his daughters, or it may
be a duke, or even a dilapidated prince,
if he has stolen enough,—and then, per¬
haps, his victims begin to have their re¬
venge.
To this order of skillful operators be¬
longed Mr. Bonner Macouley, and his
partner, Mr. Johnson Fairburn. They
both contrived to come out of the Mag¬
nolia Bank crash, precipitated by their
own speculations with the funds of the
corporation, considerably better off in
purse, and not much worse off in char-
MAMMON.
71
acter, as the world goes, than they went
into it; but for reasons which will he
readily understood, they thought it best
to change their field of operations before
starting in business again.
Accordingly, establishing their fami¬
lies in two of the handsomest houses on
Fifth Avenue, they set themselves up in
Wall Street as stock brokers on a large
scale, and were soon engaged in a flour¬
ishing business.
Mr. and Mrs. Fairburn having no un¬
married daughters could aiford to take
things more easily, as regarded social
matters, than their neighbors ; but Mrs.
Macouley having two daughters of her
own to settle in life, besides a penniless
niece who must be disposed of somehow,
opened the campaign with great vigor,
and made such an impression at the very
outset, that her arrival was thus an¬
nounced by the Weekly Mirror, an au¬
thority of great weight in Gotham on
such matters :
" Mr. Bonner Macouley has purchased
the elegant mansion, No. 558 Fifth
Avenue, recently owned by Mr. Potter
Palmer, at a cost of seventy-five thousand
dollars, and has expended fifty thousand
dollars more in having it refitted and
furnished. Mr. Macouley is said be
worth about six hundred and fifty thou¬
sand dollars, and is as noble and gener¬
ous as he is wealthy. The diamonds
worn by Mrs. Macouley and her eldest
daughter at the ' Booby Club Recep¬
tion' last week are estimated to have
represented an aggregate value of forty-
five thousand dollars. Mrs. Macouley
and the Misses Macouley will receive on
Thursdays."
Although it was near the middle of
December when the Macouleys took pos¬
session of their new home, yet, with the
combined advantages of money, letters
of introduction, and a good batch of
watering-place acquaintances to start
with, they had already made such head¬
way in society that they determined to
signalize their own importance by receiv¬
ing on New Year's day in a style that
would throw all their acquaintances into
the shade. The Macouley establishment,
with its splendid new furniture, was a
source of ineffable pleasure to its mis¬
tress, a soft, fat, rather pretty woman,
whose thoughts never strayed beyond
woman's proper sphere of millinery and
upholstery, still less to the means by
which her taste in such matters was
gratified. She had implicit confidence
in her husband,—confidence, that is, that
he would always be able to provide her
and the girls with whatever they wanted,
and this fulfilled her ideas of the whole
duty of man,—or of husbands, at any
rate.
In appearance and disposition, Mr.
Bonner Macouley was entirely different
from his fat, purring wife, who some¬
how produced the impression when you
touched her that she was a big, stuffed
doll, and you would not have been sur¬
prised to discover that instead of ordi¬
nary bone and muscle she was filled up
inside with swan's-down. He was a tall,
large, powerful man, sloping away to¬
wards either extremity from his big
paunch like two cones placed base to
base. Ile was very dark, with a ruby tint
about the face from constant, rather than
excessive indulgence in the pleasures of
the table. His forehead was high and
narrow, his eyes small, of a dark, bluish
gray, and peering with a furtive expres¬
sion from under the puffy sensual lids.
But the most striking features of his
peculiar and not very prepossessing phys¬
iognomy were a strongly aquiline nose
and a very prominent chin that seemed
as if they were constantly on the point
of meeting, and gave to his countenance
a decidedly Jewish cast, though there was
not a drop of Hebrew blood in his veins.
He was too deeply immersed in business
to care much for society himself, but he
provided his family freely with the means
of indulging their tastes. Ile was, be¬
sides, a prominent member of a fashion¬
able church, contributed largely to public
charities, and more than that, he was as
good as a prince, or rather as a president,
to his poor relations, and was even ready
to fling an alms to his victims of the
abundance he had stolen from them. In
short, he was, as the newspapers ex¬
pressed it in chronicling some of his
magnificent public donations, one of those
noble men who are an ornament to their
race. His princely generosity was the
theme of many an admiring tongue, and
as generosity is a gratuitous and super-
ogatory virtue, while the homely ones
of honesty and justice are nothing more
than our bounden duty, for doing which
a man seldom gets any praise, the world
readily overlooked his disregard of the
latter, dazzled by the lustre of more
magnificent qualities.
Mildred was in no hurry to obtrude
herself upon the notice of her plunderers,
and but for their connection with her
A MERE ADVENTURER.
sister and brother, would have held aloof
from them altogether. The claims of the
Macouleys upon the affections of the two
younger children had been rendered un¬
usually strong by the fact that their
childhood was passed in their uncle's
family, Mrs. Macouley having taken
them after their mother's death, and
brought them up with her own children
until Mildred was old enough to assume
charge of them herself. Mrs. Macouley
was really a very amiable sort of woman
in her domestic relations ; her daughters
were bright, pleasant, good-natured girls,
fond of their young cousins in a negative
sort of way that would pass for genuine
affection so long as no sacrifices were
demanded of it ; and as the young people
had been very happy in their uncle's
house, it is not strange that an influence
was there exerted over Fanny's not very
strong character which no after-circum¬
stances could counteract. Even Leroy,
with all his bluster about his uncle's
faults, was far from meaning everything
he said, and could not quite get rid of the
old-time home feeling for those he had
loved from childhood.
With Mildred, there were neither the
ties of blood nor the influence of early
association to mitigate resentment, and
it was with reluctance that she suffered
herself, for Fanny and Leroy's sake, to
maintain even the most distant inter¬
course with those by whom she felt her¬
self to have been grievously wronged.
A visit to Mrs. Macouley's house was a
step she would never have taken volun¬
tarily, but after waiting nearly three
weeks for Fanny to come to her, and
seeing there was no other alternative,
she finally went to seek her sister, and
ͻresented herself, as it happened, on the
ast day of the year, at the Macouley
mansion.
Mrs. Macouley herself was in the par¬
lor when Mildred entered, and received
her with gracious condescension,—for in
Mrs. Macouley's eyes gros grain silk
and Axminster carpets are evidences of
superiority that entitle one to be conde¬
scending.
" I am very glad to see you, my dear,"
she began, quite ignoring the possibility
that Mildred might have reasons for not
reciprocating her cordiality. " Why have
you not been to see us before?"
Mildred replied, coldly, that she had
no time for general visiting, and had
merely called a moment, to see her sister.
" I dare say you are busy," replied
Mrs. Macouley, languidly. "It gives
one a great deal to do, moving to a new
place, and getting started among new peo¬
ple. We are going to receive to-morrow
for the first time, except on a small scale,
since coming to the city. Everything
had to be done over, you know, from
cellar to attic, before we felt that the
house would do to open for company.
It was dreadful on poor Mr. Macouley,"
she continued, feeling instinctively that
some apology was necessary before Mil¬
dred for all this extravagance, " such
heavy expense coming right on the heels
of his recent misfortunes, and but for my
little provision that was saved from the
wreck, I don't know what would have
become of us. But where there are girls
in a family to be provided for and prop¬
erly settled in life, one must make some
exertion, you know."
Mildred thought it would have been
much better to make some exertion in be¬
half of their creditors, but said nothing.
Mrs. Macouley noted with satisfaction the
glance she threw around the elegant
rooms, and asked in a tone of gratified
anticipation,—
" What do you think of the parlors,
my dear?"
Mildred suppressed the bitter retort
that rose to her mind, and answered,
laconically, that she thought them very
handsome.
" You may well say that," replied Mrs.
Macouley, smiling. " The fitting up of
these two rooms alone cost twelve thou¬
sand dollars. Just feel the carpet," she
added, burying the tips of her elegant
boots in the soft nap ; " real Axminster,—
that of itself cost three thousand dollars.
And the curtains you see,—wrought lace,
and lambrekins of the finest blue satin to
match the furniture ; each window cost
five hundred dollars ; and that painting
over the piano," pointing to a small
landscape of Church's, " cost fifteen hun¬
dred."
Mildred looked at the picture, and
asked who was the artist.
" I don't know his name," replied Mrs.
Macouley, " but, of course, he is a cele¬
brated artist, or his pictures would not
bring such a price. That painting over
the mantel-piece is a still greater work
of art ; it cost twenty-five hundred dol¬
lars."
Mrs. Macouley's inventory was inter¬
rupted, at this point, by the entrance of
Fanny with her cousins. The Misses Ma¬
couley were two stylish-looking blondes,
with all the labored and exaggerated
vivacity of manner by which modern
MAMMON.
73
belles of the beau-monde seek to imitate
the attractions of their more successful
rivals of the demi-monde. Fanny was
more subdued, but Mildred noticed with
surprise that she had already lightened
her mourning to such an extent as
scarcely to be distinguishable from the
ordinary black suits so often worn for
mere convenience' sake.
" We are awful glad to see you," said
the sprightly Kate, with an artificial gush
in her voice quite in keeping with the
artificial effusiveness of her manner, and
she offered the tips of her richly-jewelled
fingers to Mildred's frigid touch.
"Yes, it's awful nice in you to come
without waiting for us," echoed Clara
May, while Mildred smiled at the cool¬
ness with which the family appropriated
her visit to themselves. Not that the
visit of a person in Mildred's position
was of any consequence to them, but the
cordiality of the Macouleys was ani¬
mated in this particular case by an in¬
stinctive desire to ignore the existence of
just grounds for coolness between them¬
selves and "other sufferers," as they
phrased it, by the Magnolia Bank failure.
Besides, it is vulgar to be too eager to
turn your back on people when they meet
with reverses. The proper way is not to
trouble yourself any further about them,
of course ; yet whenever chance throws
them in your way, to be overwhelmingly
and obtrusively polite, as who should
say, " It is true you are no longer a per¬
son of consequence, and cannot be of use
to me, but I am too well-bred to tell you
so, and out of my own free grace and
abounding condescension I am willing
to show you the same respect as before,
and even greater, for your misfortune's
sake, as I would to a cripple or a blind
man."
This is the genteel way, and the Ma¬
couleys were genteel people ; they felt
that they had a right to be patronizing,
and they meant to exercise it. Indeed,
half the glory of being rich and grand is
lost if you cannot patronize somebody
less fortunate than yourself.
"Don't you think Fanny is looking
well?" asked Mrs. Macouley, turning
complacently to Mildred, as the latter
released her sister from an affectionate
embrace. "I made her take off those
dreadful crape things when we came
North ; nobody here will know, you
see," she added, apologetically, as she
noted Mildred's look of disapproval,
" and it wouldn't do for her to go moping
all winter for nothing."
"Excuse me, Mrs. Macouley," replied
Mildred, a little indignantly, " but I do
not think my sister can feel that the death
of our father is nothing."
" Oh, my dear child, of course I didn't
mean that!" cried Mrs. Macouley, rais¬
ing her fat cushion-like hands with a
deprecating air. " But there is no use,
you know, in grieving over what can't
be helped, and so I thought it would be
better for the poor child to lay aside her
heavy black and go into company a little
with my girls,—in a quiet way, of course,
—and Mr. Macouley was so generous,
notwithstanding all his recent losses, he
offered to provide her with a wardrobe
just the same as if she were his own
daughter. Fanny dear, run and get the
new dress your uncle gave you to wear
to-morrow."
Mildred could scarcely credit her ears.
"Why, Fanny," she cried, turning
with flashing eyes toward her sister,
" you surely are not going to make your
appearance in the drawing-room to-mor¬
row !"
"Why not?" asked the vivacious Kate.
" It will be awful fun for us all, and she
needs a little something jolly after being
shut up so long."
" Oh, yes, we are going to have an aw¬
ful jolly nice time," echoed Clara May,
who tried to relieve her natural insipidity
by a weak imitation of her sister's fash¬
ionable cant.
Fanny put on an injured look. The
truth was, her conscience reproached her
a little, and as is usual with people of
her disposition when they feel themselves
in the wrong, she was anxious to lay the
blame on somebody else. Leroy was
generally the most convenient scape-goat
for this purpose, but as he was not at
hand, having been left behind by his
uncle to settle some unfinished business,
she turned upon Mildred as a substi¬
tute.
" That is just the way with you, Mil¬
dred," she began, in a querulous tone,
" you always do make a fuss about every¬
thing."
" But there need be no occasion for a
fuss here, Fanny dear," Mildred an¬
swered, kindly, " for on this subject, at
least, you and I ought to feel alike ; he
who has gone was as much your father
as mine."
Fanny was not a bad girl at heart, and
the effect of Mildred's words was appar¬
ent immediately in the flush of shame
that overspread her face.
"Well, I.don't care anythiug about
74
A MERE ADVENTURER.
receiving to-morrow," she began, in a
penitent tone. " I would rather not go
into society yet awhile myself, but after
Uncle Bonner's generosity in buying me
such a handsome dress, I thought "
"Go bring the dress, my love," said
Mrs. Macouley, interrupting her, " and
let your sister see how becoming it will
be."
Whatever failings Fanny's relations
may have had, they certainly contrived
tc make the girl feel as little of the bit¬
terness of dependence as it was possible
for one in her position to do, and that,
at least, was to their credit. To do them
justice, they had none of the little mean¬
ness that would grudge the orphan her
crust ; their operations were on too large
a scale for that, and in private life they
were as grandly generous as people can
afford to be upon whom generosity en¬
tails no sacrifice.
" Now, Mildred, my dear," began
Mrs. Macouley, taking advantage of
Fanny's absence to argue the case, "you
really ought to get rid of some of those
strait-laced notions of yours. Your poor
father is dead, and Fanny can't do him
any good by shutting herself up like a
hermit, and may do herself a great deal
of harm. It is very important now, you
know, after the misfortunes that have be¬
fallen us all, that Fanny should be set¬
tled in life as soon as possible, and there
is no use in her wasting time moping
when she can have a fine opportunity of
doing something for herself. Her uncle
and I have made up our minds that she
shall have every advantage our own girls
enjoy as long as she stays with us, and
she is pretty enough to make a brilliant
match, in spite of her want of fortune, if
she will only make use of her opportuni¬
ties ; and as to her mourning, there can
be no real disrespect to your father's
memory in dispensing with what is, after
all, a mere conventionalism, here, where
no one is aware of the circumstances :
she need not feel any the less, you know."
There was wisdom in this speech, but
it was a selfish, worldly wisdom that
filled Mildred with disgust. Before she
could reply, however, Fanny returned,
bearing on her arm an artistic fabrication
of black tulle and satin that was enough
to make the heart of any ordinary girl
loathe sombre crape and serge. Mildred
barely glanced at the dress, and said to
her sister, in a reproachful tone,—
" I didn't think, Fanny, that you could
forget our poor, heart-broken father so
soon."
Fanny hung her head and began to
whimper.
" It is very unkind of you to talk so,
Mildred," she answered, sobbing; "you
always do contrive to spoil everything."
" There, there, poor child, don't cry
about it," said her aunt, soothingly.
" It's really too bad of you, Mildred,"
she continued, reproachfully, turning to
the elder sister, " to do this after all the
trouble we've had trying to cheer the
dear child up a little ; she was just be¬
ginning to be like herself again, when
you come and throw cold water on all
our efforts."
" Never mind, Fan," began Clara May,
" don't cry about it, and we'll talk Mil¬
dred round, and you shall wear your
dress yet."
" Yes, and you will look awful swell
in it too," said the lively Kate, "and
will catch all the beaux ; I shouldn't be
surprised if the poet Van Dorn made a
sonnet on you."
Mildred turned suddenly pale, then red
again.
"Do you know Mr. Van Dorn?" she
asked, quickly, turning to Kate.
" No ; but we have sent him a card,
and he will call to-morrow,—at least Mr.
Emery said he meant to bring him. By
the way, you are on his paper, perhaps
you can tell us something about him. Is
he as killing nice as they say? If he is,
it's an awful pity he hasn't got any of
the tin."
" My relations with him are entirely
of a business character," answered Mil¬
dred, coldly. " I know nothing what¬
ever of his social accomplishments.
Fanny," she continued, turning to her
sister while rising to depart, " I want
you to promise me before I go that you
will absent yourself from the drawing-
room to-morrow while visitors are call¬
ing."
The cousins began to remonstrate, but
Mildred paid no attention to them.
" For the sake of our father, Fanny,"
she pleaded, " and for common decency's
sake, promise me that you will show this
respect to his memory."
" I didn't mean any disrespect to him,
Mildred; indeed, I never did!" cried
Fanny, more impressed by her sister's
words than she chose to admit ; " and I
don't want to receive to-morrow, and I'll
wear crape all my days, and I never will
f;o into company any more as long as I
ive !"
" No, no, you won't do all that," said
Mildred, gently, putting her arm round
A HARD CASE.
75
the girl's waist. " I shall only ask you
to abstain a little longer, because I feel
these things so deeply myself, Fanny,
that I can't bear you should forget yet
awhile."
" I haven't forgotten ; indeed, I haven't,
Mildred," whispered the girl, weeping.
" You don't know how often I think of
the old home and all of you there."
Mildred's own eyes began to fill with
tears.
" You must come and see me some¬
times, dear, in my new home," she said,
kissing her sister. " It is not a pleasant
place like this, but you won't forget that
I'm your sister, Fanny?"
" By the way," put in Mrs. Macouley,
as Mildred moved towards the door.
"You haven't told us yet where you
live."
" My address is No. 115 Bloomfield
Street," answered Mildred.
" Bloomfield Street ? Where is that?"
asked Mrs. Macouley, as if she were in¬
quiring the locality of some Mexican
ranchero.
" It is way down-town, below the City
Hall." Mildred replied.
" Why, good gracious, we can never
find our way there !" exclaimed Mrs.
Macouley, horrified. " What sort of a
place is it?"
" A very poor place indeed,—one that
would not at all repay you for the
trouble of finding it," said Mildred,
haughtily ; " and even if it had all the
attractions which it lacks," she continued,
" my business takes me away from home
so much that I could not encourage vis¬
itors to seek me there."
The idea of Mrs. Macouley and her
daughters in Madame Valley's little
dingy parlor, staring in well-bred horror
at the poverty they had brought her to,
was an indignity she could not brook,
and strengthened her resolve to avoid all
intercourse with them except what her
sister's connection with the family ren¬
dered necessary. She might have spared
herself any anxiety on that score, for
though the Macouleys, like other fash¬
ionable people, could be overwhelmingly
gracious when it cost them no trouble,
they were not at all likely to go out of
their way to hunt up an inconvenient
acquaintance who lived in a tenement
house in Bloomfield Street.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A HARD CASE.
"I have lived long enough ; my way of life
Is fallen into the sere, the yellow leaf;
And that which should accompany old age,
As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have."
Macbeth.
Mildred had now been for more than
two months established at her humble
lodging in Bloomfield Street, and the
dingy little apartments began to wear a
home-like aspect, partly from habit,
which had familiarized her with their
look, partly on account of the friendly
oflices of her maid, whose diligent scrub¬
bing and putting to rights had greatly
improved the appearance of things.
Bridget had conceived from the very
first an enthusiastic admiration for the
new lodger, who, she assured the Misses
Bugg, was as lovely as a young lady in
a story-book. The kindly regard for
inferiors which Mildred, without dero¬
gating at all from her own dignity,
knew so well how to express, had warmed
Bridget's admiration into a devoted at¬
tachment which the honest Hibernian
displayed by every means in her power,
and Mildred owed many little comforts
of her lonely and desolate life to the hum¬
ble ministrations of the poor servant-
girl. Bridget had little time to devote to
labors of love, for, besides helping the
Misses Bugg with their cooking, and
doing a little laundry-work for single
gentlemen, she was char-woman to three
or four small shopkeeper households in
the neighborhood, yet she contrived to
find time for a hundred little offices of
kindness, which touched Mildred more
deeply than the most obsequious atten¬
tions had done in the days when she was
able to pay more liberally for them.
Indeed, if Mildred had been a duchess,
with half a dozen maids to do nothing
but wait on her, she could not have been
half so faithfully attended, for there is
something in the services that love ren¬
ders free, which money, with all its
power, may bid for in vain. Biddy
would sit up half the night, unknown to
Mildred, over her ironing or darning, that
she might have a little extra time next
day to devote to the adornment of her
young lady's apartment. One of her
cousins—and it is astonishing how ser¬
vant-girls always abound in cousins—was
hired to a florist, and through him Brid¬
get obtained, now and then, various leav¬
ings and wrings of bouquets, with which
76
A MERE ADVENTURER.
she decked Mildred's poor abode as
proudly as if it had been a palace. She
had patched the threadbare carpet, and
rubbed and polished the dilapidated fur¬
niture till it shone like rosewood, and,
really, Mildred's little dingy parlor was
no such very uninviting place after all.
One day, as Mildred was returning
home with a mind intent upon her own
affairs, she was startled, just as she
reached her own abode, at encountering
a person coining from the opposite direc¬
tion, who turned in at the same place,
and, brushing unceremoniously past her,
hurried on up-stairs, straight to Madame
Valley's door. The appearance of the
stranger instantly arrested her attention,
for. at a glance, she clearly recognized
the tight, hard, secretive face of the little
old man, whose connection with the
strange advertisement that had been
standing so long in the Metropolitan
invested him with a mysterious and ro¬
mantic interest.
Ile disappeared at Madame Valley's
door as Mildred entered her own, where
she was received by Bridget with a face
full of mysterious wonder.
'' Lor', miss, just do look there, quick !"
exclaimed the girl, in an excited whisper.
" That's him a going to the ould Madame
now ; didn't I tell ye so, miss?
"Didn't you tell me what, Bridget?"
asked Mildred, closing the door behind
her, quite bewildered by what she had
just seen.
" Och, miss, the lawyer !" answered
Biddy, excitedly, pushing the door ajar
to have another peep. " Didn't I tell
yees how the ould Madame had a lawyer
as come reg'lar onst a month to count
her money for her? And there he's gone
now, miss, and sure I've seen him do
that same ivery month the hull six years
as I've been here. Och, sure, and
wouldn't I love to see the piles of gowld
he'll be counting to the ould hathen this
day?"
Mildred had always received Bridget's
stories of Madame Valley's wealth with
a smile of incredulity, as savoring too
much of the marvellous to be worth a
serious thought. So far as she could
judge, there was not only no foundation
for such a belief, but much to indicate
the contrary. Mildred had been ad¬
mitted by her singular neighbor to terms
of comparative intimacy,—that is, on two
or three occasions, when she went to pay
her rent, Madame Valley had invited her
to sit awhile, and talk with her or read
to her. Mildred never omitted any of
these opportunities for becoming better ac¬
quainted with a character that had deeply
interested her from the first; but though
the invalid, in the course of conversation,
had displayed a degree of culture and
literary taste that surprised her visitor,
there was nothing in her surroundings
but would seem to indicate the most
pinching poverty. Not only was the
sufferer without many of the physical
comforts which her situation rendered
almost necessary, but — a deprivation
which it is hard to believe could ever be
voluntary in a person of such apparent
culture—she was very scantily provided
with the intellectual food which she
craved much more, and had once ac¬
cepted eagerly a lot of old exchanges
that Mildred had brought from the
Metropolitan office. Now, however, the
sight of old Vandergrieft acting as
Madame Valley's confidential adviser
seemed to connect her, in some way,
with the mysterious advertisement that
offered to dispose so freely of hundreds
of thousands.
What if there should be some founda¬
tion, after all, for the wild stories afloat
among the lodgers, and Madame Valley
were the real author of old Vandergrieft's
advertisement? The thought flashed
upon her mind one instant, only to be
banished the next as too wild and vis¬
ionary for serious consideration. A law¬
yer might have a hundred clients, and
Madame Valley might as well employ
Mr. Vandergrieft about her little affairs
as anybody else. But then, if he were a
lawyer in active business and trusted by
other people with their serious affairs, he
could not be the mere harmless lunatic
that Mr. Van Dorn had seemed to think
him, and there must be something in the
advertisement, after all, though whether
it related to his own affair or to that of
some of his clients she could not conjec¬
ture. This brought her thoughts back
to Madame Valley. It had struck Mil¬
dred from the first that her landlady was
not altogether sane on some subjects, and
it seemed not unreasonable to attribute
any eccentricity to her ; but then it was
hardly probable that Madame Valley and
her lawyer were both crazy, and if he
were sane himself he would hardly act
as her agent in carrying out unreason¬
able fancies. On the other hand, how
did she know that Mr. Vandergrieft really
was a lawyer? She had nothing but
Bridget's word for it, and the girl's state¬
ments were often so vague and marvel¬
lous that Mildred could not regard them.
A HARD CASE.
77
by any means, as conclusive evidence.
Still, one thing was certain : there was
old Yandergrieft closeted with Madame
Yalley,—in what capacity Mildred knew
not, whether as friend, relation, guardian,
or business agent, but there he was, and
the connection, whatever it might be,
was a close and important one. The
more Mildred thought about it the more
strange and perplexing it all seemed,
and as she sat sipping the chocolate that
usually made her favorite after-dinner
refreshment, she brooded over the mat¬
ter in her mind, while the garrulous
Biddy pursued her own reflections aloud
as she stood waiting to take away the
things.
" Och, sure, miss, an' it is orful to
think of a ould crature like that caring
for nothing but countin' of her money,
whin she ought to be a countin' of her
beads,—and wastin' of her time in talk
with a lawyer, whin she ought to be eon-
fessin' to a praste. Sure, miss, an' it's
niver any good the lawyers does to sowls
that iver I heard of."
" Do you know the name of Madame
Yalley's lawyer, Bridget?" asked Mil¬
dred, at the first pause, willing to test
how much the girl really knew of what
she was so fond of talking about.
" Och. sure, and that same is what I
have niver heard, miss ; it might be Beel¬
zebub for aught I know; he just comes
and he goes like a evil sperrit, and keeps
his mouth bottled up as tight as if his
money was locked in it."
" You are not partial to lawyers, Brid¬
get, I see," said Mildred, not caring to
encourage further her handmaiden's pro¬
pensity to gossip. " I am sorry for that,
because my father was a lawyer."
" Ou, sure, miss, and your honored
father, may heaven bless him, could
niver have been lawyer enough to hurt
him," answered Bridget, deprecatingly.
" And besides, the lawyers can be as re¬
spectable gintlemen as anybody when
they will, and that same was your hon¬
orable father, miss, I make no doubt,
miss ; but to go a lawyerin' for a wicked
ould pagan, miss, and a gougin' and a
scrougin' of the poor for their little dues
afore they can turn round to put a crust
in their mouths ! Och, miss, and ain't I
glad, sure, I have paid me own rint this
blessed mornin', so that he'll have no call
to come a gougin' an' a scrougin' of
me !"
" Has he ever had occasion to fall upon
you for arrears, Bridget?" asked Mil¬
dred, with a smile, thinking that the
jirl's antipathy to Madame Valley's
agent might be founded upon some un¬
pleasant little episode of this sort.
" Bless you, no, miss !" cried Biddy,
promptly. "And sure, it's niver that
pleasure he shall have out of Biddy
O'Flannery. I always makes sure, miss,
to lay aside my rint, first thing, whatever
else may be a wantin', for they do say,
miss, that if iver a tinant is behind in
any o' the ould pagan's houses he'll bun¬
dle 'em out like a dog into the strate if
the last penny isn't paid to the very
minute ; and it was him, miss, as trun¬
dled out the poor crature what had one
of these very rooms before yerself, on a
cowld, stormy day, and him without rags
enough on his back to kape his bones
from freezing. Och, sure, miss, it would
have gone to the heart of yees to see him
go a triinbeling an' a shivering out into
the cowld, poor, drunken baste though
he was."
These allusions to her predecessor
always made Mildred a little uncomfort¬
able, and seeing there was no chance to
check the girl's garrulity after the slight
encouragement her curiosity had betrayed
her, contrary to custom, into giving it,
she emptied her cup and ordered her at¬
tendant to remove the things. Bridget's
reminiscences suggested also that pay¬
day was again at hand, and her own
dues for the next fortnight were to be
settled. She had laid the money aside
ready, with a little bouquet of white hya¬
cinths which she had bought that morn¬
ing out of charity from a shivering flower-
girl in the street. She had never ven¬
tured upon such a liberty before, but the
lonely invalid seemed to her an object of
deepest compassion, and she chose this
delicate way of expressing her sympathy.
She waited till she heard old Yandergrieft
depart, which he did not do till after a
stay of an hour or more, and then taking
her flowers, and that other less romantic
offering of money, without which she
suspected they would not be very well
received, she went and knocked at Ma¬
dame Valley's door.
She was admitted at once by the Ama¬
zonian porteress, and saw nothing to
indicate the recent presence of a visitor,
except that the eyes of the invalid were
a little more fiery, if possible, than
usual, and there was a bright red spot
on each sunken cheek, as though some
strong inward emotion had left its traces
there. She received Mildred cordially,
and bade her be seated,—an invitation
which the lsdter willingly accepted, after
78
A MERE ADVENTURER.
first presenting her bouquet with the
usual expressions of regard for the in¬
valid. The old woman received her
words with a cynical smile, but her face
softened as she glanced at the flowers
with a look which showed that she was
not altogether insensible to such atten¬
tions.
" Thank you, Miss Loring, for remem¬
bering a lonely old woman," she said,
turning her eyes from the flowers back to
Mildred. " 1 would express a wish that
you may be as kindly remembered your¬
self when you are old, if good wishes were
not a mockery in this bungling world of
ours, where the people who deserve good
things are sure never to get them."
She accompanied the words with a
keen, searching look, as though she
would read the meaning of that deep
melancholy which had now become the
habitual expression of poor Mildred's
countenance. The bitter, sneering tone
in which she spoke reminded Mildred of
the dreadful accounts Bridget had given
of the old woman's profanity, and she
answered, gently,—
" If our own deserts were our only
plea, Madame Valley, I am afraid the best
of us would have little to hope for, either
in this world or the next."
"Don't begin to talk cant," cried Ma¬
dame Valley, with an impatient wave of
the hand, " it don't suit you, and besides,
I know it all by heart already ; I have
had that sort of stuff preached at me till
I am sick of it."
" But, Madame Valley," exclaimed
Mildred, shocked rather than offended
at the old woman's manner, "you surely
do not reject as cant those comforting
assurances of religion which give us
something better to lean upon than our
own poor "
" Religion ? What do you mean by re¬
ligion ?" cried the invalid, vehemently,
interrupting her. "If you expect me to
find any consolation in being told that I
deserve worse measure than I have got,
and that I ought to feel very thankful at
being let off by a merciful Providence
with nothing worse than the blight and
ruin of my whole life, then I tell you,
plainly, I'll have nothing to do with any
such religion or its consolations. It is
all very well for fat parsons, who have
no fault to find with Providence on their
own account, to preach contentment and
thankfulness to me; but let any of them
suffer what I have endured for all these
years, and then see what they will have
to say for the mercy and goodness of their
1 Providence' ! Ask me to admire the
justice of a being from whom I have re¬
ceived nothing but injustice? To trust
in the mercy of a monster who calls mil¬
lions of creatures into existence for no
other purpose—if the teachings of your
religion be true—but to make them mis¬
erable? As well ask a poor worm to
praise the goodness of the little savage
who is sticking pins into it for his amuse¬
ment! No; I'll not believe in any such
God, nor in any such religion as that!"
" I think, Madame Valley," said Mil¬
dred, with sincere pity for the unhappy
woman, "that you have mistaken the
teachings of the Christian religion. If
this world were all, I grant there would
be reason for your doubts, but there is
true consolation in the thought that there
is another world where the wrongs of
this will be made right, a world where
there is no marrying nor giving in mar¬
riage. Ah," she added, suddenly check¬
ing the thought that was betraying itself
in her speech, " this mortal life would
indeed be intolerable were it not for the
hope of a better one hereafter."
"But what right," demanded Madame
Valley, excitedly, " have we to suppose
that a creator who has made one world
all awry will manage another any better?
What right have we to conclude that a
being who delights in our sufferings here
will take pleasure in our happiness here¬
after? If your God is so wise and so
good, why is it that the wicked always
get the best of it in his world, and wrongs
that would make your hair stand on end
—yes, that would set the very blood in
your veins on fire to hear of them, stalk
unavenged before his eyes?"
" That is because his time has not
yet come," said Mildred, calmly. "To
me, the strongest of all arguments for
the existence of another and a better life
is found in the wrong and injustice of
this. Even if you reject the idea of a
personal God, wrong and injustice cannot
form part of the established order of na¬
ture, or nature itself would go to pieces.
Ah, Madame Valley, if you would only
wait and have faith "
"Yes, yes, that is what they all say,"
replied the invalid, impatiently. "Wait,
wait, be patient; it's the same old tune,
and I've been waiting these twenty-five
years, only to feel hope grow more dead
every hour, and I shall go down to the
grave at last and never, never know "
She interrupted herself with a low
cry, like a wail, and raised her left hand
—the pnly member she could move—
A HARD CASE.
79
above her head, while a look of unutter¬
able agony convulsed her features ; a
look that betokened an inward desolation
of which the shattered and ruined frame
of the sufferer was but a feeble image.
Forgetting her horror at the blasphe¬
mous words of the unbeliever, in pity for
the suffering that wrung them from her
lips, Mildred moved softly to the chair
of the invalid, and taking Madame Val¬
ley's withered hand, pressed it gently in
both her own, and said,—
" You have been a great sufferer, Ma¬
dame Valley,—greater than most of us, I
well believe,—but I pray God that you
may yet find the only way of peace."
Instead of the angry rebuff Mildred
half expected, the old woman merely
withdrew her hand quietly, and motioned
the speaker back to the seat she had just
quitted.
" Sit down," she said, in a low, firm
voice, while her face gradually resumed
its natural expression.
Mildred obeyed in silence, and the in¬
valid regarded her narrowly for some
moments without speaking; then, still
keeping her eyes fixed steadily upon the
young lady's face, she said, in a hard,
dry voice,—
" You are a Christian,—you have found
this boasted path of peace,—yet tell me
truly, are you happy?"
Mildred felt the keen, searching eyes
of the speaker probing into her very
soul, and knew that she could not, even
if she had wished, evade the truth.
"No, Madame Valley," she answered,
frankly. " Christianity does not profess
to make us happy in this life. Its great
Founder said expressly, 'My kingdom is
not of this world.' Religion does not
exempt us from sorrow, but it teaches us
to bear it with resignation."
" And are you resigned ?"
The question startled Mildred with the
sudden analysis of her own feelings it
forced upon her. Smarting under a bitter
sense of the injustice that had made her
the victim of others' crimes, and with
every instinct of her nature in wild re¬
bellion against the odious destiny to
which it had bound her, she knew that
she could not truthfully answer Madame
Valley's question as a Christian would
wish. She dropped her eyes under the
steadfast gaze of her inquisitor, and re¬
plied, in a tone of humility,—
" No, Madame Valley, I fear I am not
resigned, but I try to be submissive. I
have a heavier cross to bear than often
falls to the lot of humanity, and I some¬
times feel as if I would throw away life
itself to get rid of my burden, if I did
not value the hope of a life to come too
highly to forfeit it by trifling with this.
To those of us whose yoke is very heavy,
there is nothing left but to submit as well
as we can, and hope for better things in
another world."
It was melancholy to hear such hopeless
words from youthful lips, but Madame
Valley listened with one of her cold,
cynical smiles.
" I don't see much difference between
us, after all," she said, turning her head
wearily on her cushions. " You are a
Christian, and yet are not happy ; you
only endure life because you are afraid
your tyrant God will send you worse
things in another world if you do not
submit, quietly, to his cruelties in this.
I am an atheist, and yet not more mis¬
erable than you, considering what I have
to bear. I endure life, not because I am
afraid to do what I will with my own,
but because this miserable existence,
such as it is, is all I have, and when I
go down to the grave, there is an end of
all things with me,—even of the dead
hope whose corpse has been my only
companion all these years."
Mildred saw that no good was to be
accomplished by reasoning with a person
in Madame Valley's frame of mind.
That the old woman's atheism was really
a disease, a morbid development of feel¬
ing brought on by some terrible mental
suffering that had blighted all her facul¬
ties, and sapped the foundations of reason
itself, Mildred could not doubt. Madame
Valley gave no clue as to what was the
secret wrong that filled her with such
bitterness towards God and man, but it
must have been a fearful blow that had
so wrecked both body and mind, and
Mildred returned to her own room with
a heart deeply moved for the sorrows of
one who, she felt, was bowed under a
burden heavier even than her own.
80
A MERE ADVENTURER.
CHAPTER XIX.
mildred makes a fatal discovery.
"From court to the cottage,
In bower and in hall,
From the king unto the beggar
Love conquers all.
Though ne'er so stout and lordly,
Strive or do what you may,
Yet he you ne'er bo hardy,
Love will find out the way."
Old Song.
Fanny kept her promise not to take
part in her cousins' New Year's recep¬
tion, and Mildred's admonition had such
effect that for several weeks she avoided
the dissipations of society as much as
circumstances would permit. But Mrs.
Macouley, whose schemes of benevolence
for Fanny had their climax in a generous
intention of helping her penniless niece to
a profitable matrimonial investment, was
determined that the girl should not waste
valuable time in "moping" while she
had youth, beauty, and fashionable friends
to back her in the struggle for getting a
husband. The sisters, separated by such
different pursuits and associations, saw
gradually less and less of each other, and
Mildred's influence soon gave way to that
of the friends by whom Fanny was more
immediately surrounded, and whose gay
counsels were much more in accordance
with her tastes. The atmosphere of the
Macouley mansion was not very attractive
to Mildred, as may be imagined, and
though the family were always " so glad"
to see her whenever they chanced to meet,
and wondered why she didn't call oftener,
none of them, to her great satisfaction,
ever found their way to the unfashionable
purlieus of Bloomfield Street. Fanny
had called to see her once, but was so de¬
pressed by the poverty of her sister's
surroundings, that it was a relief to Mil¬
dred when the visit was over, and she
never urged Fanny to repeat it.
" IIow can you live in such a dreadful
place, Mildred?" asked the petted girl,
looking round her with a frightened,
shrinking air, as she entered the dingy
little room that served Mildred for both
study and parlor.
" Necessity can teach us anything,
Fanny," said Mildred, with a quiet smile.
" I am beginning to feel very much at
home here already."
" But it's such a horrid part of the
city ; aren't you afraid of being robbed
and massacred?"
" I could not furnish material in my
humble person for a very extensive mas¬
sacre," replied Mildred, laughing, " and
as for robbery, my poverty is sufficient
protection against that."
" The people who live here must be
very dreadful," said Fanny, looking
round with a little shudder, as if she were
in an encampment of wild Arabs.
" On the contrary," answered Mildred,
" my neighbors are very harmless. On
this floor is no one but a paralytic old
woman and her servant; on the floor
above, two innocent little old maids, with
an octogenarian aunt ; and below, is a
dried-up apothecary who never has any
customers."
" And it's a back room, too," continued
Fanny, with unabated disgust. " I de¬
clare, Mildred, you ought not to live so ;
it is compromising the dignity of the
family. Aunt Clara would be dreadfully
mortified if she knew I had been to such
a place."
Mildred always found it hard to con¬
trol her impatience when Fanny began
in this strain, so she did not encourage
her to prolong a visit which seemed to
cause her such disquietude, and Fanny
herself, though fond of her sister in her
way, and always glad to have Mildred
come to her, never volunteered to repeat
an experiment so disturbing to her peace
of mind as a descent into the regions of
ungentility where Mildred dwelt. And
so it came to pass, without any ill feeling
on either side, though not without great
regret to Mildred, that a sort of involun¬
tary estrangement sprung up between
the two sisters. It could not well be
otherwise, situated as they were, for the
great orbs of space are hardly separated
by wider barriers than divide the gay
world of fashion and pleasure where
Fanny moved, from that other world of
toil and trouble where Mildred's lot was
cast. With such different aims and asso¬
ciations, even the ties of blood became
weakened, and the younger sister, sur¬
rounded by gay friends whose prosperity
she shared, soon learned not to miss the
obscure toiler whose place in their bright
world now knew her no more. If Mil¬
dred's heart sometimes turned back long¬
ingly to the glittering eminence from
which she had fallen, it was only to note
with a sigh what a mere blank she was
there now, and how little difference her
absence made even to those who had
bowed lowest beneath her sway in the
days when she was the acknowledged
queen of society in one of the proudest
cities of the Union. But when she
thought of the price at which her reap-
MILDRED MAKES A FATAL DISCOVERY.
81
pearance in that charmed circle was to
be purchased, she shrunk from it as from
some gilded den of pollution, and clung
with a sort of desperate longing to the
obscure and solitary life she was now
leading.
Certainly a more isolated existence
than Mildred's had been for the last few
months it would be hard to imagine.
With the exception of Fanny's one very
unsatisfactory effort, not a single visitor
had entered the little faded parlor since
she first took possession, more than three
months ago. Leroy, whose affection for
his sister was of a nature to survive all
vicissitudes, was still absent from the
city, travelling on business for his uncle,
and as she proudly forbore to obtrude
herself upon the notice of other friends
of her prosperous days, she was thrown
back upon the society of her paralytic
neighbor as her chief resource for com¬
panionship. Madame Valley had taken
a strange fancy to Mildred from the first,
and admitted her to a degree of intimacy
that was the more remarkable by its
contrast to the morbid inflexibility with
which she secluded herself from all the
rest of her kind, rarely permitting any
one except the lawyer, Vandergrieft, and
the negro, Judith, to enter her presence.
Aside from the interest which the air of
mystery surrounding her singular com¬
panion naturally awakened in Mildred,
Madame Valley's evident culture and
sharp cynical insight into men and things
rendered her conversation highly enter¬
taining and often instructive, though
not always morally edifying. Yet, even
with Madame Valley, Mildred found her
intercourse far from satisfactory. The
feeling of mingled compassion and won¬
der with which she regarded the blas¬
phemous old woman, together with a
certain undefinable reserve on the part
of the latter,—a slight flavor of distrust
in her tone and manner, which said,
plainly, " Thus far shalt thou go, and no
farther,"—was not conducive to mutual
outpourings and personal confidences.
There was one person who would have
been a constant visitor at the humble
house in Bloomfield Street if Mildred
had chosen to encourage his attentions,
and that person was Rex Van Dorn. The
spell that Mildred's beauty had cast over
the impulsive young man the first time
he ever beheld her had not lost its power
upon nearer acquaintance, but grown
into a sort of infatuation, which his
heart kept whispering was love,—love
such as he had never felt, never dreamed
of before. His passion was, perhaps,
increased by the fact that it seemed to
meet with no encouragement, for to him,
as to other men, forbidden fruit was
always sweet. If Mildred Loring had
shown a disposition to reciprocate his
tender advances he would probably have
made furious love to her for a time, and
written some charming verses about her,
and there would have been an end of it;
but difficulty was a stimulus to him, and
his passion was only inflamed by dis¬
couragements that would have stifled the
love of a less ardent nature. Had Mil¬
dred been the consummate coquette which
she was not, she could hardly have
adopted a surer method of securing
Rex's capricious affections than the plan
pursued by her with a very different
intent.
Truth and fidelity were the foundation-
stones of Mildred's nature. She had a
good deal of the stuff in her that has led
other women to the stake and the scaf¬
fold for conscience's sake, and her faith
once engaged, she would have gone
through fire and flood to make it good.
Had she lived in the old times of relig¬
ious persecution, she would have made a
glorious martyr; but under our prosaic
social hierarchy, her more cruel fate was to
suffer the tortures of martyrdom without
the privilege of ending them by a glorious
death. As soon as she recognized the
utter hopelessness of ever redeeming her
pledge to Mr. Henlow, except by the for¬
feit of her person, she had no thought
but to make good the stake she had
played at such terrible risk, regardless
of the cost to herself. It was true she
could not love him,—that she had never
promised to do,—but she would be faith¬
ful in all that Mr. Henlow had a right to
require of her, and at least keep free
from unlawful love the heart that her
destined husband could never warm with
his own. She knew that a comparison
with elegant and accomplished gentle¬
men would not conduce to Mr. Henlow's
advantage in her eyes, and therefore she
discouraged Van Dorn's approaches, at
first, on general principles, but did not
associate him directly with any thoughts
of danger to herself till that day at the
Macouleys, Avhen the casual mention of
his name by another had caused the blood
to fly to her cheeks and her heart to
throb with a sudden emotion. Then she
first felt that the danger she had but
vaguely imagined was nearer and more
definite than she had dreamed, and it was
her stern dutyto maintain a double con-
82
A MERE ADVENTURER.
flict between a love she must not enter¬
tain and a hate she could not overcome.
She must be true to her pledge, and she
felt, with alarm, that she was in the
presence of a power dangerous, if not
fatal, to that truth. She resolved to be
more vigilant and to guard her heart be¬
fore it was too late ; as if it were not
already too late when the necessity for
vigilance has once been acknowledged.
The human heart is an unwary thing,
and before it can see that there is danger
its citadel is already taken. The springs
of Mildred's nature lay too deep to be
lightly stirred ; she had felt enough of
Van I)orn's influence to perceive that it
might be dangerous to her peace of mind
as Thompson Ilenlow's wife; but she had
felt none of those wild stirrings of pas¬
sion that boil up so suddenly in more
impulsive characters. She had endured
so much already, that she thought she
would be able to endure to the end, and
even counted herself equal to wrestle
with a passion of whose all-conquering
might she had as yet had no experience.
To this end she maintained a more rigid
reserve than ever in her intercourse with
Rex, who, if left to follow his own incli¬
nations, would have devoted himself to
her society with an ardor that might have
been detrimental to his other interests.
She checked with unbending firmness
every move on his part toward putting
the relation between them on other than
a purely business footing, and while he
admired and respected her for what
seemed at first a mere prudent regard
for conventionality, he inwardly chafed
under the constraint she forced upon
him, with an impatience that he some¬
times found it hard to control. He had
too much good breeding to obtrude his
attentions upon any woman against her
wishes, and as he never met Mildred in
society, and she had not given him per¬
mission to visit her at her home,—though
he had more than once delicately signi¬
fied his desire to do so,—he felt, even
after their business association had con¬
tinued for several months, as much ex¬
cluded from any real intimacy as when
he first felt the charm of her presence in
the dull law-office where fate had so
strangely brought them together for the
first time.
With all these discouragements, how¬
ever, their mutual business relations
afforded the enthusiastic young man op¬
portunities for freer and more constant
intercourse with his fair colleague than
he could have been favored with under
the ordinary usages of society; and if
Rex made pretexts for more frequent in¬
terviews and longer consultations than
the exigencies of his business rendered
absolutely necessary, who can blame
him? It is true Mildred rarely allowed
the conversation between them to stray
beyond the most indifferent topics, but
when a man is once thoroughly in love,
his own imagination invests the slightest
word or gesture of the woman who has
fired his fancy with a charm that nothing
can dispel. Even her apparent indiffer¬
ence served but to increase his flame,
and seemed to challenge his pride as
much as her beauty fired his love. The
inore she put him off the more deter¬
mined did Rex become, and he vowed to
himself that he would move heaven and
earth but she should one day be his wife.
At last fortune favored him with the
opportunity he had so long desired, of
being admitted as a visitor to Mildred's
modest home. There had been an un¬
usual stress of work one day in her
department, and just as she was prepar¬
ing to leave the office late in the after¬
noon, a special despatch brought news of
the death of a celebrated author, whose
obituary must be got ready for the next
morning's paper. There was nothing
for it but to sit down to her desk once
more, and, with the aid of an encyclo¬
paedia and a biographical dictionary, get
through the task as best she might. Just
as she had finished Van Dorn came in.
" What ! at work yet, Miss Loring,"
he exclaimed, surprised at finding her
still there. " I hope they haven't been
so inconsiderate as to put you on night
duty."
" It was an unexpected job," she an¬
swered, pushing her papers towards him ;
" there, see if it will do."
"Ah! an obituary on top of all the
rest," said Rex, glancing over the manu¬
script. " It was a very inopportune time
for a man to require that of us when we
have such a press of other matter, but it
is too late for him to reconsider now, and,
at any rate, the work is done, so we won't
stop to grumble at him."
Mildred had put on her wrappings
while Rex was speaking, and approached
the door ; he caught up his hat and fol¬
lowed her.
" You will allow me to see you home,
Miss Loring, will you not?" he said, as
she passed into the hall. " It is too late
for you to be out alone."
She could not decline. The gas had
been lighted an hour or more, and there
MILDRED MAKES A
FATAL DISCOVERT.
83
was a blinding snow-storm outside, ac¬
companied by one of those howling
March winds that sometimes make the
streets of Gotham roar like the cave of
Eolus. It was necessary to walk several
blocks after leaving the horse-cars in
order to reach Mildred's dwelling, so
that they were both thoroughly chilled
when they got there, and Mildred could
not, in decency, let her companion de¬
part without inviting him in to warm
himself. Rex, accustomed to the biting
northern winters, did not mind the
weather, but, glad of any pretext for
lingering in Mildred's society, eagerly
accepted the invitation.
Men in general are greatly prone to
be governed by externals in their judg¬
ment of women, and with many of them,
mere surroundings have an important ef¬
fect in influencing their regards. Unless a
man is thoroughly in love beforehand, to
find his lady domiciled amid poor and
mean surroundings will go far to disen¬
chant him of the romantic sentiments he
has woven around her. But Rex's feel¬
ing for Mildred was not a mere sentiment
to be chilled by threadbare carpets and
barren walls; it was a passion that was
destined to rise, as the sequel will show,
to tragic heights. The poverty of her
home only served by the contrast to ren¬
der her own grace and elegance the more
conspicuous in the eyes of her lover, and
he felt, as he drew one of the coarse
hair-covered chairs to the fire, and sat
down with Mildred opposite him, that
the presence of such a woman would
adorn a palace or dignify a hovel.
Rex had chanced to place himself near
Mildred's writing-table, over which she
had hung a small pencil sketch of Hazel-
hurst, made by herself. The picture
attracted his attention, and he leaned
over the table to examine it more
closely.
" Here is a sketch remarkable for its
fidelity to nature," he said, still inspect¬
ing the drawing.
" Why, do you know the original ?"
asked Mildred, with some surprise.
" Yes ; though I have only seen it from
the window of the cars in passing ; it is
a splendid old place, near the metropolis
of your native State."
" It is my home," said Mildred, turning
up the gas to give him a better view ; " or
rather," she added, correcting herself, " it
was my home once."
Rex regarded the picture with increased
interest.
" One must become very much attached
to such a home as that," he said, mus¬
ingly.
" les, too much attached for one's own
happiness, if the home ever has to be
given up," replied Mildred, sadly. "I
sometimes think it is better never to
have good things if one cannot keep
them."
" I can't agree with you there," an¬
swered Rex. " I have never coveted the
bliss that springs from ignorance of better
things ; the most miserable vagabond on
the face of the earth, Miss Loring, is a
man who has never known the ties of
home and kindred."
The words were spoken in a tone so
different from his usual light, playful
manner, that Mildred looked at him in
surprise.
" If you had ever felt what those ties
can cost us when broken and violated,"
she said, with an involuntary sigh, "you
might think differently."
Rex did not reply immediately, and a
pained, anxious expression passed over
his features, as though some silent strug¬
gle was going on within ; but he soon
mastered himself, and, leaning forward,
with one elbow on the table, answered,
in a deep, low voice,—
" I would willingly make the trial. I
know what it is, Miss Loring, to have
not even the memory of a home, nor to
recognize in all the world one drop
of kindred blood. Gladly would I ex¬
change this blank, desolate void for
the memory even of a broken hearth¬
stone and dissevered ties. The best rec¬
ollections of my childhood cluster round
the hospital, the common refuge of all
such friendless waifs as I, and to the
fostering hand of public charity I owe
such poor substitutes for parental care
as charity can give."
A sense of relief came over him now
that the worst was told. He had made
up his mind to win this woman for his
wife, if she were to be won by mortal
means, but he would not stoop to deceive
her. With all his seeming levity, he
was a man of the most sensitive honor,
and from the moment when he became
aware of the real nature of his feelings
towards Mildred, he had determined to
make use of the first opportunity that
offered for acquainting her with the
humiliating facts of his origin and early
history. This resolve was the more cred¬
itable to Rex because the subject was a
source of bitter regret and mortification
to him. The only cloud that ever rested
on his brignt and joyous nature was the
84
A MERE ADVENTURER.
thought of his doubtful, perhaps dishon¬
ored birth, and he felt at times that he
would gladly have given all the triumphs
his genius had won, for the mere assur¬
ance of honest parentage,—a privilege
which gave the most mediocre of his as¬
sociates a certain factitious superiority,
in the eyes of the world, that personal
merit alone, however great, cannot con¬
fer. It galled him to think that men, in
every way his inferiors, should outrank
him socially by the arbitrary laws of
caste, and at times he almost shrank
from pursuing the honors he felt himself
so capable of winning, lest the very fame
that trumpeted his name abroad should
babble too of the one dark spot that he
would gladly have buried in the silence
of obscurity forever. But the more sen¬
sitive he was to the disadvantages attend¬
ing his origin, the more incumbent he
felt it upon him that Mildred should
know the worst before he ever spoke to
her of love.
Mildred was both pained and surprised
by Rex's avowal. With the haughty
notions of family pride in which she had
been reared, she had never contemplated
the possibility of a charity boy develop¬
ing into an elegant gentleman, though
she had had some sad experience of the
liability of gentle blood to degenerate
into something worse than charity boys.
She perceived that what Rex had just
said cost him a painful effort, and longed
to assure him of her unaltered regard,
but hardly dared trust herself to speak,
lest she should say too much. Rex did
not wait for her to reply.
" You will not think me impertinent, I
hope," he said, observing her embarrass¬
ment, " for obtruding this confidence
upon you. The subject is one to which
I have never before in my life made vol¬
untary allusion, but somehow," looking
her steadily in the face, " I had a wish
that you should know."
Mildred colored deeply under his gaze
that seemed to make silent confession of
his motive, but she banished the thought
the next moment as a mere delusion of
her own vanity, and answered, in a firm,
clear voice,—
" The knowledge, Mr. Yan Dorn, only
serves to increase my respect and admira¬
tion for a man who has been able to rise,
as you have done, above the power of
circumstances."
" Thank you," answered Rex, " for
saying so ; but you must forgive me," he
added, in a cynical tone, " if I cannot
help feeling that I would willingly forfeit
some of the respect due to my own immacu¬
late virtues for the sake Qf imparting a
little more to what you have conveniently
termed my ' circumstances.' An honor¬
able name and well-founded family pride
are no drawbacks, even to a man's self-
respect."
" But what is mere birth to genius,
culture, intellect?" said Mildred, warmly;
" and you have all these."
There was a pause of several moments
before Rex answered.
" That may be so," he said, still with
a touch of satire in his voice, " and I
often try to console myself with such
democratic truisms, but somehow, I seem
to have been born with aristocratic in¬
stincts which are very misplaced in me.
It is natural, I suppose, for a man in my
position to either underrate or overrate
the advantages of which he is deprived."
"And yet," said Mildred, thoughtfully,
" birth and family are no real advantage
in themselves without fortune to back
them : on the contrary, aristocratic pre¬
tensions are apt to be contemptible when
based upon a mere sentiment. It was a
wise custom of the old Breton aristocracy
which provided that a nobleman should
lay aside his title whenever he lost the
means of sustaining it with dignity."
" I don't know about that," said Rex.
" People do not necessarily lose their
best claims upon the respect and consid¬
eration of society when they lose their
property."
Mildred was surprised at the warmth
with which she found herself advocating
the democratic side of the question. It
seemed that the natural positions of her¬
self and her companion were, for the
moment, reversed, and she had somehow
got on the wrong side of the argument,
but being there, she had to make the
best of her position, and answered,—
" But they have lost the most effective
means of enforcing those claims. Pov¬
erty is a ruthless leveller ; it compels the
mind to little sordid cares, and cuts it off
from great aspirations, and a few gener¬
ations of it will sink the proudest races
into obscurity.
' Chill penury repressed their noble rage
And froze the genial current of the soul.' "
"That is true," said Rex; "yet the man
who feels that he has a name and a posi¬
tion to sustain, will find in that, it seems
to me, an additional motive to help him
in his struggle against the depressing
influences of poverty."
"Yes ; but is there not danger," an-
MILDRED MAKES A
FATAL DISCOVERY.
85
swered Mildred, " that such motives may
prove a snare instead of a help, by tempt¬
ing him to put forward pretensions which
he has not the power to substantiate?
When a man has fallen, the first step
towards getting up again is to acknowl¬
edge that he is down; and that," she
added, with a little sigh, " is the hardest
step of all, and much harder for a woman
than for a man."
" True," replied Rex, " because there
are so many more chances for a man to
get on his feet again, while women, most
of them, can do nothing to help them¬
selves. Besides, women are naturally
more sensitive than men as to what
touches their social importance. Society
is their own peculiar sphere ; in fact,
they have no other in which they are
permitted to shine without detracting
something, in the eyes of the world at
least, from the sacredness of their woman¬
hood."
" Society is very exacting of its vo¬
taries," said Mildred, " and the only
dignified course when one cannot fairly
meet its requirements, is to withdraw
from the struggle. When I lost my for¬
tune, I determined that I would never
allow myself to occupy a position in
which I might be forced to the pitiable
expedients, the dishonest makeshifts, by
which shabby gentility too often keeps
itself afloat in the world, and so I cut my¬
self off absolutely and entirely from all
former associations, and I have never seen
cause to regret the step. To my mind,
there is no difference between the parvenu
whose whole conversation is devoted to
impressing you with the costliness of his
possessions, and the broken-down gentle¬
woman who takes equal pains to inform
you that she has seen better days ; both
are influenced by the same motive ; both
are vulgar ; both are contemptible."
" You believe," said Rex, with a smile,
" that the vulgarity of the nouveau riche
and the narrowness of the vieille noblesse
are but antipodal developments of the
same instinct."
"Yes," answered Mildred; "and it is
not easy to say whether human nature is
tested most severely by sudden accession
or by sudden reverse of fortune."
" That may be," said Rex ; " but I
think there can be no question as to
which test is, in reality, oftenest borne
with a good grace. A man who has de¬
voted his whole life to making mbney is
not likely to have spent much time in
cultivating the graces, and the chances
are that he will not always know how
to wear his self-won honors modestly.
Money-making is not conducive to a high
degree of intellectual or social culture,
and the most elegant gentlemen I have
known have not been the money-getters.
As loss of fortune, on the other hand,
can only happen to those who have first
experienced its advantages, the sufferers
in this case are apt to possess the refine¬
ment and culture which always enables
people to bear misfortune gracefully.
Indeed, there are some people," he added,
with a look that made its own application
of the words, "to whom adversity itself
is an adornment."
He rose as he spoke and moved towards
the door. Mildred had not intended,
when he first came in, to invite him to
repeat the visit, but now she felt a gen¬
erous desire to show her appreciation of
the noble sincerity he had just displayed,
and to prove that her regard for him was
in no way diminished by the knowledge
of his humble birth, so she offered him
her hand and said, as he touched it, at
parting,—
" You will call again sometimes, I
hope, Mr. Yan Dorn, will you not? I
shall always be glad to see you."
Yan Dorn understood the delicate as¬
surance conveyed in her words, and a
gratified smile played over his features.
"You may be sure I will," he an¬
swered, " now that you have given me
permission ; and I hope," he added, with
a slight pressure of her hand as he re¬
leased it, " that you will let me come
often."
The door had hardly closed behind him
when Mildred began to regret that she
had not taken some other method to
manifest her regard, for she felt that
Van Dorn's presence was every day be¬
coming more dangerous to her, and that
her only safety was in keeping him at a
distance,—if indeed there was safety in
anything now. She had never dared to
scrutinize her feelings towards him, but
at last a knowledge of them began to
force itself upon her mind. To know
that in his lowly origin all her cherished
prejudices of caste were violated, and yet
admire him more than ever; to have
learned in a moment, for his sake, to
despise the haughty pride of birth and
family in which she had been educated
almost as in a religious creed ; to reflect
that he was but a successful adventurer
at best, yet to honor him above kings ;
to know, more than all, that he could
never be hers, yet feel towards him as
she did ;—this could be nothing but love.
86
A MERE ADVENTURER.
Yes, she could no longer hide it from
herself; the thing she had so greatly
feared had come upon her ; she confessed
the fatal truth at last with a wild thrill
of joy, of ecstasy, and of despair.
CHAPTER XX.
IN A HOSPITAL.
" And I forgot my home, my birth,
Profaned my spirit, sunk my brow,
And revelled in gross joys of earth
Till I became—what I am now."
Moore.
Rex did not find much encouragement,
after all, to avail himself of the privilege
Mildred had been so long in granting.
Indeed, she no sooner became conscious
of the real state of her feelings towards
him than she began to regret having al¬
lowed herself ever to break through the
barrier of reserve she felt it her duty to
maintain, and the first time he ventured
to repeat his visit, she chilled poor Rex
with an icy coldness of manner that
would have frozen all hope out of a less
ardent lover. Her treatment of him
could not have appeared more capricious
if she had been the most frivolous of
coquettes. Sometimes, yielding uncon¬
sciously to the charm of his presence,
she would unbend awhile, without in¬
tending it, and captivate him anew with
the exquisite graces of her person and
manner ; then, suddenly remembering
the chains that bound her, she would
shrink away from the blissful companion¬
ship as from a deadly sin, and freeze
him again with the ice of an impenetra¬
ble reserve. Rex was puzzled ; often he
was wounded ; sometimes he was angry,
but he never relinquished his purpose.
There was something hidden, he saw,—
something that forced her into unnatural
constraint in his presence, and he won¬
dered if the hint he had given as to his
origin could have thus affected her. He
believed not ; it would not be like her to
despise him for that,—"yet even if it
were that," said Rex to himself as he
pondered the matter over, "it should not
deter me. She shall be mine, though
heaven and earth declare the contrary.
I will make her love me in spite of
everything,—love me as Ônly such a
woman can love,—love me with such a
love that even if I were blackened with
disgrace of my own making she would
still be true to me."
Perhaps he was not so overweening in
his resolve as the reader may imagine.
The eagle is not keener to discern its
prey than are men to detect any lurking
partiality a woman may feel for them,
no matter under what disguise it is con¬
cealed. Mildred might freeze herself, if
she chose, into a living icicle, but she
could not prevent Rex from noting the
sudden flushing of her cheek in his pres¬
ence or the drooping of her eyes under
his glance, and who can wonder that he
drew flattering conclusions from what he
saw?
That her treatment of him did not pro¬
ceed altogether from dislike he felt as¬
sured, but more than that he dared not
yet admit to himself. He had too much
tact and good sense to persecute any
woman with his attentions, and there¬
fore his visits to Mildred were much less
frequent than he had hoped to make
them, but he was as determined, in his
way, as Mr. Henlow himself. It was
only their object that differed, Rex's pur¬
pose being not to fetter the hand, but to
win the heart, and nature had richly
endowed him with every quality that
could give effect to his purpose.
While Yan Dorn was fostering his pas¬
sion with the hope of one day possessing
its object, Mildred was battling vainly
against the fatal and, as it seemed to her,
criminal infatuation of which she had
become possessed ; but, like all such re¬
solves, the more she tried not to love
Rex the more passionate did her devotion
become, and the harder she tried not to
hate Mr. Henlow the stronger grew her
aversion. The struggle she was under¬
going soon began to tell upon her health
and spirits, for, in a character like Mil¬
dred's, when duty and passion come into
conflict, there is a war of giants. Mildred,
however, had a great deal of moral stoi¬
cism about her, and, instead of indulg¬
ing her grief in the solitary musings
so congenial to a sorrow like hers, she
fought bravely against every influence
that tended to foster a passion which,
with her stern ideas of duty and honor,
seemed almost criminal. She knew that
distraction in any form was good for
her, and did not disdain to receive such
as the humble world in which she lived
could afford. As the spring advanced
and the weather grew milder, she sought
to escape from herself by spending all
her leisure-time out-of-doors, in the
streets and parks, or in visiting quiet
IN A HOSPITAL.
87
places of amusement where she was in
no danger of meeting old acquaintances.
She had not been thrown upon the world
long enough yet to overcome a certain
diffidence about wandering through the
city unprotected, and would generally
take Bridget as her attendant when she
ventured into places at all remote or un¬
familiar to her.
One evening, as the two were returning
from Central Park, where Mildred had
lingered later than she intended, be¬
guiled by the charms of the place and
season, they happened to pass, in walk¬
ing a few blocks to change from the
Broadway cars to one of the eastern
lines, the entrance of an obscure but
decent little theatre, much patronized by
the more respectable members of the
working class. Bridget paused and
looked wistfully in as they went by.
" Oh, lor, just look, miss," she ex¬
claimed, eagerly, " here is the play-house
where they have such beautiful things.
Och, sure, miss, but yees jist ought to
see it ; 'twould do the very heart of ye
good."
" Why, were you ever there, Bridget?"
asked Mildred, looking back towards the
modest temple of art, where a number
of quiet artisans and small trader folks
were entering.
" Ou, yes, bless ye, miss ; it was me
cousin Patrick what took me and Kat6
Mulherrin to see the new play, only last
week, and, oh, miss, it is lovely ! There
is two illegant young ladies, as fine as
any queens, miss, and the lovely young
gintlemen, their swatehearts, and they
all do talk so beautiful, miss, as high
and soundin' like as if they was all real
dukes and marquises. Oh, miss, yees
jist ought to see ! 'twould make ye for-
git all your own throubles."
It was not exactly en règle for a young
lady to venture into a place of this kind
at night attended only by a servant-girl,
but Mildred had a kind of desperate feel¬
ing that made her catch at anything that
seemed to promise a moment's escape
from her own thoughts. The theatre
was a very quiet, orderly one, and she
felt that she need not stand very much
in awe of les convenances in a place
where she was sure not to meet any one
who knew her ; so, willing to gratify
Bridget, she turned back after a mo¬
ment's hesitation, purchased tickets for
two, and to Biddy's intense deligHt, they
were soon comfortably seated in the par¬
quette.
The play was a patriotic representation
of the shining virtues of two young
American citizens as contrasted with the
arrogance and stupidity of certain bloated
English aristocrats, who played the part
of cruel parents to the lady-loves of the
young Americans aforesaid. There was
also the typical lawyer of the stage,,
brought on for the purpose of doing the
sneak business of the piece, and of satis¬
fying the popular love of justice, by com¬
ing to grief in the end, like the Judas of
the old mystery plays. The two beauti¬
ful young ladies, that had so excited
Bridget's enthusiasm, were there in all
the glory of cotton-velvet and tinsel trim¬
mings, looking, Mildred thought, very
like transformed shop-girls,—a suspicion
which the sound of their voices did not
tend to allay. Bridget was in such a
state of delighted wonder throughout the
performance that she did not perceive the
smile that often overspread Mildred's
features at the most pathetic passages,
where Bridget herself was dissolved in
tears, and once, when the heroine of the
piece bade the wicked lawyer " Avaunt,
minion ! I am the heiress of the De Cour-
cy8," in precisely the same tone that
Mildred had heard call out a hundred
times from behind the counter, " Cash,
cash, come heare !" she could hardly for¬
bear laughing outright, though Biddy
whispered at the same moment,—
" Oh, there, miss, just hear how beau¬
tiful she do talk !"
The rest of the assembly seemed equally
pleased, and applauded lustily the noisy
situations, the vaporings of noble senti¬
ment with which this wonderful piece
abounded. After all, there are few
things more creditable to human nature
than the spontaneous applause with
which a simple audience always greets
the utterance of noble sentiment, however
trite and commonplace.
The play over, the wicked lawyer pun
ished and the young lovers made happy,
Mildred started home with a feeling of
secret amusement that her companion
would have considered little better than
sacrilege had she suspected it.
It was necessary to walk a few blocks
before meeting the line of cars they
wanted. They had proceeded quietly
about half the distance, when, on turning
a corner, they were suddenly startled at
encountering four men, attended by a
policeman, bearing between them what
seemed to be a dead body, stretched on a
litter. Mildred turned away her eyes,
and was passing hurriedly by, when she
felt a nervous pull at her sleeve, and
88
A MERE ADVENTURER.
Biddy exclaimed, in a frightened whis¬
per,—
" Och, heaven save us, miss ! it's him,
—the very same poor crature what the
ould pagan turned out o' the house the
week before you came !"
The girl's ejaculation caused Mildred
to turn involuntarily and glance at the
supine form as it was carried by. Sud¬
denly her face grew ashy white, and she
stood rigid as a statue, staring in helpless
horror at the melancholy procession ;
then staggering forward a few steps, she
would have fallen upon the pavement
but for the timely support extended by
her companion. In that glance she had
recognized the face of the wounded man,
all mangled and bloody as it was. A
ray from a street lamp had illumined the
pallid features for a moment, and she
needed no second glance to tell her that
there, on that miserable litter, lay her
fallen brother, the lost and ruined Roger.
" Lord help us, miss, yees ain't a going
to have a fit in the strates, is ye ?" cried
the alarmed Biddy, catching her young
lady by the elbow and holding her fast.
" There, there, miss, they's gone now,"
she added, soothingly ; " 'taint no use to
be frightened. It was all my fault, miss,
far making of ye look at him,—the sight
oí blood always do make some people
sick."
Mildred had recovered herself while
B-idget was speaking, and ordering the
astonished girl to follow her, turned and
hnrried after the men who were bearing
their burden to the city hospital. It was
close at hand, and she overtook them
just as they were entering the gate that
ied into the hospital grounds.
Hardly daring to look again at the
horrible object on the litter, she drew
near and accosted one of the bearers.
" Is he dead ?" she asked, in a faint,
trembling voice, scarcely knowing what
answer she dreaded most to hear.
The man was a rough, surly-looking
fellow, who appeared capable of making
a rude reply, but there was something
about Mildred that effectually disarmed
rudeness. There are some women who
have the lady so thoroughly stamped
upon every feature that there is no
mistaking them under any guise, and
that high-bred, patrician air of Mildred's,
with the exquisite musical accents of her
voice, would have commanded respect for
her anywhere. The surly air of the man
softened a little as he turned and beheld
his interlocutor, and he answered in a
curt, but not rude tone,—
" No, lady ; it's a pity but he was."
" Where did it happen? How was he
hurt?" she continued, in the same ex¬
cited voice.
She was answered by the policeman
who held the gate open while she passed
in after the body. Her black dress, in
the dim lamplight, was not unlike that
worn by some of the nurses in the hos¬
pital, and he probably mistook her for
some persoü connected with the institu¬
tion.
" It's the same old tale, lady," he said,
touching his hat as she passed on into
the building. " He was drunk, and try¬
ing to steal a ride, I guess, and got his-
self smashed up on the cars, somehow.
Them kind o' things are always happen¬
ing, and it's a pity a good many more o'
his sort couldn't be disposed of the same
way, but these sort o' vagabonds ain't as
easy to kill as honest men. If that chap
there had a been worth half a penny to
himself or anybody else, he wouldn't a
lived long enough to get to the hospitle.
When a honest man gets smashed up
like that he don't live ten seconds, but
that vagabond there's as like as not to
live till mornin'. I've knowed him for
months, and seen him in many a scrape,
but I think he's done for now."
They entered one of the dim, silent
wards, and laid the dying man down on
a bed. The surgeon came, and without
looking at Mildred to see whether she
belonged there or not, permitted her to
stand by and render what assistance he
needed while he dressed the frightful
wounds that disfigured the patient's body.
There was a terrible gash across the face
and another on the chest, while a portion
of the skull was crushed in on one side,
and the right leg mashed to a jelly. The
patient gave no signs of life except a
feeble groan, accompanied by a convul¬
sive twitching of the limbs when the
surgeon's probe touched some vital part.
It was heart-rending to look upon that
miserable wreck of a man, dying there in
guilt and shame and wretchedness, and
that man Mildred's brother. The pitiful
rags that hung about him for clothing
were all stained and clotted with blood,
and there was a pinched, wan look about
the face which told of hunger and misery
that the arts of the gambler could not
foil nor the power of the bottle drive
away. Whatever secret bitterness Mil¬
dred may have felt against him in the
past was all forgotten now, and even the
wrong he had done seemed all obliterated
in the terrible expiation. The ties of
ROY PROPOSES TO DO SOMETHING.
89
nature, though rent and torn, asserted
themselves again, and Mildred's feelings
so overcame her as she contemplated the
misery and degradation of her fallen
brother, that she could with difficulty
perform the duties required of her. The
surgeon dressed the wounds carelessly,
Mildred thought, and when he examined
the broken limb, merely shook his head,
and drew the sheet over it again without
doing anything at all. Mildred's heart
grew sick ; it seemed to her that she
had already endured the utmost that
human nature could bear.
" Will there have to be an amputation,
doctor?" she asked, feeling her courage
begin to fail.
" It will not be worth while," answered
the surgeon, with grim composure. " He
can last but a few hours anyway, and
there is no use torturing him with oper¬
ations."
There was a pause, and Mildred's voice
sounded like a prayer when she framed
her next question.
" Is there any hope—is there a possi¬
bility that he may recover his senses, if
but for one moment, before he dies?"
The surgeon eyed her a moment, cu¬
riously, but was too busy to trouble him¬
self about her.
"No," he answered briefly; "the
brain is too much injured ; he will prob¬
ably die without ever rousing from the
stupor he is in."
Then giving some brief directions for
the patient's treatment, he departed.
Mildred dismissed Bridget also, but hav¬
ing obtained permission of the head nurse
to remain herself during the night, she
knelt down by the bed, determined not to
close her vigil till death had placed the
parting soul beyond the reach of prayer.
CHAPTER XXI.
ROY PROPOSES TO DO SOMETHING.
" But what we do determine, oft we break ;
Purpose is but the slave to memory,
Of violent birth, but poor validity ;
Which now, like fruits unripe, sticks on the tree,
But fall, unshaken, when they mellow be."
Shakspeare.
The morning found Roger still living,
and Mildred keeping her faithful watch
by his side. There were no signs of re¬
turning consciousness, but his breathing
was becoming more labored, and the
feeble groans that from time to time es¬
caped his lips grew gradually fainter till
they sank into inaudible sighs. It was
clear that he was passing away thus,
without ever coming to a knowledge of
his condition; passing on to eternity
with many an earthy stain upon his
soul, unwashed by the tears of repent¬
ance, unatoned by a prayer for mercy ;
passing away like a heathen and an out¬
cast, with no thought of God, with no
hope and with no fear for the world to
come. The thought was intolerable to
Mildred. She remembered him now as
she had known him in her childhood, a
generous boy with a heart as yet unsullied
by vice, and would gladly have given
her own ruined life to buy him back one
moment of reason,—to hear him utter
one word of grace.
She sent for the chaplain of the hospi¬
tal and had the prayer for the dying
read over him ; it was all she could do,
and it was not done too soon. The
patient had been sinking rapidly since
the dawn, and in less than an hour after
the chaplain had done his office all was
over. There was no rallying of the fac¬
ulties before death ; not one moment of
reason's light was vouchsafed before the
flickering spark of life went out forever.
A more peaceful and painless death, ap¬
parently, could not have closed the most
exemplary Christian life. There was no
struggle, no gasping, but the breath de¬
parted gently as from a sleeping infant,
and the wandering soul passed without
a shudder through the shadowy portals
of that awful world where human thought
dares not penetrate. It is a fearful thing
for a soul to pass unshriven into eternity,
but it is not for mortal man to say how
God may deal with his erring brother.
We can but draw the veil of our ignorance
over the dread unknown, and shrink
trembling from the contemplation of
things too deep for human understanding.
Mildred paid what respect she could to
the mortal remains of him whose life had
been so wanting in respect for himself.
The soul had gone where human prayers
and human tears were of no avail ; but
she took care that the body should have
decent burial, and marked the humjfle
grave with a simple stone, so that at some
future day the dust of the wanderer
might, perchance, be reclaimed and laid
to rest with the ashes of his fathers in
the family vault at Ilazelhurst. Every¬
thing was done as simply and as quietly
as possible, nor did she think it neces¬
sary to explain to those about her the
JO A MERE ADVENTURER.
reason of her interest in the dead pauper.
They were strangers to him and to her,
and what did it matter to them? There
was nothing in Roger's past or present
that charity would wish to reveal, and
no good could come now of bringing to
light a tale of guilt and shame that had
better be left to go down to oblivion with
the name they had disgraced.
When all was over, she wrote a brief
note to Fanny, merely telling her that
Roger was dead, but without giving any
of the particulars. There had never been
any love between those two, and she
shrank from exposing the degradation of
Roger's last moments to one who had
shown so little charity to his faults while
living.
Her note to Fanny finished, she turned
the gas low and sat herself down to
think. She could hardly realize, as yet,
that what had taken place was not a con¬
fused dream, the suddenness and awful-
ness of it were so appalling. To say
that she grieved for Roger as we grieve
for one whose death leaves a blank in
our hearts and in our lives, would be at¬
tributing to her what it is not in human
nature to feel ; but deep regret for his
wasted life, sorrow and compassion for
his miserable end, and above all, per¬
haps, sorrow that she could not sorrow
more, distracted her mind as thoroughly
as if she were bewailing the loss of one
whose life had not been a grief bitterer
than death to her. The sense of per¬
sonal relief that at times came over her
on reflecting that the shame of the felon
was safely covered up at last in the dust,
filled her heart the next moment with re¬
proach, and made her hate and almost
shudder at herself. Then came the bit¬
ter consciousness that the sacrifice she
had made to shield the culprit might
have been spared. She had sold herself
for naught ; the two for whose sakes she
had put her own flesh and blood in pawn
were both dead, and still the forfeit must
be paid. The grave had already pur¬
chased for them the immunity for which
she had bargained, but their death could
not release her from the bands stronger
than death that held her. To break
those bands Mildred would gladly have
died, but worse than death could not
tempt her to violate the faith that was
bound by them. She was almost fanat¬
ical in her devotion to truth, and tortured
herself with useless reproaches for rebel¬
ling, even in thought, against the destiny
to which she had flighted herself.
"While engaged in these harassing re¬
flections she was startled by a sudden rap
at her door. Her first thought was of
Rex ; she sprang to her feet, but before
she could answer the summons the door
opened from without, and Leroy bounded
into the room. He seemed a trifle more
mature than the boyish brother whose
vagaries had, by turns, amused and vexed
her in the good old days at Hazelhurst,
but the natural buoyancy of his temper
was too strong to be overcome even by
the serious experiences of life with which
he had lately made acquaintance.
Mildred's joy at the sudden appearance
of her favorite overpowered, for the mo¬
ment, her sadder feelings, and she flew to
meet him in a frantic embrace, as if her
heart would pour out all its fulness there
upon the only thing that was left it now
in all the world.
" Why, Mil, I didn't know you would
be so glad to see a fellow," cried Roy,
surprised and gratified at this ardent re¬
ception from one usually so undemon¬
strative of her feelings. "Well, it is
jolly to be with you again, old girl," he
continued, patronizingly. " Come, turn
up the gas, and let us have a look at you ;
you don't feel as if there were twenty
pounds weight of you left."
He lifted her bodily in his strapping
young arms as he spoke, and drawing
her towards the light, turned on the gas,
and looked into her face.
The months of secret anguish she had
endured since signing that fatal bond,
though gliding by in outward tranquil¬
lity, had not failed to leave their traces
on her countenance. The material altera¬
tion was slight; there were no deep-drawn
lines of care, no hollowness of the cheeks,
or consuming fire in the eyes, but that
subtle change of expression which distin¬
guished the patient sufferer from the radi¬
ant fair one of a few months back : the
air of weary resignation that had replaced
the proud majesty of beauty, did not es¬
cape Roy's observation, and he started
back, exclaiming, as the gaslight fell
upon her features,—
"Why, good gracious, Mildred, what
on earth is the matter with you? You
look like a tragedy queen about to com¬
mit suicide."
Mildred turned away to evade his scru¬
tiny.
" Poverty and hard work don't help to
make people good-looking, you know,
Roy," she answered, with a mint smile;
" and, besides," she added, leading him
away towards the sofa, " something very
distressing has just happened ; sit down,
ROY PROPOSES TO DO SOMETHING.
91
and let me tell you about it. I was just
about to write when you came in ; what
brought you to the city so unexpectedly ?"
" I can't say that my coming was un¬
expected, exactly," answered Leroy. " I
wrote you that I would be in New York
some time in June; I couldn't tell the
precise day, you know,—but, go on,—
what is it that has happened?"
" Something very solemn and very
awful, Leroy," she answered, in a low
voice. " Roger is dead."
Roy gave a sudden start.
"Roger? Dead? How do you know
that?"
Mildred related, as accurately as she
could, the circumstances connected with
their wretched brother's unhappy end.
Leroy was, at bottom, a warm-hearted
young fellow, and the momentary bit¬
terness that rose in his mind at the
first sound of the reprobate's name sub¬
sided as he listened to Mildred's sad
tale of misery, and pity left no place for
condemnation.
" Poor Roger," he said, in a subdued
voice, when she had finished; "if he
had died long ago it would have been
better for him and for us."
" Perhaps so," answered Mildred, "for
he went at last without any warning."
"And you could learn nothing about
his life up to the time when you found
him going to the hospital?"
" Nothing, except the little I gathered
from the girl Bridget, as I told you. She
acted as his servant while he occupied
one of the rooms I now have, a short time
before I took possession, and from her
account I fear we would find little to
comfort us by making further inquiries."
" That is true," answered Leroy, rising,
and making a few strides up and down
the room. " Poor Roger, the less said of
him, and the less known of him, I fear,
the better. Did Fanny go to see him in
the hospital ?"
"No ; I did not send for her. She was
always very hard on Roger, you know,—
not more so than he deserved, perhaps,
but now that he is gone, I shrank from
exposing the circumstances of his death
even to her, so I wrote her a note, merely
stating the fact, but did not think it ne¬
cessary to enter into particulars. If he
had returned to consciousness for a single
instant before his death, I would have
sent for her, in the hope that there might
have been peace between them at the
last; but as it was, there was nothing
to be gained, and the utmost that affec¬
tion itself can do for him now is to throw
the veil of silence over his life and over
his death."
" Yes, we were all hard on him, except
you, Mil," said Roy, thoughtfully. "None
of us loved him ; we couldn't ; but I am
sorry now that I didn't try to be a little
more tolerant of his failings. Does Fan
seem content where she is?" he added,
abruptly, changing his tone and seating
himself again on the sofa beside his sister.
" Yes, she seems quite satisfied," re¬
plied Mildred ; " but haven't you seen her
for yourself?"
"No; I have not been to the Macou-
leys yet; I came right here from the
depot."
"What! before even going to Wall
Street to report to your uncle?"
"Yes."
" But he knows of your arrival?"
" No."
Roy was growing curt and monosyl¬
labic, a sure sign that something had
gone wrong with him. Mildred did not
tease him with questions, and after a
moment of perturbed silence he began
again, abruptly, blurting out the whole
matter of his own accord.
" I tell you what, Mildred, I don't like
this business ; it's a swindle."
" What business, Roy ?"
"Being agent for Uncle Bonner; the
whole concern is a swindle."
" I never had confidence in your uncle
as a man of business," answered Mil¬
dred, quietly.
" Nor I either; but I didn't think he'd
want to set me to cheating so soon," re¬
plied the boy, indignantly. " I don't
believe there is a hundred dollars' worth
of solid capital in all the sales he has
made since he set up in Wall Street. His
whole trade consists in buying up or in¬
venting worthless stocks, working them
up to a premium, and then palming them
off on innocent people as sound. The
Mattapony Mills, that have been adver¬
tised and lied about till the stock is sell¬
ing at fifty per cent, premium, ain't worth
six and a quarter cents on the dollar, I
am confident. The property itself is
good enough, but is mortgaged to the
last dollar of its value for money to pay
the handsome dividends that have raised
the stock so high above par. As for the
Milford coal stock that there has been
such a blowing about, I don't believe
there are any such mines in existence,
and every cent of the enormous dividends
attributed to them has been paid out of
subscriptions for stock; or, worse still,
out of money borrowed for the purpose.
92
A MERE AD VENTURER.
Uncle Bonner and Mr. Fairburn have
both been making large transfers of cap¬
ital to Europe recently; getting ready
for the next smash-up, I suppose. I tell
you what, Mildred," rising and pacing
excitedly up and down the room, "it
looks very much like another Magnolia
Bank affair, and I can't be agent for any
such concern. I won't lie and steal for
anybody, and I mean to quit the business
iust as soon as I can find something; else
to do."
"Don't wait for something else, Roy,
but quit at once," said Mildred, de¬
cisively. "Never compound for one
instant with dishonesty."
"No; I'll go this very night," cried
Roy, impetuously, "and tell Uncle Bon¬
ner he's an old scoundrel, and I don't
intend to mix myself up in his dirty
transactions a minute longer."
"No, you won't do that either," said
Mildred, laying her hand gently on his
shoulder, and speaking in her firm, quiet
way. " You will wait till to-morrow,
and then tell him politely that you pre¬
fer some other employment. Your uncle
is an old man, and you will not insult
him ; not, at any rate, while your sister
sees fit to remain under the shelter of
his roof."
" But Fanny mustn't stay there ; I will
provide her with a shelter somewhere
else," cried Roy.
" I am not sure," said Mildred, " that
Fanny would be satisfied with any shel¬
ter that you could provide for her. She
has luxurious tastes, and I do not think
could be persuaded to leave her uncle's
house for any less comfortable abode.
She cannot overcome her dislike of poor
living, enough even to visit me here."
" Oh, of course, I wouldn't expect her
to occupy a place like this," cried Roy,
glancing contemptuously round at the
paltry apartment; "that is, not perma¬
nently, and I don't intend that you shall.
I expect to provide suitably for both of
you as soon as I can get a chance to do
something."
"And what do you propose doing?"
" Oh, well, I can't tell exactly, yet.
You always do bother a fellow, Mildred,
with such silly questions. I think I
would like to go to college first thing."
Mildred looked grave. Roy's shiftless-
ness, which used to be amusing when
there was no real need for exertion on
his part, had now ceased to fye a subject
for laughter; and she observed, with
regret, that his recent experience had
taught him nothing. lie was a high-
toned youth, and it was something to
know that his principles showed no taint
of corruption under the evil tutelage of
Macouley & Co. ; but his utter impervi-
ousness to the teachings of practical wis¬
dom, his blind reliance upon a vague
possibility of doing something in the
future, made her regard him with a feel¬
ing almost of despair. She had too much
sense, however, to imagine that she could
do any good by preaching,—a mode of
treatment which generally serves only to
irritate,—so she resorted to the more effec¬
tive expedient of another silly question.
" Where will you get the money to go
to college?"
"Well, I suppose I could borrow it,"
answered Roy, with less hesitation than
most men in his situation would have felt
in answering such an inconvenient sug¬
gestion. " I can pay it back, you know,
with interest, when I once get fairly
started in life and have had a chance to
do something."
" And who has agreed to lend you
money on this security?"
" Oh, I haven't asked anybody yet,
but I suppose any of father's old friends
would do it, or Uncle Bonner himself
might give me a lift, or—there is Mr.
Thompson Ilenlow ; he would do any¬
thing for your sake."
Mildred suddenly shrunk away from
him, and her pale face grew livid.
" Roy," she said, in a serious tone, "if
you ask any favors of Mr. Henlow, you
will forfeit my affection forever."
"Oh, well, don't be foolish, Mildred,"
said Roy. " I haven't asked any favors
of him, and I don't expect to, though I
don't believe there is anybody would
grant me one sooner. I met him on the
street one day, just before leaving for
New York, and he was overpoweringly
cordial,—quite fraternal, in fact,—and
treated me to a lunch at Maronnetti's.
I tell you, Mildred, I don't believe he
has given up all hope yet ; you can have
another chance at him any day you
choose, and if you could manage to swal¬
low the pill "
" Hush !" cried Mildred, with an as¬
perity that startled Roy. " Don't men¬
tion his name to me, Roy."
" Well, you needn't fly off at the handle
about it in that style," answered Roy,
laughing. " I ain't going to ask you to
marry him, though he was awful broth¬
erly and taking-things-granted-like, you
know. But I must go before I raise too
great a row," he added, rising. " Can
you give a 'feller' a lighter, Mil?" draw-
A CONSULTATION.
93
ing out a cigar and fumbling in his pockets
for a match. " I have used up all my
matches."
Roy had only recently learned to
smoke, and rather hoped that his sister
would take him to task about it, so that
he would have an opportunity of dis¬
playing his contempt for female preju¬
dices, but she knew the futility of remon¬
strance, and disappointed Roy by merely
handing him the match-holder, without
any comment upon his newly-acquired
accomplishment. He lighted his cigar,
took two or three ostentatious puffs to
try its flavor, and started towards the
door, then turned suddenly back as if he
had just remembered something. "Oh,
I say, Mil," he began, pausing, with one
hand on the latch, " can you lend a fellow
ten dollars ? I'm out of change, and have
two or three little things to buy as I go
on up-town."
Mildred produced the money without
a word of admonition.
"When can you come again, and let
us have a talk over your business arrange¬
ments, Roy?" she asked, as he thrust
the money carelessly into his waistcoat-
pocket.
" Any time you like," answered Roy,
complacently. " I'm ready for anything,
—just find me something to do and I'll
do it. I am willing to go to college or
to go to work,—anything that will best
enable me to take care of you and Fanny.
I am all you two have to depend upon,
you know."
With this comforting assurance he
kissed her good-night, and went his way
with as light a heart as if the whole
burden of life were a cluster of May
flowers.
CHAPTER XXII.
A CONSULTATION.
" Mishaps are mastered by advice discreet,
And counsel mitigates the greatest smart."
Spenser.
Rot's visit left Mildred more disturbed
in mind than she had been before. She
had not fully realized the boy's utter
shiftlessness and want of selfcreliance
until she saw them tested by experience,
and a new source of anxiety was opened
for her in the uncertainties and dangers
of his future career. Though naturally
of a chivalrous, high-toned disposition,
and trained in the strictest principles of
honor, he was too young, and too easily
influenced by others, to be safe in bad
company, and she felt that he must be
withdrawn at once from the business
connection with his uncle, before famili¬
arity had abated his disgust for the
gilded frauds by which such men grow
rich.
Then the difflculty arose, what to do
with him when she had taken him out
of his uncle's hands? She had no way
of getting him into employment again,
and no one to whom she could apply for
advice or assistance except—yes, there
was Mr. Ilenlow ; but she shrank with
invincible repugnance from the thought ;
it would be like making a voluntary
acknowledgment of the engagement be¬
tween them, and that she would never
consent to do, though she knew there was
no one more capable of giving her prac¬
tical aid. Besides his own large estab¬
lishment, which afforded employment to
some threescore or more of enterprising
young men, Mr. Henlow's weight and
influence in mercantile circles would in¬
sure consideration, in any quarter, for
one whom he chose to recommend, and
Mildred knew that a simple request from
her would procure for Roy any situation
in Mr. Henlow's gift; she knew, more¬
over, that Mr. Ilenlow was a strictly
honest man in all his dealings, and re¬
quired the most spotless integrity in
those who served him ; she knew that
his house would be a good school of
morality for Roy, as well as of industry,
and it would doubtless be greatly to Roy's
advantage to have employment there ;
but, in spite of all these things, she felt
that she could never bring herself to
apply for assistance in that quarter. If
she were already irrevocably married it
would be-different, but the deed was not
yet consummated, and to add by one
voluntary act of hers to the weight of
obligation that already lay upon her she
could not, even for Roy's sake.
Mildred cherished, moreover, an aris¬
tocratic prejudice against mercantile pur¬
suits, and she knew that Roy himself
had a strong antipathy to trade. His
own predilections all seemed to lie in
the direction of mechanics and engi¬
neering ; he had a passion for machi¬
nery of all sorts, and a man is likely
to succeed best, if he succeeds at all, at
the profession of his choice. Where a
boy's inclinations are crossed, and he is
forced into some business for which he
94
A MERE ADVENTURER.
has no taste, his life is very apt to prove
a failure. If Roy could be sent for a
year or two to some first-class polytechnic
school, and opportunity afforded him to
develop his mechanical skill, something
might be made of him. Mildred knew
that such had been her father's intention,
and she might, perhaps, by practising the
closest economy in her own expenses, be
able to carry out, in part at least, her
parent's wishes.
But, on the other hand, it was doubtful
whether, in allowing Roy to depend
upon her exertions for his education, she
would not, by fostering the very weak¬
ness of his character that most needed
correction, be doing him a greater injury
than benefit. The best plan would be
to place him, if possible, in some situa¬
tion where he could get work and in¬
struction at the same time, but she did
not know how to accomplish that. If
she only had some one to consult with,—
some experienced person who would be
willing to advise, and perhaps assist her
a little,—she would not feel so helpless
under the responsibility of launching Roy
anew in the world. There was one per¬
son,—one who ought to be competent to
advise, for he had made his own way in
the world,—one whom she had a right
to consult, for he had given her his con¬
fidence. Ah ! it would be so sweet to
carry all her doubts to him, to look to
him and trust implicitly to his guidance,
if she dared ; but it was too sweet ; there
was treachery in the thought. No, no,
she must not think of Rex. And yet,
why should she not go to him? There
was nothing between them to put any
scruples of delicacy in her way ; he had
never spoken to her of love that she
should tremble so at the thought of an
interview, and surely there could be no
harm in asking his advice about a simple
matter of business.
She lay awake a great part of the
night, anxiously revolving over Roy's
prospects, and the more she considered
the subject the more incapable she felt
of coming to a decision about him. She
finally concluded to wait a day or two,
thinking that she could tell better what
to do after another talk with Roy ; but
when she had waited nearly a week with¬
out seeing or hearing anything of the
boy, she began to feel more anxious and
more helpless than ever. While in this
state of mind, as she was proceeding one
day as usual to her desk in the Metro¬
politan building, the door to the room
where Rex usually sat happened to be
standing ajar as she passed, and she saw
Rex himself sitting within reading a
paper. He was alone, and did not seem
to be very busy, so that if she wished to
consult him she could hardly find a better
time. The occasion decided her, as it
often does most of us in this world, and
tapping gently at the door, she asked, in
a timid voice,—
" Are you very busy this morning,
Mr. Van Dorn ?"
Rex turned quickly at the sound of
her voice and laid aside his paper. With
that beautiful face looking so earnestly
into his own how could a man think of
business, even if the fate of the world had
been depending on his nod?
"Busy? No," he answered, eagerly.
"Why do you ask ?"
" Because," advancing a step or two,
" I wish to encroach a little upon your
time with some of my private affairs, if
you will allow me."
" Certainly, I am quite at your ser¬
vice," he replied, placing a chair for her
opposite his own.
" May I ask your advice about some¬
thing?" she continued, resting her hands
on the back of the chair, without seating
herself.
" You can need no assurance on that
point," he answered, with a bright smile.
" I am only too proud that you think my
advice worth asking."
"It is about my brother," she said, a
little at a loss how to begin.
" Your brother?"
" Yes."
Rex had never heard Mildred speak of
her family before, and did not suppose
that she had any near relations. He
made no comment, however, upon her
reticence, and Mildred went on :
" I feel obliged to ask some one to ad¬
vise me, because I don't know exactly
what to do with him myself."
" That difficulty usually belongs to the
other side of the house," said Rex, smil¬
ing ; " it is more natural to see a brother
concern himself about disposing of his
sisters."
" Oh, but Roy is too young for that,"
answered Mildred, quickly. " He will
be only eighteen next July,—a mere boy,
you see, without experience or business
habits."
" Ah, I see," said Rex, beginning to
comprehend the situation. " Have you
thought of any profession for him ?"
" Nothing definite," Mildred answered.
" He has always shown a great fondness
for me<*hanics and engineering, and it
A CONSULTATION.
95
was my father's intention to educate him
for some branch of that profession, but
my father's death and the loss of our
fortune prevented the design from being
carried into effect, and my brother is
now engaged in a business extremely dis¬
tasteful to him, with his uncle, a stock¬
broker in Wall Street."
" That is unfortunate," said Rex. " I
have not had much experience in the
management of boys, as you are aware,"
he added, with a laugh, " but to judge
from the only one whose career I have
had a hand in shaping, I should say that
it is always unwise to cross a young
man's inclinations in the choice of a
profession, especially if his predilections
are very strong. In my own case, I
know that if I had not been a journalist
I should have been nothing, or worse.
Nature generally makes a man crave the
food that is good for him, and one is not
apt to have a very ardent enthusiasm for
a profession at which he is totally inca¬
pable of succeeding, nor is he apt to suc¬
ceed at what he does not like."
Mildred felt the force of these remarks,
which coincided exactly with her own
views.
" I agree with you entirely," she said,
" on that point ; and now, the question
is how best to forward his interests in
the matter,—whether to send him for a
year or two to a polytechnic school, or
try to find him active employment at
once in some situation where he might
acquire, together with a practical knowl¬
edge of his profession, habits of industry
suited to his present circumstances."
" In that matter," said Roy, thought¬
fully, " I think you had better be guided
by circumstances, and by the character
of the boy. Has he received any techni¬
cal training at all, with a view to fitting
him for the profession of engineering,—
or of the particular branch of it he pro¬
poses to adopt?"
" None, except what his natural fond¬
ness for such studies led him to acquire.
It was my father's intention to give him
first a liberal collegiate education, and
let him study the technical part of his
profession afterwards. For a young man
of fortune, who had plenty of time and
money at his command, that plan was a
wise one, but now things are very differ¬
ent, and what seemed best once would
not be practicable at present."
" Of course not ; it is necessary to
think more of the purely practical and
useful."
" Yes,—but," she added, with a slightly
embarrassed air, " it is not necessary to
be guided exclusively by such considera¬
tions if you think a different course
would be preferable. The wants of a
woman who is not in society are very
small, you know, and I could keep Roy
at school for a year or two without seri¬
ous inconvenience to myself,—and even
if it were otherwise," she added, " it
would be worth making some sacrifice to
secure the poor boy's success in life."
Van Dorn paused to consider a little
before speaking.
" I doubt," he answered, after a mo¬
ment's reflection, " whether it is often
wise to encourage a young man at the
very outset of his career in habits of de¬
pendence upon others,—especially upon
a woman. If your brother is a very
strong, self-reliant character, it might
not hurt him to receive assistance from
you for a little while,—otherwise I would
not recommend it."
Mildred was silent a moment, but re¬
membering that she had volunteered to
ask Rex's advice, concluded that it was
best to be perfectly frank, and answered,
after a little pause,—
" That is the very point which causes
me anxiety. To be candid with you, Mr.
Van Dorn, I fear that want of energy
and self-reliance are the most serious de¬
fects of my brother's character."
" Then it seems to me," said Rex,
" that he had better be encouraged to
fight his own battles from the first, with
as little assistance from others as possi¬
ble. But perhaps," he added, " I might
advise you better if I could first have a
talk with the young gentleman himself,
and gain a personal knowledge of his
character, tastes, and aspirations ; could
you contrive for me to meet him within
the next day or two?"
Mildred looked up at him, her face
radiant with gratitude.
" Will you really do that, Mr. Yan
Dorn ?" she cried, eagerly. " Oh, how
good you are to take so much trouble for
my poor boy !"
Rex did not think it necessary to ex¬
plain how little her " poor boy" had to
do with his interest in the matter.
" It is you who are good to honor me
with your confidence," he said, in a tone
that proved the sincerity of his words.
He longed to say something more, but he
was not the man to make the moment of
conferring a favor, however slight, an
occasion for advancing his claims as a
lover. A short pause succeeded, which
Mildred rças the first to interrupt.
96
A MERE ADVENTURER.
" I will try and send Roy to you to¬
morrow if you don't mind," she said,
moving towards the door.
" All right," said Rex, turning reluct¬
antly toward his desk again. " Let him
meet me here at four or five in the after¬
noon, if he can, and I will do my best to
prove a faithful mentor."
It seemed highly amusing to Rex, when
he thought over the matter alone, that
he, of all men, should be suddenly placed
in the responsible position of adviser in
the grave matter of a young gentleman's
career in life. Yet he was pleased too,
for while there might be nothing intrin¬
sically interesting to him in a raw young¬
ster of eighteen, yet, as Mildred's brother,
that youngster was invested with an im¬
portance which no one else, except Roy
himself, perhaps, would have been likely
to attribute to him. But what gratified
Rex particularly, was the thought that
Mildred had judged him worthy of her
confidence in a matter so near to her,
and he rejoiced to think that she had
voluntarily gone thus far towards remov¬
ing the barrier of reserve she had so
persistently maintained between them.
Poor Rex ! he little dreamed of that other
barrier in his way ; a barrier strong as
the inviolable faith of Mildred's charac¬
ter—strong as the invincible selfishness
of the man who held her in bondage to
his will ; a barrier which there was no
power on earth—not even the power of
love—strong enough to break.
CHAPTER XXIII.
a clever operation in stocks.
" Quid non mortalia pectora cogis,
Auria sacra fames I"
Virgil.
Mildred was too fully impressed with
the importance of getting Roy settled at
some stable employment to trust the un¬
certain chance of his coming to her in
time to be notified of Van Dorn's pro¬
posal, and as the office of Macouley & Co.,
in Wall Street, was but a few blocks dis¬
tant, she concluded to step down there
and leave a message for him. The office,
however, was closed when she arrived, so
she took the horse-cars and went on to
Mr. Macouley's residence up-town. It
was always with the greatest reluctance
that she entered the Macouley mansion,
or came into contact with its occupants,
but it was important for her to see Roy,
and she would be more apt to find him
there, just at that hour, than anywhere
else. She rang the bell, intending to
send for him to meet her at the door, and
deliver her message without entering the
house, but he was out driving with one
of his cousins in the park, so there was
nothing for it but to go in and wait, as
the servant assured her he was expected
to return every moment. Fanny happen¬
ing to come down-stairs just then, accom¬
panied by the vivacious Kate, the two
met her in the hall and ushered her im¬
mediately into the drawing-room.
The Macouleys had fully established
themselves in society by this time, and
their elegant mansion was a favorite re¬
sort with the beauty and fashion of their
set. There were several visitors in the
room when Mildred entered, and her
elegant and distingué air, in spite of her
criminally plain toilet, made her an ob¬
ject of remark, even to the practised eyes
of the dwellers on Murray Hill. Indeed,
the sombre, and by no means costly,
drapery that enveloped her person served
to render her the more conspicuous by
its contrast to the gay and fashionable
toilets of the rest of the company, and
attracted all eyes to her with a look of
as much surprise as good breeding ever
permits itself. Mrs. Ilightower, a lady
whose diamonds always inspired respect
wherever she went, put on her eye¬
glasses, and after indulging in a fash¬
ionable stare, demanded of Mrs. Ma¬
couley, in a confidential aside, if the Miss
Loring who had just entered was any
relation of her niece.
"Only a half-sister," replied Mrs.
Macouley, apologetically. " Her mother
was a very different sort of person from
Fanny's, and really, you would never
take the two girls to be of the same fam¬
ily, they are so unlike."
She had disapproved of Mildred in a
general way ever since the latter had
wantonly sacrificed her private fortune
for the benefit of her father's creditors,
and entailed upon her family the scan¬
dalous disgrace of poverty. The high
principles of honor that had influenced
Mildred's conduct were altogether un¬
known to her, and formed no part of the
teachings of the school in which she had
been reared. The idea of attaching dis¬
grace to her husband for his share in
reducing Mildred to her present position
never once occurred to Mrs. Macouley's
I mind ; but the presence among her fash-
A CLEVER OPERATION IN STOCKS.
97
ionable acquaintances, and in the ca¬
pacity of a connection of the family, of
a person whose bonnet was a full season
behind, and whose dress could hardly
have cost fifty cents a yard, was a spe¬
cies of mortification to which the Macou-
ley sensibilities were keenly alive.
Mrs. Hightower turned her eye-glasses
upon Fanny as Mrs. Macouley finished
speaking, and took a leisurely survey of
the younger sister.
" The other one is in mourning for her
mother, I suppose?" she said, noticing
the difference in the two sisters' dress.
" No ; it is for their father," answered
Mrs. Macouley, slightly embarrassed.
"Mildred is very peculiar; she never
can do anything in moderation, and I
couldn't let Fanny go on wearing black
forever, just because her sister chose to.
These literary women are always badly
balanced ; I am so glad neither of my
girls is an authoress."
" An authoress ! Is Miss Loring an
authoress?" demanded Mrs. Hightower,
with sudden eagerness. Mrs. Hightower
had once entertained Sir Giles Legerdust,
author of the " Philosophy of National¬
ity," when he was on a visit to this coun¬
try, and had set herself up as an oracle in
literary matters ever since. It was her
ambition to figure as a lady patroness to
literary people, and she was quick to
scent her prey in any stray Bohemian
that crossed her path.
" Why, yes, there is no telling how
much she has written," answered Mrs.
Macouley, impressively. She was rather
relieved at this method of smoothing over
Mildred's dreadful plainness of attire to
her wealthy visitor, for in Mrs. Macou-
ley's mind it seemed as natural to attrib¬
ute eccentricities of dress and manners
to the vagaries of authorship, as it seems
to some people to attribute murder to
insanity. She was one of those material¬
istic natures to whom the physical refine¬
ments of life are a necessity,—a second
nature, as it were,—but the higher refine¬
ments of literature and art are a sealed
book. She yielded a distant homage to
literature because other people did, and
reverenced it in a negative sort of a way
as she did the doctrines taught in her
prayer-book, without troubling herself
to appreciate or understand them. The
ideal student or the ideal author was to
her an occult being supposed to be capa¬
ble of talking about nothing but books,
and therefore too much of a bore to be
available for the ordinary purposes of
society.
" I dare say it is all very learned and
wise," Mrs. Macouley went on, "but for
my part I think it is a great deal better
for a woman to let alone writing books
and all that sort of thing, and confine
herself to the proper business of her
sphere. If Mildred Loring was like
other girls she could have been married
and settled in life long ago, but, instead
of that, she has not only refused some of
the best offers in the country, but has
actually been mad enough to throw away
a fortune of eighty thousand dollars for
a mere sentiment. Her father made a
great mistake in educating her as if she
had been a boy, teaching her Latin and his¬
tory and all that sort of rubbish. I knew
it would spoil her, for these learned women
always are flighty and unpractical."
Here Mrs. Macouley was called away
to another part of the room, and Mrs.
Hightower, being left to herself, pro¬
ceeded at once to patronize Mildred by
turning toward her, and inquiring in a
loud voice, with an abruptness that quite
startled the latter,—
" What is the name of your book, Miss
Loring?"
" I have never written a book," an¬
swered Mildred, as soon as she could
recover from the shock of the onset suffi¬
ciently to reply at all.
" Indeed !" in a tone of diminished re¬
spect. " Mrs. Macouley told me you were
an authoress."
" Mrs. Macouley was mistaken ; I
merely make my living by doing hack¬
work for the newspapers," replied Mil¬
dred, in a tone that made poor Fanny
squirm on her seat and wonder what
dreadful thing Mildred was going to say
next.
"Ah!" the tone of respect had fallen
several degrees. "And why don't you
write a book?"
" I have never thought of the reason
why," answered Mildred, beginning to
be amused, "but I suppose it is because
I don't know anything to put in a book."
"Is that so? Then I will tell you
something," said Mrs. Hightower, as¬
suming a benignant tone. " I know a
romance in real life that would make a
better novel than anything Dickens, or
Macaulay, or any of those great ro¬
mancers ever wrote, if I could only get
some author to make use of it. The
demands of society upon me are so great
that I could not find time for the labor
of writing myself, but then I would be
willing to direct and assist an author,
you know."
98
A MERE ADVENTURER.
"For which the author would be very
grateful, no doubt," said Mildred, with
difficulty suppressing a smile.
" I will give you a brief outline of the
story," continued Mrs. Hightower. " It
is about a schoolmate of mine whom I
met accidentally last winter for the first
time in twenty years. When I knew
her at Madame de Bagatelle's, where we
were at school together, her father was
a millionnaire and she the only child.
They lived in princely style, and she
had the handsomest jewels in the city,
and silks and*laces, and everything a
woman could desire to make her happy,
and now—she is living in a tenement
house in Jersey City."
Mildred kept waiting for the dénoue¬
ment, but as Mrs. Hightower said noth¬
ing more, and continued to regard her
with an expectant expression, she felt it
incumbent on her to make some reply,
and not knowing what else to say, she
asked, innocently,—
" And what makes her live in a tene¬
ment house ?"
" Why, she got married, and her hus¬
band broke,—spent all her money, and
now she is a widow and teaches music
for a living 1 Really, Miss Loring, the
vicissitudes of real life surpass anything
we read about in fiction."
" A good many things in real life sur¬
pass what we read of in fiction," replied
Mildred, thinking more particularly, just
at that moment, of its follies.
" They do indeed," answered Mrs.
Hightower, emphatically. "We may
well say with Shakspeare, that 'truth is
stranger than fiction.' You may make
use of that story if you choose, Miss Lor¬
ing, for your first novel," she continued,
benevolently. " I had intended telling
it to Miss Wallbright, but you are more
of a novice, I guess, and more in need
of encouragement. Did you ever meet
Miss Wallbright?"
Mildred was forced to confess that she
had never had that honor.
" That is a pity ; being an intellectual
Eerson yourself, you would appreciate
er society. I hope I may have the
pleasure of introducing you to her some
day. She is one of the most remarkable
women of the age : she can read Hebrew,
and Chinese, and Choctaw, and has pub¬
lished a book of not less than three hun¬
dred printed pages!"
Mildred ventured to ask what was the
subject of this astounding effort of Miss
Wallbright's genius.
"Well, I don't know exactly what it
was all about," answered Mrs. High¬
tower, not at all disconcerted at this
confession of her own ignorance. " The
demands of society are so great, you see,
that I haven't much time for reading,—
but her friends say it is something quite
wonderful ; a work of extraordinary
merit."
The interesting interview was brought
to a close at this point by the return of
Leroy and his cousin, whose entrance
gave rise to a new distribution of the
company, and caused several of the vis¬
itors to remember that they had engage¬
ments which would not permit them to
tarry longer. Mildred hastened to make
her retreat at the same time, and calling
Roy to follow her, proceeded to accom¬
plish her errand.
"Well, Roy," she began, when they
had got into the street, " you have not
been to talk over your plans with me
yet ; have you changed your mind about
seeking some new employment?"
" Oh, no," answered the boy, promptly.
" I am going to get something else to do
just as soon as I can, but the fact is the
girls have kept me so busy going with
them to the theatre and all sorts of places
that I've not had time to think about
business. But I am going to do some¬
thing right away."
" I am glad your determination is
fixed," said Mildred, " and the sooner
Îou begin to carry it out the better,
f you will come to the Metropolitan
building to-morrow afternoon about five
o'clock I will introduce you to a friend
of mine there who will talk over the
matter with you, and who is much more
capable of advising you than I am."
" All right," said Roy, twirling vigor¬
ously at a feeble down on his upper lip,
which he treated with all the dignity of
a moustache. " I'm ready for anything
that'll pull our family up once more.
Just let your friend point out some way
of making money quick and I'm his
man."
" I don't know that he can do that,"
answered Mildred, with a smile. " For¬
tunes are not often made quickly by
honest means ; but whatever he may
advise, I am sure will be noblest and
wisest and best."
She stopped suddenly, as a conscious¬
ness of the feelings that prompted this
warm praise of Van Dorn suggested
itself with accusing significance to her
mind.
"Well, I'll certainly be on hand,"
said Roy, quite unsuspicious as to the
A CLEVER OPERATION IN STOCKS.
99
hidden source of Mildred's enthusiasm,
" to hear what this paragon of wisdom
may have to propose. At five, you say?"
" Yes ; and mind you don't fail, Roy,
on any account," said Mildred, mindful
of Roy's general unreliability in matters
of business. " Don't let any other en¬
gagement, no matter what, detain you."
" Never fear ; I'll be on hand at five,
sharp," said Roy, with a business-like
air. " I'm as anxious to cut loose from
Uncle Bonner as you are to have me."
" You have informed your uncle of
your intention, I suppose," said Mildred.
" Oh, now, Mil, don't begin to push a
fellow on too fast," cried Roy, his con¬
science secretly accusing him. " You
can't expect a man to do everything at
once, you know ; but I'm going to fix
up things right ; you needn't be uneasy
about me,—yonder's your car at the next
block," he added, as they turned the
corner into Fourth Avenue. " I'll just
put you on board when it comes down,
and then go back to dinner."
" You'll come and see me to-night,
won't you?" said Mildred, as she stood
waiting at the crossing.
" Well, no, it'll hardly be worth while
now," answered Roy, " as I've already
seen you once to-day, and the girls will
probably want me to go out somewhere
with them to-night. By the way, Mil,"
seeing her open her purse and take out
some small change for car-fare, "can't
Íou let me have ten or fifteen dollars?
t takes so much money going about with
the girls,—stage-fare, ices, and the like,
you know,—that I have got rid of all my
cash."
Mildred handed him the contents of
her purse without a word, though she
might naturally have objected, one would
think, to paying for rides and ices
for the daughters of the man who had
robbed her. She was too much concerned
about Leroy just now, however, to bestow
much attention upon the Macouleys, ex¬
cept as regarded their influence over Roy.
That influence, she felt, was as dangerous
to him morally as pecuniarily, and must
be removed at any price. His uncle's
house was an attractive place, as the
houses of the rich are apt to be ; his
cousins were thorough women of the
world, well versed in the art of making
themselves agreeable. They were fond
of the good-natured, handsoma boy in
their way, while Roy, for his part, was
fond of whatever made life pleasant. His
instincts were all in favor of honesty and
truth, but he had not always the self-
denial to be guided by them, and his
volatile temper was swayed in any direc¬
tion by the company he happened to keep.
For a character so pliant to outside influ¬
ences it was of the utmost importance
that it should not be subjected to improper
ones. The society of the rich is always
dangerous to the poor, by tempting them
into follies and extravagances which must
lead to trouble and may lead to crime.
Mildred had had such a terrible experi¬
ence of the depths to which men may
sink under temptation, that she trembled
to see Roy in the hands of those whose
prosperity itself was a living incentive
to perjury and fraud. Roy must be got
out of their way,—sent out of the city,
and cut off, if possible, for a time at
least, from all communication with his
uncle's family.
Her determination was strengthened
by a circumstance which transpired that
very evening after she returned home.
Bridget came in as usual to serve her
solitary meal, and bustled about the room
with such busy importance that it was
plain her mind was laboring with some
big disclosure. Mildred observed her
beaming countenance, and said to her,
good-naturedly, as Bridget handed the
chocolate,—
"What is the matter, Biddy? You
look as happy as if you were going to be
married."
"Och, sure miss, and it is almost as
good as that same," answered the artless
Bridget. " I'm a going to be rich."
" Going to be rich ? Well, that is good,
and it will very soon lead to your getting
married too, if you want to, Bridget,"
said Mildred, amused at the girl's sim¬
plicity. " But tell me how it all hap¬
pened ; has anybody died and left you a
legacy ?"
" Oh, no, miss, it's all along of me
cousin Patrick ; he saw the advertise¬
ment, and he got the stock for me.
Patrick was always a good boy to me."
"The stock? What stock, Bridget?"
asked Mildred, with an instinctive feel¬
ing of alarm for the poor girl's little
savings.
" The Mattapony stock, miss,—the great
cotton-mills that is making money like a
gowld-mine."
Mildred's heart sank.
" Tell me about it, Bridget," she said,
laying down her knife and fork, and feel¬
ing as if the food in her mouth would
choke her.
"Well, miss," began the elated Brid¬
get, " it w*s this way. Me cousin Pat-
100
A MERE ADVENTURER.
rick, he's a hard-working, thrifty lad, ye
see, and he had laid by nearly three
hundred dollars which he was wanting
to infest ; so he studies all the advertise¬
ments in the papers, and looks a bit into
everything, till he sees about the Matta-
pony Mills. But Patrick, he's a sharp
hoy, d'ye see, and not to be took in, so
he wouldn't trust to the printed adver¬
tisements, but he goes straight to Wall
Street, to Macouley & Fairburn their-
8elves, and inquires all about the stock
before he puts his money in it. And, oh,
miss, the gintlemen did behave so beau¬
tiful to him ! and rale gintlemen they
was, to be sure, miss, to do so well by a
poor working-man. They made it all
plain to Patrick how the mills was a
grinding out money, and they said there
wouldn't have been any stock to sell, but
the mills was doing so beautiful they
wanted to enlarge them, and so they was
willing to add a little more to their capi¬
tal stock ; and so, says they to Patrick, if
he would get enough people to subscribe,
besides himself, to make up a thousand
dollars, they would give him four hun¬
dred dollars' worth of stock for his three
hundred dollars ! I had seventy-six dol¬
lars and thirty-five cents of me own,
which I have been five years a laying up.
I had give it to Patrick to keep for me,
and he offered to put it in along with his
own,—I towld ye he was a good boy to
me, miss,—and let me have the profit for
mine, and here it is, miss, one hundred
dollars for seventy-six, and they say that
in two years' time it will be worth twice
as much again, besides paying twenty
dollars a year intrust.'1'1
So saying, she produced, with a tri¬
umphant air, a bran-new coupon of
Mattapony stock, signed B. H. Macou¬
ley, President, and J. A. Fairburn, Treas¬
urer. Mildred cast an angry glance at
the fraudulent paper, and asked,—
" Has your cousin found people enough
to make up the thousand dollars, Brid-
get?"
i( Oh, yes, and more, too," answered
Biddy, with a flourish. u It ain't often
there's such a chance for us poor folk to
make a little something out of our sav¬
ings. As long as Patrick kept his money
in the bank, it didn't pay but three per
cent, a year, and here it is going to be
doubled, besides paying the intrust.
Miss Mary Bugg, she has put in a hun¬
dred dollars, and th' ould widow lady
that I clanes up for at number 54, she
put in fifty, and Patrick's wife's aunt,
she put in all she had ; she's blind, you
see, miss, and helpless, and so it'll be a
blessed thing for her to have a sure and
good support. If ye would like to take
any of the stock yeself, miss, Patrick
would see the gintlemen for yees."
Mildred rose and walked two or three
times up and down the room without
speaking. It was an ungrateful task to
dispel the poor girl's happy illusion and
awaken her to the fact that she had sunk
her hard-earned savings in the bottom¬
less pit of a stock-gambler's rapacity ;
but though it was too late to save Biddy,
Mildred felt that to save fresh victims
from falling into the snare she ought to
speak a word of warning.
" I am afraid, Bridget," she began,
seating herself again, " that your cousin
has been too hasty about investing your
savings ; it is not always safe to trust
what men say concerning their own
wares, and I have reason to believe that
these two men in particular are unscru¬
pulous and dishonest speculators. Don't
trust any more of your money to their
hands, and tell your cousin never, on
any account, to invest another cent with
them, nor to let any one else to do so if
he can prevent it. I am afraid you will
have cause to regret what you have al¬
ready done."
Biddy grew pale with consternation.
" Och, heavens, miss, sure yees must
mistake !" cried Biddy, in a frantic pro¬
test. " The gintlemen talked so fair,
and showed Patrick all the papers about
the business of the factory, and the pic¬
tures of the buildings, miss,—real pic¬
tures,—Patrick showed 'em to me, all
splendid stone houses ; and sure, miss,
rich, fine gintlemen like them wouldn't
stoop to be chating of a poor servant-
girl out of her earnings, and so hard as
I've worked to save 'em, too ; and thin
to think of the poor, blind crature, Pat¬
rick's aunt,—oh, surely, miss, yees must
be mistaken !"
She ended in a pathetic wail, as if be¬
seeching Mildred to take back what she
had said and leave the victims at least
the comfort of a doubt. Poor Biddy !
seventy-six dollars was a mighty matter
to her, and she had no idea of the re¬
morseless ease with which wholesale
gamblers can swallow up millions. Men
who habitually deal in large numbers
seem to forget the relative value of small
figures, and when they devour so readily
the widow's mite and the orphan's por¬
tion they measure their responsibility,
not by the crushing ruin they bring upon
their victims, but by the smallness of the
REX AND ROY.
101
actual sums involved, and while the
widow is smiting her breast and crying
out that all her living is gone, the fraud¬
ulent speculator sees only a few paltry
hundreds swept out of his hand that the
next turn of the die will more than re¬
deem. To him it is not the substance of
widows and orphans he is devouring,
not the bread and meat of human beings,
but senseless stocks and bonds. If any
one had gone to Mr. Macouley with a
pathetic story about a poor servant-girl
deprived of her savings by a street pick¬
pocket, or a blind old woman robbed of
her little support by a midnight burglar,
he would have expressed the greatest in¬
dignation, and would, no doubt, have
given a liberal contribution to the suf¬
ferer ; but that B. H. Macouley or J. A.
Fairburn ought to be sent to the peniten¬
tiary for doing precisely the same thing
by a clever operation in stocks formed
no part of his moral code.
CHAPTER XXIV.
rex and rot.
"Ah, le bontemps, la belle vie ! Quelle joie, quelle
satisfaction d'être jeune ! Comme tout rit dans votre
âme ; comme on voit l'avenir s'étendre devant soi
loin, bien loin. On ne sera jamais vieux, on s'aimera
toujours, on conservera toujours ceux que l'on aime,
on aura toujours du courage—ah, la jeunesse, la
vie."—Erckman-Chatrian.
Leroy was sincere in his desire of quit¬
ting the employment of Macouley &
Fairburn, notwithstanding his dilatori-
ness about putting the design into execu¬
tion. His instincts were all honorable,
and if once put on the right track and
fairly set a going, so that he could keep
there without any trouble to himself, he
was not likely to go astray. But it is
one of the weaknesses of characters like
his to satisfy their consciences with good
intentions,—moral châteaux en Espagne,
as it were,—and then take to themselves
all the credit of having actually per¬
formed what they have only fully per¬
suaded themselves that they are going to
do. They draw enormous bills of credit
on the future, with no security save their
own intention to pay ; not because their
bills are designedly fraudulent, but be¬
cause their faith in the future is so strong.
If Roy discounted rashly on his pros¬
pective achievements, he only did what
most of us do at eighteen. Our aspira¬
tions are as good to us as possessions
then, when we have such faith in their
accomplishment, because we have not
yet lost faith in ourselves. If the hand
could turn backward on the dial-plate of
time and point again to the rosy hours
of life's morning, there are few of us, I
think, even among the most successful,
who would not willingly barter all the
gain the years have brought, solid gold
though it be, to buy back the tinsel
dreams of youth once more. Youth,
mere youth, with its follies and freedom,
its gaudy tinsel and colored lights, is a
possession worth all the golden lore laid
up by sad-eyed age ; worth all the wis¬
dom of Solomorf, if that could purchase
back one happy delusion, one innocent
folly of youth. If Time brought no other
evil in his train, the years themselves
are a heavy chain to drag ; a chain that
wearies the feet, though its links be made
of gold. No matter what good things
time may bring,—fame, riches, power,—
it cannot make compensation for what it
takes away when it robs us of our youth.
Every year that brings us a hope fulfilled
takes away something to be hoped for ;
and what realization of after-life is ever
half so real to us as the sweet illusions
of youth are while they last? By the
time a man becomes rich or famous the
years have come when he says, " I have
no pleasure in them." If we could only
reverse the order of our lives ; if we
could be born threescore-and-ten, and
then travel backwards over the journey
of life, we might, perhaps, take pleasure
in the fruit of our labors, which, if we
reap it at all now, comes too often after
the capacity for enjoyment has gone.
Leroy Loring was as unconscious of
these melancholy contingencies as if he
had not already experienced some of
life's disappointments. It is one of the
privileges of youth that it refuses to be
cast down. Notwithstanding the severe
shock his future prospects had received
in the downfall of his family, Leroy was
still impervious to that first glimmer of
disenchantment which comes to most of
us when we once make trial of our facul¬
ties and find how far they fall short of
all that we had deemed ourselves capable
of doing. He had not yet tried to exert
his powers, and perhaps he had no great
powers to exert ; certainly the self-help¬
ing faculty in him seemed to stand at
zero, yet he counted none the less, as
most of us do at eighteen, upon signaliz¬
ing himself, sooner or later, by some
extraordinary performance.
102
A MERE ADVENTURER.
It was a full hour behind the appointed
time when he set out to keep his engage¬
ment with Mildred. The truth is, he
did not attach much importance to the
interview. " It is some old fogy Mil has
got to preach at me," he said to himself
as he stepped into a stage (Roy was too
dainty ever to ride in the horse-cars if
he could avoid them). " Women are
full of old fogy notions, but I'll go, just
to please her ; there is no harm in humor¬
ing the women." And in this condescend¬
ing frame of mind he presented himself,
a little after six, at the Metropolitan
building, where Mildred was anxiously
awaiting him.
" Well, Roy, what makes you so late?"
she asked, advancing to meet him.
" Late? Why, is it late?" asked Roy,
carelessly.
" Yes ; we have been waiting for you
more than an hour."
" Oh, well, don't make a fuss ; I
couldn't help it," said Roy, with an un¬
comfortable consciousness that he had
given cause for " fussing." " Clara May
asked me to go with her to select ribbons
and flowers to trim one of the ball dresses
she is having fixed for Saratoga, and you
know how girls can fool away time when
they get into the fancy stores ; I came
just as soon as I could get off. But by my
word, Mildred," he continued, glancing
round with surprise at the comfortable
apartment, "you are fixed up like a
princess here ; it isn't such a bad busi¬
ness after all."
" In spite of the ' stamping' and ' strut¬
ting'?" said Mildred, with a smile, re¬
membering the sentiments formerly ex¬
pressed by Roy on the subject.
" Now, Mil, don't be foolish," returned
Roy, pettishly, not finding the recollection
very convenient just then. " But I say,
it is jolly," he continued, settling himself
in one of the easy-chairs. "I've a great
mind to be a journalist myself. Let me
see ; I ought to get at least twice as
much as you do, being a man, you know.
What do you suppose the Metropolitan
would pay me now to write for it?"
" Mr. Van Dorn will be in presently,—
suppose you ask him?" suggested Mil¬
dred, laughing.
"Van Dorn ? Is that the name of the
old coon you've engaged to preach to
me?" said Roy, irreverently.
While he was speaking the door opened,
and to Roy's surprise, instead of the " old
coon" he was expecting, a fine, dashing
young gentleman made his appearance,
and was introduced as Mr. Van Dorn.
Of all the counsellors likely to influ¬
ence Roy, no one could have been found
better calculated by his personal qualities
to give blandishment to his counsels. If
Rex had been a sober, elderly gentleman,
his appearance itself would have excited
in Roy's mind suspicions of prosiness
and " old-fogyism," while had he been
too near the boy's own age, Roy would
probably have considered himself the
better man of the two. As it was, Van
Dorn was just enough Roy's senior to
inspire respect without creating want of
sympathy, while his peculiar grace of
manner and person—the " Gratior et
pulchro veniens in corpore virtus"—was
not without its full share of influence
over Roy, who set up to be something of
a man of the world himself, and who, to
do him justice, had seen quite enough of
good society to make him appreciate its
accomplishments. Good sense and good
habits taken for granted, young men are
more apt to be successful directors of
young men than their elders—and, good
or bad, their counsels certainly receive
more attention.
Van Dorn met Roy with that frank
cordiality of manner which formed one
of his chief attractions. As Mildred's
brother, Roy would not have been a to¬
tally indifferent person to him under any
circumstances, and the handsome, honest
face of the boy prepossessed Rex in his
favor at the first glance.
" I am glad to meet you, Mr. Loring,"
he said, offering his hand. " Your sister
has been talking to me about you, and I
hope we shall soon be good friends."
There was a winning grace in Rex's
voice and manner that imparted a charm
to his most trifling words. He could bid
you a simple good-morning, or utter any
of those conventional commonplaces that
social intercourse exacts of us all now
and then, in a way that would make you
fancy yourself the object of the most
flattering attentions. Roy caught the in¬
fection at once, and answered, with boyish
aplomb,—
" I am sure we shall, Mr. Yan Dorn,—
at least that is what I have come here
for,—to make friends with you. Mildred
said you would talk over my business
with me, and tell me what to do."
" Yes," said Van Dorn, smiling, "we'll
hold a council of war presently, and I
dare say, by putting our two wise heads
together, we shall hit upon some bright
project for you."
" That is just what I want," cried Roy,
pleaded at Rex's off-hand way of treating
REX AND ROY.
103
affairs. "Idon't want to do anything
pokey, you know,—but, take a seat, Mr.
Van Dorn."
"No, thanks," said Rex, who had en¬
tered with hat and gloves in hand. " I
thought I would propose a drive in the
park, Mr. Loring, with a pair of new
horses I want to try, if you have no
objection, and we can talk as we ride
along."
He had made arrangements to go driv¬
ing at six with a pair of horses he had
promised to try for Mr. Gault, thinking
Roy and his affairs would be disposed of
by that time, but when he saw the boy's
delinquency and Mildred's annoyance
thereat, he good-naturedly volunteered
to wait and take Roy with him.
Roy was delighted. Here now was a
guide well worth following, who could
begin business by proposing a drive in
the park and talking about horses. If
Rex had been a wily diplomat scheming
to ingratiate himself with an unsuspect¬
ing young prince, he could not have hit
upon a surer expedient for gaining the
boy's confidence than by showing himself
not averse to flavoring business with a
little spice of pleasure. Rex was, more¬
over, a famous whip, and the skill with
which he managed his spirited chargers
tended to exalt him not a little in Roy's
estimation.
They turned their course up-town, and
were soon whirling along in the midst of
that brilliant throng which may be seen
ány fine day, before the summer exodus
begins, wending its way along upper
Broadway and Fifth Avenue towards the
park, and they chatted together as famil¬
iarly as if they had been acquainted ten
years instead of about so many minutes.
As they approached the Fifth Avenue
entrance, a splendid phaeton dashed past
them drawn by a magnificent pair of
bays, and filled with elegantly-dressed
ladies, who smiled and bowed graciously
to the young men as they passed.
"Do you know those ladies?" asked
Rex, seeing his companion return the
salutation with unusual cordiality.
" Those are my cousins, the Macou-
leys," answered Roy. " Have you never
met them ?"
Mildred had not happened to mention
the name of Roy's uncle when consulting
Rex about her brother, so he heard of
the relationship now for the first time.
" I called at their house once, on New
Year's day," said Rex, "but have never
repeated the visit."
"Why, didn't you like them?"
This point-blank question would have
been rather an awkward one if addressed
to a person of uncompromising veracity,
whose regard for the Macouleys did not
happen to be consistent with an affirma¬
tive rejoinder, but as Rex did not happen
to fall within either category, he an¬
swered without any intention to shuf¬
fle,—
"Oh, it is not the people I object to,—
I scarcely know them,—but the place ;
there is something connected with the
house your cousins live in that makes
me feel uncomfortable there." And he
looked grave, as if the mere suggestion
were unpleasant.
"Well, it's just the reverse with me,"
said Roy, laughing. " I like the house
well enough, but I object to the people,—
that is, I don't mean the ladies," he
added, apologetically, " they will do
very well, but—there's no use mincing
matters—I'm afraid my uncle is a grand
rascal."
Rex was not quite prepared for this
candid communication, and felt at a loss
how to receive it. He had heard of Ma-
coulev & Fairburn in a general way as
adventurous, not to say unscrupulous,
speculators, who did not hesitate to en¬
gage in very questionable transactions.
But such things are so common among
our modern "men of enterprise," that,
having no special interest in either part¬
ner of the firm, he did not concern him¬
self about their doings. But Bonner
Macouley, viewed in the light of his
connection with Mildred Loring's brother,
could no longer be regarded with indiffer¬
ence. Rex remembered now, with some
anxiety, the doubts he had heard as to
his integrity as a man of business, and
though somewhat taken aback by Roy's
outspoken expression of opinion, he re¬
garded the boy's disapproval as a healthy
symptom, and liked him the better for it.
"You are more candid than prudent,"
he said, smiling at the boy's downright-
ness. "What has your uncle done that
you are so hard on him?"
" I am no harder on him than he de¬
serves," said Roy. " He swamped all of
father's fortune with his speculations, but
contrived to hold on to his own ; hasn't
Mildred told you about it?"
" No," said Rex, feeling with some
annoyance that his relations with Mil¬
dred were much less intimate than Roy
seemed to suppose, and fearing that his
question might lead the boy" to speak
more freely than she would perhaps de¬
sire, tyid thus inadvertently make her
104
A MERE ADVENTURER.
confidence the means of gratifying his
own curiosity, lie hastened to acquit
himself of such an intention by adding,
as a delicate hint to Roy, lest he should
say too much, " Your sister has never
discussed her private affairs with me;
you are the only member of her family
that she has ever had much to say
about."
"Oh, that's just like Mil!" cried Roy,
upon whom Rex's hint was entirely lost;
" she never will tell on people, no matter
how bad they treat her, and she has suf¬
fered more than any of us, too, for after
father was ruined she gave up her own
private fortune that she inherited from
her grandfather, and even sold her dia¬
monds, to satisfy his creditors. Mil is
only our half-sister, you know, Fan's and
mine, and her grandfather was as rich
as all out-doors, and she'd be one of the
richest girls going now, in spite of Uncle
Bonner, if she hadn't sacrificed every¬
thing to save father's reputation; but
that is just her way ; she would sit down
and let herself be sawn in two for any¬
body she loved, without ever uttering a
a complaint. She can be as obstinate as
the devil, too, when she likes ; if she
once takes a notion into her head, heaven
and earth can't move her."
Rex did not know how to stem this
torrent of communicativeness, and his
heart throbbed with secret emotion, while
Roy rattled on, in his boyish way, un¬
consciously displaying the noble traits
of the woman Rex loved. He had always
looked upon Mildred as a creature cast
in a high heroic mould, capable of the
most exalted deeds. His love had en¬
veloped her with a halo of its own making,
which brightened as the light of her own
virtues shone forth more conspicuous.
He could not think of her as doing any¬
thing in a small or commonplace way ;
whether she loved or suffered, strove, or
only endured, it must all be on a grand
scale. What he had just heard from
Roy was in such perfect keeping with
her character, as he understood it, that
in spite of a natural indignation at the
wrong she had suffered, he felt a secret
exultation in the thought that she had
Êroved so true to his own belief in her.
[e could have embraced Roy for the sole
merit of being brother to such a woman.
He was carried away for the moment by
his own reflections, and hafdly conscious
how much or how little the words might
betray, he bent his handsome head and
whispered in a voice of tell-tale fond¬
ness,—
" Your sister is a noble woman,
Leroy."
" That she is!" cried Roy, too eager in
his own enthusiasm to ponder the mean¬
ing of Rex's sudden warmth. " Mil is
just splendid 1 There is nothing she
won't do for a fellow if it is in her
power. She don't preach at you like
other women do, and she is always ready
to help you out of a scrape ; she'd give
up the last dollar she had in the world
if a fellow wanted it."
Rex had recovered from his little
transport by this time, and thinking he
perceived in this last remark of Roy's a
clue to Mildred's hint about his want of
self-reliance, took advantage of the oppor¬
tunity to administer a covert rebuke.
" But a fellow ought not to want help
from a woman," he said, pointedly ;
" it is a brother's place to give up his
last dollar for his sister,—not the sister
for the brother."
Roy suddenly remembered certain little
transactions between himself and Mil¬
dred, in which he had not acted the part
indicated by Rex, and his instincts of
honor were too keen not to make a cor¬
rect application of the words. He turned
very red in the face, and remained silent.
Rex perceived that his shot had taken
effect, and satisfied with the result, has¬
tened to relieve Roy's embarrassment by
changing the subject.
" I suppose you share your sister's
desire to sever your connection with
Macouley & Fairburn?"
"Yes; Mil never wanted me to go in
with them at first," answered Roy, in a
more subdued tone ; " but I didn't see
anything else to do just then, and I don't
see anything now ; but when I told Mil¬
dred their way of doing business, she
was for having me cut loose right away,
and nothing else will satisfy her, though
I keep telling her she needn't bother, I
am going to quit them."
" And what do you think of your
uncle's way of doing business?" asked
Van Dorn.
"I? I don't think any better of it
than Mildred does. When men take
worthless stocks and work them up by
false representations till they sell at a
premium, and then palm them off on
other people and gobble up the money, I
call that swindling, don't you ?"
" Yes, a damnable swindle,—but the
world calls it a lucky speculation."
" I don't care what the world calls it,"
said Leroy, who was as positive in theory
as be was vacillating in practice. "I
REX ÄND ROY.
105
don't like it, and what is more, I don't
like the business itself, let it be carried
on ever so honestly. I want to invent
something and be famous. I am going
to study civil engineering, or something
of that sort, as soon as I get a chance."
" To be a successful engineer in any
department of the science requires a long
and expensive course of training and a
great deal of hard study," said Rex,
amused at the facility with which Roy
overlooked difficulties.
" I know that," answered the boy. " I
don't mind the study ; I would be willing
to work like a Trojan,—but the expense,
—that smashes me. I would borrow the
money and pay it back when I make
a fortune, but Mildred won't hear to
that."
" She is right," said Rex. " It is a
bad plan to begin life in debt, as I know
by experience ; and besides," he added,
laughing, " I don't think you would find
it very easy to raise money on the
strength of your future prospects. We
must find some better plan ; perhaps you
might be able to make cash payments for
your education as you went along, if
you would pay in labor,—would you be
willing to do that?"
" Oh, yes!" cried Roy, who never felt
the smallest doubt of himself on any
point. " I can work like a nigger, if
necessary."
" That exactly expresses what you
will have to do if you follow my plan,"
said Rex, laughing.
He did not say what that plan was,
but he had one already pretty well set¬
tled in his own mind. It was not suffi¬
ciently matured, however, to propose to
the boy yet, and it was necessary to con¬
sult Mildred first, so he did not discuss
the business further at that time. After
their drive, he took Roy to dinner with
him at his club, and when they parted,
it was with the understanding that they
were to meet again in a few days to have
another talk over Roy's prospects, and
perhaps settle upon some definite plan
for the future.
It was immensely flattering to Roy to
be addressed as " Mr. Loring" and re¬
ceived on terms of intimacy by a man of
Van Dorn's age. He felt as if he had
suddenly attained his majority, and hur¬
ried round to Mildred's lodging, more
fully persuaded than ever of his right to
bully the women.
Iiis first endorsement of his new friend
was rather startling to Mildred. _
" I say, Mil,!' he began, flinging him¬
self into a chair beside her, " that fellow
Van Dorn is a trump ; why don't you
marry him?"
Roy's ridiculous assumption would
have been simply amusing if made about
any other person, and Mildred would
probably have turned it off with a laugh,
but she could not treat such allusions to
Van Dorn as a joke, and replied with an
asperity unusual to her, while the color
mounted to her cheeks,—
" I wish you would not make such im¬
pertinent remarks, Leroy."
" Oh, well, you needn't flare up about
it like a powder magazine," cried the
boy, with a mischievous twinkle in his
eye ; " you couldn't make a better match,
I can tell you."
" You have no grounds for supposing
I could make such a match at all," said
Mildred, sharply.
"Wh—ew ! You can't fool me," re¬
torted Roy, undaunted by her displeas¬
ure ; "I can see that he is in love with
you as well as you can yourself. Don't
you suppose I know how a fellow feels
when he is in love?"
The truth is, with all his self-compla¬
cency, Roy had sagacity enough to sus¬
pect that Van Dorn's sudden interest in
himself sprang from some more powerful
motive than his own merit, great as that
might be; and he had been so used to
seeing his beautiful sister courted and
worshipped in times past, that nothing
seemed more natural than to suppose
Van Dorn was like so many others who
had come within the sphere of her influ¬
ence. At any rate, it seemed to tease
Mildred for him to say so, and that of
itself was a sufficient reason to the mis¬
chief-loving boy for saying it.
Mildred rebuked him severely for his
folly, but when he was gone she began
to ask herself if there could be any truth
in what the foolish boy had said. She
had never yet dared to contemplate the
possibility of Rex's loving her. It was
enough, and more than enough, to know
that she loved him ; but, if that love
should be returned—the hope, the fear,
the joy, the terror of it, almost killed her.
106
A MERE ADVENTURER.
CHAPTER XXY.
IN TRINITY CHURCH-YARD.
" Out upon Time ! it will leave no more
Of the things to come than the things before !
Out upon Time ! who forever will leave
But enough of the post for the future to grieve
O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must
be."
Byron.
Mildred did not see Van Dora next
day till in the afternoon, as she was start¬
ing home to dinner, he met her at the
head of the stair.
" May I walk with you?" he said, de¬
taining her an instant on the landing.
" I have something to say to you about
your brother, if you have time to hear it."
Mildred assented, and they went down
into the street together. It was a glorious
day, towards the end of June, and the
cool breeze from the bay made a stroll in
the direction of the Battery, or around
the cool shades of Trinity church-yard,
seem very inviting after hours of hard
work in a newspaper office.
" I wanted to talk to you," Rex went
on, as they picked their way through the
mob of gamins that gathers in Park Row
just before the issue of the evening pa¬
pers, about a plan I have been thinking
of for your brother, but did not like to
propose to him without first submitting
it for your approval."
Mildred looked up at him with her
eyes full of gratitude.
" Since you have been good enough to
concern yourself about the matter," she
said, " I dare say I can rely upon your
judgment more safely than upon my
own. Indeed, you could hardly suggest
anything that I would not prefer for
Roy to the position he is occupying at
present."
" You are quite right there," said Rex.
"After my conversation with Leroy yes¬
terday, I made more particular inquiries
concerning the firm of Macouley & Fair-
burn, and I do not think their system of
doing business by any means a desirable
school for a young manto be trained in."
" I am sure it is not," said Mildred,
with emphasis ; " and besides, Roy does
not like the business itself."
"Another strong point against it," an¬
swered Rex. " You know it is a pet
theory of mine that a man must follow
the calling he likes, or inakfr a failure of
his life,—in a business aspect, I mean."
"A theory which is sustained, it seems
to me, both by reason and experience,"
answered Mildred.
" If you think so," said Rex, " then
you will agree with me that your brother
must be allowed to follow some one of
the professions embraced under the head
of mechanics and engineering. I cannot
say as yet what peculiar talents he may
have in that direction, but his heart is
set upon that pursuit, and he will never
enter with ardor into any other ; not
until he has tried that, at any rate. Even
if he should discover, after making a
trial, that he has mistaken his talent, the
experiment will not have been in vain,
as he will then be satisfied to turn his
attention to something else. It is a bad
thing for a man to commit himself to
one calling and be always imagining—
whether with justice or not—that he
could succeed better at something else,
for that is to be burdened with a life-long
regret."
" Yes ; we sometimes learn the most
useful lessons of our lives from our fail¬
ures," said Mildred.
" True ; and there are some lessons we
will never learn in any other way," re¬
turned Rex, smiling. " I once advised
a man to publish a book which I knew
would prove an egregious failure, merely
because I saw he had got his head so set
upon authorship that nothing would con¬
vince him of his utter unfitness for the
craft except the only evidence that ever
does carry conviction in such cases,—the
evidence of experiment. The failure
could only cost him a few hundred dol¬
lars, which he was able to spare, and a
little mortification, which he would get
over in time,—injuries for which it more
than repaid him by disabusing his mind
of a false impression, and making him
satisfied to do something that he really
was fitted for. He is now happy as the
president of a flourishing seminary for
young ladies in a flourishing Western
town. Our failures, if made early enough
to be corrected, are not dead losses, so
that even if your brother should have
mistaken his talent,—and I do not think
he has,—it is still worth while to let him
make the experiment and satisfy him¬
self."
Mildred felt the full force of Van
Dora's reasoning; the more readily, per¬
haps, as she entertained a strong con¬
viction of Roy's fitness for the profession
he had set his heart upon, or, at any rate,
of his unfitness for any other.
" He undoubtedly has a great fondness
for whatever relates to the science of
engineering and the kindred arts," she
said. " When he was a child all his
IN TRINITY CHURCH-YARD.
107
play was in altering and improving his
toys, or inventing new ones, and almost
ever since he could handle a pencil his
favorite amusement has been in drawing
diagrams of imaginary structures and
working out problems connected with
them. His school-books were all scratched
over from one end to the other with long
calculations and diagrams of machinery,
and he never could be got to read Latin
till he was set to drawing up Roman en¬
campments and reconstructing Caesar's
bridges over the Rhine. It is true it
was all done in his desultory way and
without regard to any definite object, but
his predilection is so marked that I can¬
not help hoping it may be indicative of
some talent, though I know that such is
not always the case."
" In matters of this kind it is very apt
to be the case," answered Rex. "Almost
everybody imagines, at some period of
his life, that he can write a great, book,
or a poem, or edit a newspaper, or ac¬
complish some pleasant trifle of that
sort," he added, with a laugh; " but no
one is apt to have a liking for dry mathe¬
matics unless he possesses at the same
time a decided talent for them. But tal¬
ent, you know," Rex continued, "without
professional training is of little practical
value in this prosaic world of ours, and
it is about Leroy's education that I wish
to speak more particularly just now,—
but first, I am going to make a very
arrogant demand of you."
Mildred looked up with an expression
of inquiry on her face.
" It is," said Rex, answering the look,
" that if you approve my plan you will
give Leroy up absolutely to my manage¬
ment, for I cannot promise any success
unless you quit spoiling him."
Mildred's look of inquiry changed to
one of surprise.
" There, you hardly expected to be
taken to task for your own delinquencies,"
added Rex, laughing, " when you appealed
to me about Leroy ; you didn't know the
extent of my impudence. But," he con¬
tinued, resuming his serious tone, " I
mean what I say, and since you have
honored me by asking my advice, I think
it my duty to be perfectly candid with
you. Your brother has a fine disposi¬
tion ; he is frank, honest, generous, but
you will forgive me, I trust, for suggest¬
ing that as the youngest child and only
son of a rich man, his education has not
been such, hitherto, as to counteract the
worst fault of his character,—a too will¬
ing dependence upon others, and the best
hope for correcting that tendency now is
to throw him entirely upon his own re¬
sources, to force him to rely upon him¬
self. A little compulsory hard labor, a
little pinching and discomfort for want
of money, which could only be relieved
by his own exertions, would be whole¬
some medicine for him. Reared in the
expectation of inheriting a fortune, he
has not yet learned to realize his altered
position, nor to appreciate all that is re¬
quired of a man who has to work his
own way up in the world from nothing.
I have passed through that struggle my¬
self ; I know something of the endur¬
ance, the self-denial, the steadfastness,
the energy that are necessary to make it
a successful one. Your brother imagines
that everything is still as smooth before
him as when he was a rich man's son,
and the first step is to make him sensible
of the difference. Remember, you said to
me once, when discussing a different
subject, that this first step was half the
battle. Not only this, but Leroy must
be made to feel at the outset that he has
no one to look to but himself,—he must
not have a cent of money except what
he earns by his own labor. I will see to
it that he has the means of earning as
much as is good for him, and you must
promise me not to supply him with one
penny beyond. You must make your¬
self a miser and refuse his smallest re¬
quest for aid from you ; you must harden
your heart against him for his own good.
"Will you do it ?"
Mildred understood the hint ; Roy had
told,—well, there was no saying what
the foolish boy had not told ; but per¬
haps it was best so, after all; it was
hardly fair to ask Rex's advice and keep
anything from him.
"I will try," she said, looking down at
the pavement, "to do whatever you think
best, for I know that it will be best."
" Thank you," said Rex, smiling, " for
your confidence, and I hope you will
never have cause to think it misplaced.
Now for my project. I happen to pos¬
sess considerable influence with Bankston
& Co., the largest iron manufacturers,
probably, in Pennsylvania. They have
large foundries and machine-shops in
one of the principal mining districts,
where Leroy would have a fine oppor¬
tunity of becoming practically acquainted
with various branches of his profession,
and making his choice among them. I
have no doubt that I could procure him
a situation in the employ of this firm,
where, in addition to the practical kuowl-
108
A MERE ADVENTURER.
edge of mechanics he will gain in the
regular performance of his duties, he
will, at the same time, be earning his
own support and fostering the habits of
industry he is so deficient in. lie may
have to make an humble beginning, but
that will not hurt him. lie will have
ample opportunities to rise, and I shall
take care to reserve for him a few hours
every day for study, with the privilege
of attending, on certain days of the week,
the lectures at the Polytechnic Institute
in Parksburg, which is not more than
fifteen minutes by rail from Stockton,
where the foundries are. I shall have
to go to Philadelphia to-morrow on some
business of my own, and if you consent,
will run down to Stockton before I re¬
turn and see what arrangements I can
make for Leroy."
Mildred hardly knew how to express
her satisfaction at this hopeful pros¬
pect; and then Rex, — he had been so
thoughtful, so studious of Roy's true in¬
terest, so ready to exert himself in the
boy's behalf,—how could she ever thank
him as he deserved? Hardly conscious
of what she was doing, she laid her hand
lightly on his arm, and raising her eyes,
filled with grateful tears, to his face, said,
in a voice trembling with emotion,—
" Oh, Mr. Van Dorn, I never dreamed
when I first spoke to you about Roy that
your kindness would go so far. You
have done more than I had any right to
ask. Indeed, I had no right to ask any¬
thing, and you "
She fairly broke down here, unable to
utter another word. Yan Dorn, by a
sudden impulse that he could not resist,
laid his other hand upon the fingers
clasping his arm, and pressed them
gently in his own. Mildred was sud¬
denly awakened to a sense of the situa¬
tion ; the fetters that bound her to
another pierced their iron rivets deep
into her soul and conscience seemed to
accuse her of a double treachery,—
treachery to the man she loved, yet
could not wed, deeper treachery still to
the man she must wed, yet could not
love. Terrified at what she had done,
she snatched her hand suddenly from
Rex's clasp, and shrank away from him
to the farthest verge of the sidewalk.
Rex, remembering that Broadway was
not exactly the place for such a demon¬
stration, however quietly it had been
made, checked himself instantly, and
walked along in silence at her side. A
few steps brought them to the entrance
of Trinity church-yard, and Rex opened
the gate without a word, and led the way
into that quiet retreat. There are few
localities more impressive than the situa¬
tion of this sacred spot, contrasting so
strangely as it does with the busy whirl
of life outside. Yonder, scarce a stone's
throw from the sacred portal, yawns the
mouth of that broad road to ruin where
the worshippers of Mammon are gathered
round their golden calf, while here sweet
peace and rest beguile the mind to holy
thoughts, and the stormy waves of life's
tempestuous sea beat in vain against the
silent shore where the dead are gath¬
ered.
After wandering round awhile among
the old tombstones, stopping now and
then to read an epitaph, or decipher some
half-obliterated name, Rex and his com¬
panion sat themselves down on a worn
marble slab under one of the great elm-
trees. The inscription was so nearly
effaced by time that they could only
make out an isolated word here and
there, and the name was entirely ob¬
literated.
" That is the way time will serve us
all," said Rex, as they gave over their
vain attempt to decipher the inscription ;
" there are few names that fifty years
will not obliterate completely. A moralist
might make this stone the theme of an
edifying discourse on the emptiness of
earthly fame."
" But this," said Mildred, touching the
slab with her parasol, "is not fame ; fame
is more enduring than granite or marble ;
fame is immortal."
" No," said Rex, correcting her; " fame
and immortality are very different things.
Immortality is scarcely attainable by us
moderns, while the newspapers have made
fame, or what passes for it, so common as
scarcely to be worth having. The world
is too busy nowadays to attend much to
the past. Each generation has its own
worthies, its own celebrities of every sort,
who live and die with it. I could call
over a dozen names that were famous
twenty years ago which nobody ever
hears of to-day."
" But the great names of past genera¬
tions are still living and honored among
us," urged Mildred.
"True," answered Rex, "but that is
no proof that the great names of our
generation will live through many future
ones. We have too many great names
for posterity to carry them all easily.
Imagine, for instance, some unhappy
urchip of the twenty-seventh century
trying to commit to memory a list of
IN TRINITY CHURCH-YARD.
109
the presidents of the United States, as
the children do in our schools now."
" But there are our poets and authors,"
persisted Mildred.
" Poets and authors, like other celebri¬
ties," said Rex, " are getting too common
with us to count for much. When Addi¬
son and Pope, when Johnson, Burke, and
Goldsmith wrote, good books were rarer
than they are in our day, and the men
who made them are remembered rather
for the stir they created among their con¬
temporaries than because anybody reads
or cares about their books now. We all
talk admiringly of Addison, Burke, and
Johnson from habit, I suppose ; but how
many people do you know who read the
Spectator, or Burke on the ' Sublime
and Beautiful,' or Johnson's ' Rasselas' ?
The old authors enjoy a sort of prescrip¬
tive title to our respect because they are
held up to our admiration by reviewers,
and are quoted as models in the school-
books on rhetoric and elocution. It is a
lucky thing for a writer to get into the
school-books ; that is one advantage the
ancients have ; we are obliged to make
their acquaintance whether we like it or
not. But the ancient writers are espe¬
cially fortunate in the fact that the Greek
and Latin were dead languages before
printing was invented, and books began
to be so multiplied. Their great works
could not be swamped under such accu¬
mulations of trash as flood our modern
literary market and vitiate the taste of
modern readers."
" But we have some names that will
survive even this deluge," said Mildred.
" Shakspeare and Chaucer will live as
long as Homer or Virgil."
" But we can hardly class them as
moderns," said Rex ; "I mean the men
of our own age,—say the last one hun¬
dred years,—since the world has begun
to move so fast."
" Then we have Scott and Byron."
" Byron may live, but as for Scott,"
said Rex, " he is already beginning to
be counted among the English classics,
which means to be laid away on a dusty
shelf somewhere, and recommended to
the young folks of the family as some¬
thing to improve their minds. We don't
any of us read voluntarily for improve¬
ment, you know; improvement is an in¬
tolerable bore."
"Not when it is to be got out of such
books as the Waverley Novels," answered
Mildred, laughing. " It seems to me that
time itself can never kill them, and that
even your ideal urchin of the twenty-
seventh century must enjoy the adven¬
tures of Redgauntlet or Rob Roy. Think
now, how delighted we would be with a
novel of the Augustan age, if the Romans
had known how to make novels, and had
had a Scott to write them for us."
" Ah, but you forget," said Rex, "that
your Roman Scott would have had no
successors, while ours is nearly swallowed
up already in the multitude of writers,
both good and bad, who have succeeded
him. It is a singular fact in literature
that people prefer even poor novels of
their own generation to good ones of the
past. Except the ' Vicar of Wakefield'
and ' Robinson Crusoe' I doubt whether a
single romance of the last century could
be named as generally familiar to mod¬
ern readers. No species of literature is
so ephemeral as fiction, and the success¬
ful novelist must be content to find his
reward in filling his pockets instead of
filling a niche in the temple of fame.
Novels go out of fashion as fast as the
shape of a lady's bonnet. Dickens him¬
self will be obsolete in fifty years, and
George Eliot will be swallowed up by
the Rhoda Broughtons and Ouidac and
other small fry of the next generation.
I don't know how to account for these
idiosyncrasies of the novel-reading pub¬
lic, unless it is because we like to see our
own commonplace existence dressed up
in the glamour of fiction. It is the busi¬
ness of the novelist to beguile us with
representations of life without its dul-
ness, to amuse us with the vraisemblable,
not bore or torture us with the vrai.
This is one reason why tragical novels
are always so unsatisfactory ; we like to
see the wrongs and blunders of our
every-day experience set right in fiction ;
in other words," he added, laughing,
" we like to see each peg fitted to its own
socket, instead of having the round pegs
in the square sockets, and the square pegs
in the round sockets, as they always are
in real life."
Mildred looked up with surprise.
"Why, Mr. Van Dorn," she said, rest¬
ing her eyes for a moment on his face,
" you are the last man in the world from
whom I would have expected such sweep¬
ing pessimism."
"Why so?" asked Van Dorn, return¬
ing her glance.
" Because, if I had searched the world
over to find a peg that had got into ex¬
actly the right socket, you are the one I
would have selected. You have youth,
talent#," and, she mentally added, " good
looks but thinking it would not do to
liO
A MERE ADVENTURER.
be too personal in her enumeration of
Rex's advantages, she went on to say:
" You have already attained flattering
success in a profession for which you feel
an enthusiastic preference, with a sure
prospect of fame and fortune ahead, if
you choose to win them."
" You draw a very flattering picture,"
said Ilex, smiling, " but for all that there
are some rough edges in my socket that
I can never shape myself to."
"But it won't do to be too exacting,"
said Mildred. " If things go right in the
main, we must not quarrel with our des¬
tiny, even though a few trifles are now
and then awry. You have been a little
spoiled, no doubt, by uninterrupted suc¬
cess."
"You don't know the extent of my
failures, perhaps," said Rex, regarding
her with a peculiar smile.
" No," she answered, laughing ; " but I
don't think you can have made any very
serious ones."
"Why?"
"Because, in the first place, you don't
look like a disappointed man ; and then,
I don't think you are one who is likely
to make a failure at anything you have
very much set your heart on."
" It will not be my fault if I do," said
Rex, still regarding her with that pecu¬
liar smile of his. "But," he added, grow¬
ing suddenly serious, " there are some
things beyond my control ; old wrongs
that no efforts of mine can ever set right ;
regrets and pinings that have grown old
with me,—not disappointments exactly,
but yet a source of bitterness more keen
than any disappointment could be."
He turned away as he uttered the last
words, and commenced absently making
figures with the end of his cane in the
gravel walk beneath their feet. Mildred
knew that he referred to the humiliating
circumstances of his birth and early his¬
tory, to which he had vaguely alluded
once before in her presence. She longed
to express her sympathy in some delicate
way, and to tell him how far she thought
him above the power of any accident of
fortune to degrade, but the subject was
an embarrassing one ; she did not know
how much she could venture to say, nor
how far she could trust herself to speak,
so she remained silent. Rex looked up
all at once, and saw her great lustrous
eyes fixed upon him with a look of sym-
Èathy more expressive than any words,
[er long mourning veil was thrown back
from her face and swept the ground at
her feet, setting off the marble whiteness
of her features against its sombre back¬
ground with statuesque clearness, while
her deep, luminous eyes—so dark you
hardly knew whether to call them brown
or black—seemed to gain new brilliancy
from their strange contrast to the deli¬
cate, almost childlike, sheen of her fair
hair. She dropped them suddenly and
turned away her face as she encountered
Rex's glance, but he did not interpret
the movement to his disadvantage. Draw¬
ing nearer,—so near that she felt his
breath on her cheek as he spoke,—he
said, in a low, earnest voice,—
" May I tell you something about my¬
self? Will you promise not to think me
egotistical or obtrusive ?"
The situation was becoming critical.
She longed to know all about him ; the
minutest circumstance in his past life
was a precious history to her, yet she
felt that she had no right to receive his
confidence ; it was treachery to listen ;
it was harshness to turn away ; and at
that moment there was nothing but the
most passionate tenderness in her heart
for Rex. She expressed herself a little
stiffly, as women generally do when they
try to make a compromise with their
feelings, but there was for all that a tell¬
tale softness in her voice, and she dared
not raise her eyes, as she answered,—
" You have been too true a friend, Mr.
Van Dorn, for me not to feel a deep in¬
terest in everything that concerns youi"
Yan Dorn said nothing, but disengaged
from his neck a locket which he wore
suspended by a small gold chain under
his clothing, and placed it in her hand.
The case was of solid gold, richly em¬
bossed, and at a touch from Rex on a
small spring in the side, it flew open,
disclosing to view a miniature, exquisitely
painted on ivory, of a beautiful dark-
haired woman.
The terror that Mildred had felt on
first discovering the nature of her own
feelings towards Rex was nothing to the
sudden dread that overwhelmed her now.
She could not utter a word, but forcing
a smile that illumined her look of white
despair like a sunbeam resting on the
face of a corpse, she raised her eyes
bravely, resolutely to his, and waited for
him to speak. Rex's eyes were fixed in¬
tently upon the picture, so that he did
not observe the sudden alteration in Mil¬
dred's countenance.
" Is she not beautiful?" he asked, in a
fond^proud tone.
"Yes, very beautiful," Mildred an¬
swered, firmly.
IN TRINITY CHURCH-YARD.
Ill
" That face," he went on, " has been
the dream of my life, and, alas ! it has
been a dream only, for I never saw my
mother."
" Your mother !"
The sudden pang of jealousy that had
shot through Mildred's heart when Rex
first opened the locket gave place to a
feeling of sweet relief, and fixing on the
picture a loving, tender look, she cried,
in an eager voice,—
" Tell me about her !"
" I wish to heaven I could," answered
Rex, fervently, " but I know almost noth¬
ing to tell. I fancy sometimes that I have
a dim, shadowy recollection of a face like
that hovering over me long ago in my
childhood, but it is so faint, so confused,
I suppose it must be a mere fiction of my
own longing heart. The earliest distinct
impression I have of life is something so
different that sober reason will not permit
me to believe those pleasant fancies can
ever have been a reality. The first thing
of which I do retain any distinct recollec¬
tion is of a miserable vagabond life when
I was dragged around the world by some
one whom I called father,—whether right¬
fully or not I can never tell. We wan¬
dered about from city to city, subsisting
generally by very questionable means,
and I remember but too well the cold,
the hunger and dirt, the naked garrets,
the reeking cellars, the hot dens of mis¬
ery and vice amid which my wretched
childhood was passed. My father was
nearly always drunk, and I was a dirty,
miserable little vagabond, like the worst
of those you see around the streets of
New York. Sometimes we would seem
to strike a 'bonanza,'—when my father
had been successful at play, I suppose.
I used to see him at times counting out
great rolls of money, and then we would
revel for a few days in vicious luxury,
only to sink back into our former misery
as soon as he had squandered his riches
again at the same vice by which he had
acquired them. We must have lived in
this way for three or four years, until at
last my father died in a hospital in St.
Louis, and I was carried to an orphan
asylum in the same place, under the
charge of the Protestant sisterhood of
St. Mark,—and there began my first ac¬
quaintance with the decencies of life. I
shall have cause to be grateful, as long
as I live, that I fell into such hands as I
did here. The mother-supefior, a woman
of remarkable good sense and fine educa¬
tion, took me under her special protection,
and I soon .found myself—I cannot tell
why, for I was not remarkable for do¬
cility—a pet with all the good sisters of
the institution. In fact, they formed
such a flattering opinion of my capacity
that, not being able to conceive of any
other equally honorable field for the ex¬
ercise of talent, they determined to make
a clergyman of me, and took upon them¬
selves all the expenses of my education.
The sisterhood being a wealthy one, I was
sent to the very best schools in the city,
and finally to college, where I was to take
my degree before going to complete my
course at a theological seminary in New
York. I very soon discovered, however,
that nature had not designed me for a
bishop, which was the very least my
pious friends expected of me, nor even
for so much as an humble doorkeeper in
the sanctuary. I wrote to them immedi¬
ately, resigning further claims to their
assistance ; and, begging pardon for the
disappointment I was about to cause, I
craved their indulgence till I could repay
what they had already expended upon
me."
"And how did they stand that?" said
Mildred, whose impatience would hardly
permit Rex to pause in his narrative long
enough to take breath.
" Some of them were sadly distressed
at my fall from grace," answered Rex,
smiling, " but the mother-superior re¬
mained my staunch friend. She had too
much good sense to insist upon my taking
orders against my will, and as she re¬
tained control during life over a hand¬
some private fortune, she insisted upon
maintaining me at college, at her own
expense, until I had fitted myself for
whatever calling I chose to follow. One
of the beauties of journalism is that it
requires no long course of technical
training, and either success or failure in
it is rapid and complete, so that a man is
not kept long in suspense. I had a sharp
struggle, but a short one, and very soon
established myself as one of the most
successful reporters connected with the
New York press. Of course, I made
money slowly, and my efforts to repay
the sums expended on my education kept
me poor. The good sisters never pressed
me,—they urged me to accept what they
had done as a free gift,—but you will un¬
derstand my feelings. I could not rest
till the last farthing was paid. I toiled
day and night, I denied myself every
gratification, I lived in a garret, and
tasted only the plainest food until I had
done what I could to wipe the stain of
beggaj-y from my early years. The
112
A MERE AD VENTURER,
proudest day of my life was that on
which I returned, with interest, the last
dollar that had been expended on my
education. Nor did I rest content with
this. As success attended me, I began to
rise in my profession, my services com¬
manded larger salaries, and my occasional
contributions to the periodical literature
of the day were liberally paid for, so that
in time I was enabled to add to the en¬
dowment of the institution that reared
me a sum sufficient for the maintenance
and education of some other poor little
vagabond, as forlorn and friendless as I
had been. I have paid my debt as far as
money can pay it, but there is another
debt of gratitude and love from which I
never can and never wish to be absolved."
A short pause ensued, during which
they were both busy -with their own
thoughts. Mildred was the first to speak.
" Your friend, the superior," she asked,
" is she living still ?"
"Yes. And I have always regarded
her friendship as one of the greatest
privileges of my life. She is an old
woman now, past seventy, but we still
correspond as regularly as a pair of
lovers. I have her portrait hanging at
the head of my bed, and next to this,"
laying his hand on the locket, "it is my
most precious possession."
"And this," said Mildred, pointing to
the trinket in Rex's hand. " You have
not told me about the picture yet."
" There is very little to tell," said Rex,
sadly. " It was placed by my father in
the hands of the sister who attended him
in his last illness, with the request that
she would preserve it for me. He said
it was my mother's likeness, that my
real name was Reginald Yan Dorn, and
that by applying at No. 558 Fifth Avenue,
New York, friends would be found who
would be very glad to claim me. Steps
were immediately taken for restoring me
to my family, but—whether my father,
as he claimed to be, had mistaken the
address, or whether his whole story was
a fabrication, Or whether those to whom
he referred had reasons of their own for
preferring to lose sight of me—no one
could be found to claim me, nor could it
be discovered that any one of the name
Van Dorn had ever occupied the house in
question."
" 558," said Mildred, catching at the
number; " that is the house where Roy's
uncle, Mr. Macouley, lives now."
" Yes, I know that," said Rex. " I
was prevailed upon to call there once,
but the associations of the place made
me feel so uncomfortable, that not being
specially attracted by the inmates, I have
never been tempted to repeat the visit."
" Why, were you never there before?"
asked Mildred, with surprise.
"Oh, yes; many a time," said Rex,
" but not, as you can well imagine, in
the capacity of a pleasure-seeker. I
can never enter that house without be¬
wildering my brain with a thousand
fancies in the vain attempt to force from
the vault of memory some hidden asso¬
ciation of the past,—some dim recollec¬
tion of home and childhood which,
perchance, those walls may have en¬
shrined. Nor have I contented myself
with dreams alone. I have tried, with
the assistance of an able legal adviser, to
investigate the matter by tracing back,
through deeds and titles, the successive
owners of the mansion through a period
of more than thirty years, but among
them all, so far as I have been able to
follow them up, I have never found any
one who could throw the smallest light
upon the mystery. Indeed, there have
been so many changes since then,—my
father died more than twenty years ago,
remember,—that there can be little cer¬
tainty now about numbers and localities
described so long ago. The most I have
ever been able to discover with certainty
is that there really was a family of the
name Yan Dorn, who were people of
some social importance in the city, many
years ago, but they have all died or
moved away ; and even were it otherwise,
it would be preposterous in a mere ad¬
venturer like me to set up claims of
affinity on the sole evidence of a name
to which I do not even know that I am
honestly entitled."
" Is there no inscription on the locket
itself, no initials, or mark of any kind,"
asked Mildred, taking it from Rex's hand
and closely examining the case, " that
might help in the matter of identification?"
" There was nothing left, when it came
into my possession," said Rex, " but the
ivory plate containing the miniature,
which had been wrenched from its set¬
ting, and the latter probably sold to meet
some emergency of our wandering life.
My father—I suppose I must call him
so, since I know of no other—did have
the grace, it seems, to preserve the pic¬
ture, which I have had reset, as you see.
I do not know how much of his story can
be trusted, but somehow, whatever else
may be false, my heart seems to tell me
that this is my mother's face,—and doubt
her I cannot, I will not, I must not."
THE BEGINNING OF THE END.
113
Iiis cheeks were flushed and he spoke
in a low, passionate tone that betrayed
what thoughts were agitating his mind.
Mildred felt, as she looked into the hand¬
some face, whose every feature bore the
impress of nobility, that whatever might
be the mystery surrounding his origin,
there could be no stain that would reflect
upon him. The subject was too delicate
a one, however, to touch with words, and
the sound of Trinity clock just then warn¬
ing them that the hour for closing the
gates had arrived, she rose in silence to
depart.
" I did not mean to detain you so long,
talking about myself," Rex said, in alow
voice, as they went slowly along the
gravelled walk together ; " but I wanted
you to know all about me, the best and
the worst, for a reason," he added, low¬
ering his voice almost to a whisper,
" which I trust that your own heart will
explain to you."
Her own heart did explain only too
well, and made acknowledgment in a
painful throbbing that sent the blood
rushing in a fiery torrent through her
veins. She trembled to hear what he
might say next; for how could she find
courage to speak the words she knew she
must speak and crush both their hearts in
the dust forever?
Happily, she was spared the ordeal for
a time, for Rex had scarcely finished
speaking, when a light step came bound¬
ing along the pavement outside, and
Roy's merry voice called out to them
over the railing,—
" I say, what are you two doing moon¬
ing about in there like a pair of ghosts?
You'd better come along out ; they are
about to shut the gates."
Van Dorn was not over-well pleased
at the interruption, but he bore it with a
good grace.
"How did you know we were here?"
he asked, suppressing a muttered "con¬
found you !" under his breath.
" Oh, I've been over to Staten Island
with some ' fellers,' " answered Roy, care¬
lessly, " and I happened to spy you and
Mildred as I came along up from the
ferry to catch the cars. I am going to
spend the evening with you, Mil," he
added, addressing his sister; "ain't you
ready to go home?"
"Yes," she answered, hastening on
towards the gate ; " we are on our way
back now, and I am very glad we met
you, for I have something to talk to you
about."
Van Dorn was not in a mood to enjoy
Mildred's society with a third person
present, so he conducted her to the cars
and there left her under Roy's protec¬
tion. He was to leave for Philadelphia
on the next morning's express, and would
not see her again for several days ; but
his heart was buoyant with hope. He
had noted her sudden change of color at
those last words of his in Trinity church¬
yard, and when he parted from her she
felt again the gentle pressure on her fin¬
gers that sent a sudden thrill through
her whole frame.
CHAPTER XXVI.
the beginning of the end.
"True he it said, whatever man it said
That love with gall and honey doth abound ;
But if the one be with the other weighed,
For every drachm of honey therein found,
A pound of gall doth over it abound."
Spenser.
The next few weeks were a time of
fiery trial to Mildred. She felt that she
must make use of the short respite that
Rex's absence afforded to conquer the
weakness of her heart and strengthen
herself for the conflict before her. There
was no room for doubt now ; he loved
her, she knew it, and there was the joy
of heaven and the torture of hell in the
thought. She had battled with what
strength she had against this consumma¬
tion, but fate was too strong for her, and
it must now be her cruel task to reject
the love that she would have given her
own soul to win, had the barter not left
her unworthy of its possession. How
could she come to him with the stain of
perjury on her lips, and bringing as her
only dower the burden of a debt of honor
which, once violated, all the gold of
Ophir could never redeem? How could
she suffer him to pour the priceless treas¬
ure of" his love into a heart blackened by
the violation of the most stringent obli¬
gations that can bind the faith of one
human being to another ? No; she was
pledged by every tie of duty, of con¬
science, of honor, to fulfil the compact
she had made. She knew the cost when
she had bargained for Mr. Ilenlow's aid ;
she had borrowed upon fearful usury, it
is true, but she had received her price,
and had no right to shun the reckoning.
Her person was no longer her own ; she
had bartered Her freedom to screen an
114
A MERE AI) VENTURER.
erring brother from shame and spare one
pang to a dying father's heart. She
dared not ask herself if she would have
courage to make the sacrifice now, if it
were to do over, but once made, she had
no thought of recoiling. Falsehood was
a thing as foreign to Mildred's nature as
darkness to sunlight, and in «all her bit¬
ter self-communings the first thought was
not to evade her promise to Mr. Ilenlow,
but to keep true to it in her heart. As
long as she was ignorant of Rex's feel¬
ings, her duty, though hard, seemed
attainable ; but now, after all that h,ad
passed between them that d.ay in Trinity
church-yard, it would be mere moral
coquetry to pretend to conceal from her¬
self any longer the knowledge that he
loved her. She knew his warm, impet¬
uous nature would brook no repulse, and
dared not trust herself to meet that pas¬
sionate appeal when it should come.
She had kept him at bay long by the
impenetrable reserve under which she
had tried to cloak her real feelings, but
her own heart had been false to her at
last. She could not tell when or how it
had happened, but she felt as certain that
Rex knew she loved him as that she knew
it herself.
" Quia fallere possit amantem?"
Her first impulse, as it is with most of
us when we feel the conflict getting too
strong for our powers, was to fly,—to
steal away in Rex's absence and hide
herself in some remote corner where she
would never see him again,—but heaven
never permits us to conquer temptation
by cowardice. It sets us down face to
face with the enemy, and we must fight
it out to the bitter end. Poor Mildred
had no one to fly to, and no resources to
sustain her if she fled. The outlay occa¬
sioned by Roger's burial, together with
Roy's thoughtless demands upon her
generosity, had drained her slender purse
to the bottom, and she was even in ar¬
rears for many of her personal expenses,
so that to fly just then was out of the
question. If the crisis could be staved
off somehow ; if Rex could by any means
be withheld from speaking a little longer,
—only a very little longer, she reflected,
with a shudder,—the futility of speaking
at all would soon be made abundantly
apparent to him. Her compact with
Mr. Ilenlow had been signed the 20th
of August, and the year for which she
had bfirgained was now drawing so near
to its close that she regarded her doom
as sealed. But though sentence of death
was already passed, she would fain have
spared herself the added pang of becom
ing her own executioner. Sometimes
she thought she would go to Rex when
he returned and tell him the whole story
of her miserable entanglement as unre¬
servedly as he had told her the history of
his own past, but a moment's reflection
convinced her that this would never do.
Her secret belonged to the dead, and
should she invade the silence of a dishon¬
ored grave for naught? If it could do
any good she might have felt herself free
to speak, but Rex was poor, too poor to
p.ay her ransom, even if she could stoop
to ask it, and a confession of her situation
could only add to her lover's torture a
galling sense of his own impotence, a
humiliating conviction of the inferiority
of talents to money in this materialistic
world of ours. No, she could not tell
him ; better that he should misjudge her
all his life, and believe that she had de¬
liberately preferred a blockhead's gold to
the love that would have made earth a
heaven to her ; better that he should de¬
spise her as the venal hireling she would
soon appear, than have one pang of vain
regret added to the bitterness of hopeless
love. In learning to hate her he might
in time cease to love, and so be spared
the endless misery that had fallen to her
lot.
Thus she went on, day after day,
making many brave resolves with her¬
self as to what she would do and what
she would say, only to sink back again
into doubt and despair. It was hard to
feel that she must crush with a pitiless
hand—oh, how pitiless it would seem to
him !—the heart of the man who loved
her. But duty was Mildred's idol,—a
great frowning Juggernaut, under whose
relentless chariot-wheels all the sweet¬
ness was to be trampled out of her life.
She did not shrink from the ordeal, but
the very efforts she was making to nerve
herself for it seemed to undermine her
forces. So harassed was she with in¬
cessant mental conflicts that her whole
nature became utterly unstrung, and she
trembled at the bare thought of seeing
Rex again as though there were a crime
in every heart-throb.
The meeting was delayed a little be¬
yond her expectation. Rex was sum¬
moned from Philadelphia to Washington
on business connected with his paper,
and his return to New York delayed
nearly two weeks longer than he had
anticipated. Mildred heard from him
sevrf-al times during the interval, but res-
THE BEGINNING OF THE END.
115
olutely refrained from sending any reply.
First, he telegraphed Roy from Stockton
to come immediately and take possession
of the situation he had obtained for him ;
then he wrote by mail, giving Mildred a
detailed account of the boy's position and
prospects. Mere civility, to say nothing
of gratitude, seemed to require that she
should at least send a note of thanks in
reply, but Mildred saw temptation in all
communion with Rex, and when she had
once made up her mind as to what was
right, she had a sort of stern Calvinistic
firmness in carrying it out that admitted
of no compromise. She read the letter
over once, pressed it passionately to her
lips, then touched to it a lighted match,
and looked on with a kind of mournful
complacency while it smouldered away
into dust and ashes,—an offering on the
altar of duty more costly than a whole
hecatomb. When the last spark had died
away, she gathered up the charred re¬
mains, folded them in a piece of blank
paper, and laid them away among the
sacred relics of a life whose best hopes
were dust and ashes like themselves. It
was a foolish act, she knew, and yet she
could not resist a childish impulse to
grant herself that hollow compensation.
Whatever else fate may take away, it
never grudges us the dust and ashes,—
the faded embers of our perished hopes,—
and Mildred, in treasuring the charred
cinders of Rex's letter, only did what
thousands of us do every day when we
have nothing left but the dead ashes of
our past to brood over.
Another letter that Rex sent from
Washington shared the same fate. They
were not love-letters exactly,—it takes
your rustic swain to retire from view and
commit his passion laboriously to paper,
—but at the same time, there breathed
through the commonplace details of
business which furnished the ostensible
motive of each a spirit of buoyant hope¬
fulness, a quiet assumption of mutual
understanding that plainly betrayed his
real feelings without making a formal
declaration of them. These two were
the only letters Mildred had ever received
from Rex, and she felt a dreary convic¬
tion that they would be the last; that,
perhaps, was why she treasured their
ashes so tenderly.
In the mean time, Rex, in happy igno¬
rance of the barrier that divided him from
Mildred, had been dreaming day and
night, since that memorable interview
in Trinity church-yard, of the moment
when he should see her again and read
in her eyes the sweet confession that he
hoped soon to hear from her lips. The
fact that a woman loves him is one which
is not slow to find its way to the brain
of even the most modest of men, and Rex
was now convinced, in spite of Mildred s
reserved and often capricious conduct to¬
wards him, that she loved him writh the
whole strength of her nature. He was
in that state of infatuation in which
merely to be in her presence, to look at
her, to hear the sound of her voice or the
rustling of her dress seemed a kind of
heaven to him. He had no definite idea
of saying or doing anything in particular
when he should meet her again, but felt
a restless impatience to bask in the sun¬
light of her presence once more. His
first step, on returning to the city, after
hurriedly disposing of his business at the
newspaper office, was to make his way
to Bloomfield Street. Bridget happened
to be on the landing when he came up
the stairs, and recognizing at once the
" beautiful young gintleman" whose for¬
mer visits to her mistress, though rare,
were always regarded by her with secret
approval, she ushered him unannounced
into the little parlor where he and Roy
had been the only visitors.
Mildred was sitting by the window
that overlooked the dreary courbyard,
gazing out absently at the little patch of
sky where the lingering summer twilight
still glimmered above the black piles of
masonry that enclosed it as in a frame¬
work. The gas was burning, and writ¬
ing materials lay scattered on the table
near by, but Mildred could not fix her
mind upon her work. So absorbed was
she in thought that she did not hear the
door open, and was not aware of Rex's
presence till roused by the sound of his
voice.
" I have come to quarrel with you,
Miss Loring," he said, gayly, advancing
toward her with the easy, confident air
of one who felt himself a tacitly ac¬
knowledged lover.
He noticed that her hand trembled
slightly as it rested a moment passively
in his own, but that was natural under
the circumstances. Ile did not see the
sudden quiver that convulsed her features
on first hearing him speak, and before it
was necessary to reply she had recovered
her habitual self-control sufficiently to
answer in her natural voice. After the
usual salutations had been exchanged,
she resumed her seat by the window, and
motioned Rex to a chair opposite.
"And notf," she said, with a feeble
116
A MERE AD VENTURER.
reflection of Rex's own gayety, "what is
it you are going to quarrel with me about,
Mr. Van Dorn?"
" Can't you guess?" he asked, drawing
his chair a good deal closer to hers than
there was any necessity for.
" No."'
" Did you not receive two letters that I
wrote you while I was away?"
" Yes," answered Mildred, coloring
slightly ; " but I thought as you were
coming back so soon, that I would wait
and thank you in person."
" I don't want any thanks," he said,
with a slight gesture of impatience. " I
have done nothing to deserve them ; and
what I do want," he added, drawing still
nearer, and dropping his voice almost to
a whisper, " is something I can never
hope to deserve."
An ominous silence followed. Mildred
felt that the situation was becoming des¬
perate, and the nearer the crisis ap¬
proached the less courage she had to
meet it. If Rex could only be kept
from saying what she knew he was
going to say, it would spare them both
so much ! She rose nervously from her
chair, closed the blinds just to be doing
something, then went over and placed
herself near the table on the opposite
side of the room, and commenced ab¬
sently fingering the papers that lay scat¬
tered there. Rex followed her with
watchful eyes. Her evident agitation
was no unfavorable sign, yet there was
something in her manner that filled him
with vague misgivings, and caused him
to hesitate before pursuing the theme that
lay nearest his heart. Ile approached
quietly when she had seated herself
again, and, resting his hands on the back
of a chair facing her, stood watching her
intently, while she waited in painful ex¬
pectation, hardly knowing what she did
or what she wished, yet desperately pray¬
ing that some miracle might intervene to
spare her the necessity of speaking the
words she was doomed to speak. She
felt Rex's eyes upon her, as if they
would read her very soul, and the si¬
lence became oppressive. Who of us
have not known these awful nightmare
silences some time in our lives? If she
could only break the spell by uttering
some trivial commonplace it would be a
relief, but she felt afraid of the sound of
her own voice. Suddenly, in the midst
of her embarrassment, her eyes fell upon
something among the papers scattered
about the table that seemed to arrest
their gaze, and taking up a big yellow
envelope with a most exaggerated busi¬
ness like air about it, she held it toward
Rex, saying,—
" Here is a letter from Roy that I have
just received to-day ; he is delighted with
his situation."
Still Rex did not move -his eyes from
her face or assist her with a single word.
" Would you like to read it," she con¬
tinued, making another desperate attempt
to break the spell he was weaving around
her, " and see what he has to say for him¬
self?"
"No," he answered, gently pushing
aside the letter she held out to him, and
bending over her so low that his lips
almost touched her hair-; "I did not
come here to-night, Mildred, to talk
about Roy."
He had called her by name, she felt
his breath warm on her cheek, his hand
was seeking hers ; she knew it was
coming now, and felt a desperate im¬
pulse to do something, she could not tell
what, to check Rex in the fatal error he
was making. Her heart pleaded with
her to hear him, but Duty sat immovable
on her iron throne, and coldly pointed
the writhing victim to the altar on which
she was to immolate herself. Springing
from her chair, she pressed both hands
distractedly to her forehead, and facing
him with a frantic, pleading look, she
cried, in a passionate voice,—
"Oh, Mr. Yan Dorn, don't—don't.—
for heaven's sake, don't say any more !"
" And why, Mildred," he answered,
gently removing the hands she had
clasped to her brow and pressing them
tenderly in his own, "should I not say
what you must know so well already,—
what every look and act of mine has been
plainly telling you ever since we first
met? Why should I not tell you, my
darling, that I love you?—love you better
than "
" Hush, hush, for God's sake, Mr. Yan
Dorn !" she cried, tearing herself from
his arms. " I cannot, must not hear
you !"
"Yes, but you shall hear me," said
Rex, gently detaining her ; " such love
as mine, Mildred, would compel the very
stones to listen."
" And I must be harder than stone,"
she murmured, despairingly. "Oh, Mr.
Yan Dorn, have mercy on us both ; forget
what you have already said, and leave
me while I have courage to demand it "
" Leave you, Mildred ?" he said, in a
reproachful voice. "That I will never
do; unífess," he added, after a little pause,
THE BEGINNING OF THE END.
117
taking both her hands in his own, and
forcing her, with gentle compulsion, to
meet his gaze while he looked her steadily
in the face, " I have been too presumptu¬
ous, and deceived myself into hoping
without reason,—for you, 1 am sure,
■would never deceive. If you can truth¬
fully tell me, Mildred, that you do not
love me, I will leave you without a word,
and never importune you with my pres¬
ence again. Speak the word now, if you
will, that shall banish me from your pres¬
ence forever ; say only that you do not
love me, and I am gone."
There was a long pause, Mildred look¬
ing steadily at the floor, and Rex looking
steadily at Mildred. At last she raised
her eyes, and said in as firm a voice as
she could,—
" You have no right to ask me that."
" Ay, but, by heaven, I have a right,"
he rejoined, unconsciously tightening his
grip on her fingers, " and you must
answer before I leave this spot ; you owe
that much to yourself and to me. Tell
me, Mildred,—I only demand it as simple
justice,—whether you love me or not."
" Oh, you are cruel to torture me so !"
she cried, releasing herself by a sudden
effort from his grasp, and covering her
face with both hands. " Believe me, Mr.
Yan Dorn, I am not trifling when I tell
you that my love can never be anything
to you nor yours to me. Go ; forget me
if you can, and save yourself at least
from endless misery."
There was a terrible earnestness about
her that showed only too plainly how far
she was from trifling. Rex could not
understand her at all. That she loved
him to desperation she could not conceal,
yet why this persistent refusal to accept
his love, this stern determination to re¬
sist every entreaty when it seemed so
easy to yield? What was the invisible
yet insuperable barrier between them ?
It could not be their poverty,—no, his
heart scorned the suggestion. Pride ?
A sudden thought darted through his
mind and clouded his handsome face
with shame. Yes, it might be that: she
came of a haughty race, whose grandeur
dated back to colonial times. In spite
of her poverty she was a born aristocrat
and proud as Lucifer, though veiled in
humility ; while he,—what was he but a
mere adventurer?
Retreating a step or two, he folded his
arms across his breast and said, in a low
but firm voice,—
" Let ine ask you one question more,
Miss Loring. If what you know of my
early years, if the obscurity, the mean¬
ness, the possible infamy of my birth
makes you shrink from the thought of
uniting yourself to one who at best may
perhaps be considered but a successful ad¬
venturer, speak the word, and with sorrow
and shame at my own presumption, but
without one thought of bitterness toward
you, I will depart and never trouble you
with my presence again."
This was too much for Mildred.
" Oh, Mr. Van Dorn," she cried, start¬
ing forward and laying her white hands
on his shoulders, while she looked into
his face with eyes full of tears, "you
don't suspect me of that! You don't
think one little cloud could blind my
eyes and my heart to all that is great
and noble and good,—that I could be in¬
sensible to the dignity, the only real
dignity, of heart and mind in which you
excel all other men as far as "
Rex did not wait to hear more, but,
folding her in his arms, almost suffocated
her with kisses before she knew what he
was about. For one weak moment she
yielded, and, leaning her head on his
breast, sobbed forth the mingled sweet¬
ness and bitterness of the hour.
" Now I know that you love me," Rex
whispered, gently stroking her hair with
one hand, " and nothing shall ever divide
us."
A slight shiver ran over Mildred's
frame as he spoke, and raising her head
from his bosom, she tried once more to
free herself from his embrace.
" Oh, you do not know what you are
saying!" she murmured, sadly. "We
are already divided by a gulf that can
never be bridged ; no, no, we two must
not love each other."
" But suppose we cannot help it, dar¬
ling," said Rex, playfully, drawing her
to his heart once more. "A higher
power has willed that we love ; it is our
destiny to live for one another."
" No, no, it is impossible !" she cried,
tearing herself away from him in des¬
peration. " Duty and honor alike forbid
it."
"Your first duty, Mildred, is to the
man you love," answered Rex, in a tone
of mingled fondness and pride, " and your
honor is his."
" No, my first duty is to honesty and
truth, ' she said, with an air of forced
calmness, " and if I should violate these
I would make myself unworthy of you.
There is no use now," she continued,
sinking wearily into a chair, "in trying
to conceal that I love you. IIow I "have
118
A MERE ADVENTURER.
struggled against it, God only knows,
but this love was too mighty for me.
When I found I could not master it I
tried hard to master myself, and at least
conceal the knowledge of it from you. I
might have spared you the pain of this
moment if I had done so, but that too
was beyond my power. You know now
only too well the secret I would fain
have concealed from myself. You know
that I love you better than ever man was
loved before, but the knowledge can
bring you nothing but regret. We can
never,—forgive me, Rex, if the words
seem harsh and cruel ; it is a cruel
necessity that compels me to speak them,
—we can never belong to one another.
I have suffered all the misery of a hapless
love, but, by the help of God, I will keep
my soul free from the stain of a guilty
one."
She spoke with an energy that seemed
born of desperation. Her words startled
Rex with a vague alarm, but forci ng the
wild suggestion from his mind, he threw
himself at her feet and began to pour
forth afresh his useless entreaty.
"Mildred," he cried, seizing her hand
frantically in both his own, " why will
you talk to me in riddles that I cannot
understand? Tell me what is this in¬
visible barrier that divides us, and I will
beat it down, though it rise as high as
heaven and its foundations reach to the
depths of the bottomless pit. Only tell
me what it is, and I swear by all that is
holy there is no barrier so strong but my
love shall break it down."
She shook her head mournfully.
" The chain that binds me," she said,
" is one you cannot hope to break."
Then, bowing her head on her breast,
she sat mute and motionless as a statue
of despair. Rex remained on his knees,
looking up at her with a faoe almost as
ashy in the sudden pallor that had come
over it as her own.
" Mildred," he said, in a hollow voice,
" there can be but one obstacle too strong
for me to overcome, and that is " he
paused a moment, as though his lips
hardly dared frame the word, then slowly
repeated, "that is—marriage."
He felt her hand grow cold in his
grasp, and his own began to tremble
with a strange and horrible fear. Was
that ominous word, then, the key to the
mystery that had baffled him so long?
Could it be possible, he asked himself,
that in some unguarded moment she had
rashly and irrevocably committed her¬
self to a fate that must condemn her to
life-long repentance? Was this, after
all, the secret of the invisible chain that
fettered her? Was this the source of
that strange dejection which had marked
her ever since he had known her? Then
the memory of that time when he had
first beheld her in the dingy law-office ;
her look of ghastly resignation as she
signed the paper presented her there ;
the bilious, insensible aspect of the man
who was her companion ; the words of
the lawyer when she had gone ; the
rigid seclusion in which she had chosen
to live ever since her arrival in New
York ; the frigid reserve of her manner
toward his own sex, all came rushing
upon his mind, and seemed to connect
themselves somehow with the strange
terror that had taken possession of him.
He slowly relaxed his grasp on Mildred's
hand, and his own hung lifeless at his
side, while he gazed into her face with a
look of speechless agony, not daring to
utter the question that hung upon his
lips, lest her next words should bring
confirmation of the fear he dared not
name to himself.
Mildred seemed to gain the self-posses¬
sion he had lost. Crossing her hands on
her knees, she looked him calmly in the
face and said, in a firm, steady voice,—
" The tie that binds me is as inviolable
as marriage itself."
Rex sprang to his feet, and bending
over her, with his lips close to her cheek,
said in a voice husky with passion,—
" Tell me, Mildred, for God's sake, oh,
tell me that it is not marriage !"
It was so nearly that, it must so soon
and so inevitably come to that, that she
felt it would be deceiving him to say no.
It would be better for him if he could
believe it was all over than to be racked
with suspense and tortured, perhaps,
with false hopes ; but, as her scrupulous
regard for truth would not permit her,
under any circumstances, to utter a false¬
hood, she merely cast down her eyes and
said nothing. Her silence only served
to confirm Rex's fears.
"Mildred," he cried, in a despairing
voice, " can you not speak one word of
hope? Tell me this horrible thought is
a dream !"
She covered her face with both hands
and remained silent.
" Mildred !"
Still no answer.
" Then, by heaven !" cried Rex, in a
voice that startled her with its fierceness,
" I swear I'll murder him if ever he
crosses my path !"
MILDRED APPEALS TO MR,
IIENLOW S GENEROSITY. 119
Alarmed at bis violence, Mildred raised
her head and was about to explain that
he had gone a little too far in interpret¬
ing her meaning, but before she could
speak he had gathered up his hat and
rushed like a madman out of the room.
CHAPTER XXVII.
MILDRED APPEALS TO MR. HENLOW's
GENEROSITY.
" Cans't thou not minister to a mind diseased ;
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow ;
Raze out the written troubles of the brain;
And with some sweet, oblivious antidote,
Cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff,
"Which weighs upon the heart?"
Macbeth.
The agitation of that night proved too
much for Mildred's overstrained nerves.
Her system, so long drawn up to its high¬
est tension, suddenly relaxed, and over¬
wrought nature revenged itself by a
collapse sudden and complete in propor¬
tion to the unnatural pressure that had
been so long imposed upon it. She found
herself, after a sleepless night, seized
with a burning fever and a trembling
weakness in her limbs that left her hardly
strength enough to raise her head from
the pillow. She thought of her work
and tried to rise, but only to fall back
dizzy and half fainting upon the bed. It
was clear she could not be up that day,
and perhaps not for many days ; ah, if
never again, how sweet would be the
thought !
The next day she was still worse, and
on the third no better ; but she took ad¬
vantage of a temporary abatement of the
fever to carry out a determination she
had formed immediately after her last
interview with Rex, but had not been
able yet formally to execute. This was
to sever her connection with the Metro¬
politan, and thus put an end to all chance
of being again brought in contact with
Van Dorn. It was now towards the end
of July, and the inevitable day was so
near when she was to surrender herself
to the brazen yoke of a detested mar¬
riage, that she felt the time had arrived
when she must begin to free herself from
other engagements and put her house in
order for the coming change. She had
learned to love her work for its own sake
as well as for his who shared it with her,
and it was with a pang of regret, like
parting from an old friend, that she de¬
spatched her letter requesting to be re¬
leased from the duties of a position which
the state of her health would no longer
allow her to fulfil. She received for an¬
swer a note in Lockwood's handwriting,
expressing polite regrets at the cause of
her withdrawal, but acceding without a
remonstrance to her request.
For the next week or so she was too
ill to think much, or even to be conscious
of anything beyond the suffering caused
by sickness ; but as she began to con¬
valesce, and the torture of physical pain
was removed, her mind turned once more
to pray upon its own sorrows. She felt
like some fabled necromancer of old, who
has sold his soul to the devil, and who
awaits at last the sure approach of the
inevitable hour when the fearful com¬
pact must be fulfilled. Any day after
the fatal 20th of August on which she
had signed away her soul, Mr. Henlow
might come and claim her for his own.
She knew that he would not be slow in
calling her to account, and the nearer
the time approached the more intolerable
seemed the destiny to which it was hur¬
rying her on. She would gladly have
given her life to escape, but to take life
with her own hand her religion forbade,
and Death, more cruel often in what he
spares than in what he takes away, had
passed by her sick-bed with averted
scythe and left her to a master more
dreaded than himself.
One desperate course alone remained,
—to confess all to Mr. Henlow and throw
herself upon his generosity. The thought
suggested itself to her at first as a vague
impulse of the imagination rather than a
definite purpose, but gradually took shape
in her mind, as she lay brooding over it
on her sick-bed, till it ripened into a set¬
tled determination. Not that she really
hoped anything from Mr. Henlow's mag¬
nanimity ; she knew too well that his
was not a generous nature, but she could
not conceive that any man who respected
himself would be willing to marry a
woman whose heart was wholly given to
another. As she thought the matter
over in this light, confession presented
itself to her as a duty. True, he might
misunderstand her; he might, instead
of pitying, reproach her with her love
for Rex,—bitterly did she reproach her¬
self,—but she would not justify his cen¬
sure by allowing herself to be guilty of
deception. Mildred's stern, uncompro¬
mising sense of duty magnified the com¬
mon human weakness to which she had
120
A MERE ADVENTURER.
yielded almost into a crime, and she felt
that fair dealing required of her a full
and free confession. The fact that Mr.
Ilenlow had shown himself singularly
insensible to all the higher considera¬
tions that ought to influence men in their
conduct towards women, did not absolve
her, in her own mind, from the require¬
ments of truth and honor in her dealings
with him. She felt that in loving Rex
s lie had been in some sort, though against
her will, false to her contract with Mr.
Ilenlow. She could not place her affec¬
tions under compulsion, so there was
nothing left but to confess all and appeal
to the generosity of the man who held
her destiny in his hands.
As soon as she was able to sit up,
which was not till some time after she
had formed her intention of writing to
Mr. Henlow, she called for her desk, and
began her letter of confession. It was a
difficult thing she had to do in her en¬
feebled state, and was rendered doubly
trying by the effort to express her mean¬
ing without the possibility of misconstruc¬
tion to Mr. Ilenlow's slow comprehension.
After much blotting and erasure, and tear¬
ing up of spoiled sheets, she produced the
following letter, which the reader may
have the privilege of glancing over before
it is sealed and committed to the post :
" 115 Bloomfield St., New York, Aug. 1,18—,
" Mr. IIenlow,—As the time for the
fulfilment of my pledge is very near at
hand, I feel it my duty, before allowing
you to take a step that must be irrevoca¬
ble, to make a confession which may
possibly modify your own desire to have
the engagement adhered to. You doubt¬
less remember that when I submitted to
the condition you exacted as the price of
your forbearance towards one whose own
criminal act had placed him in your
power, I gave you distinctly to under¬
stand that I could never love you nor
cherish one wifely sentiment towards
you ; but my heart was at least free from
"other entanglements then, and I believed
I might, without dishonor, pledge my
hand where I had nothing else to give.
Now, unhappily, all that is changed, and
I cannot promise you even the poor offer¬
ing of an empty heart, as cold and callous
to all other human affection as to yours,
which was the utmost I had hoped,—the
utmost I had pledged myself to do. I
tried hard not to fail in my duty to you ;
I struggled, God only knows how fiercely,
against a love I had no right to own, but
fate was too strong for me, and in shame
and in sorrow I feel myself forced to con¬
fess to you that I love another with all
the strength of my nature, and shall
never cease to love him while I live.
"I entreat that you will do me the
justice to believe, that though I may
have been weak in this matter, I have
not been guilty. I have tried to keep
faith with you in heart as well as in
deed ; I have given my love no hope ; I
have repulsed his affection, and turned a
deaf ear to his prayers ; I have told him
there was a barrier between us which no
effort of his or mine could ever remove ;
and yet, oh ! Mr. Henlow, if you would
be generous,—if you, who alone have
power to remit the pledge that binds me,
would give back the liberty I have for¬
feited, you would win for yourself the
grateful affection of two happy hearts,—
an offering far better worth your accept¬
ance than the miserable, slavish submis¬
sion which is all I can ever force myself
to render as your wife.
"As for that other debt I owe, you
would find the possession of a wasted,
ruined life like mine but a poor return
for your money, and, like the poor debtor
in the parable, I can but throw myself at
your feet, conscious that I owe you ten
thousand talents and have naught where¬
with to pay. Mere money, I feel, could
never make return for all you have done,
yet, if you would but have patience and
trust us, we would do our best to pay you
back, as far as money could pay it, the
loss you have sustained for my sake.
We are both young, and though we are
poor, our labor commands its price, and
love and gratitude would add zeal to our
labor.
" Yet do not think I am seeking to
evade my promise without your consent.
I have pledged you my word, and I am
ready to maintain it at every cost. If
you should be generous enough volun¬
tarily to release me, I would thankfully
accept my liberty and happiness as a free
gift at your hands, but if you see fit,
knowing what you do, to exact the fulfil¬
ment of our compact, you will still receive
the obedience and submission which is all
you can ever hope to claim from
" Mildred Loring."
She had just sealed her letter and de¬
spatched Bridget to post it, when her at¬
tention was attracted by a slight rumbling
in the hall outside, succeeded the next
moment by a quick, nervous rap at her
door. Upon her summons to enter, the
door opened, and, to her great suprise,
MILDRED APPEALS TO MR. HENLOW'S GENEROSITY. 121
Madame Valley, propelled in her rolling-
chair by the Amazonian Judith, was
wheeled into the room.
The old woman had observed that a
longer interval than usual had elapsed
since Mildred's last visit, but expressed
no surprise at her absence until pay-day
came, and still the young lady did not
present herself. Mildred, knowing her
landlady's idiosyncrasy, had never failed
to make her appearance at this time,
punctual to the minute, with her fort¬
night's rent in her hand, and the un¬
wonted omission excited Madame Val¬
ley's notice. She felt sure that some¬
thing extraordinary must have happened
to interrupt Mildred's usual promptness,
and after waiting impatiently all that
day and part of the next, she despatched
Judith to learn the cause of Mildred's ab¬
sence. The unfortunate girl had worked
so far upon the affections of the hardened
old creature that she really was, though
nobody would have given her credit for
it, much more concerned about Mildred
herself than about her money, and when
Judith returned with intelligence of the
poor girl's illness, exaggerated by the sen¬
sational report of her informant, Biddy,
the old harpy actually exhibited more
distress than if she had lost a thousand
dollars. She insisted upon going at once
to visit the sufferer, though she had not
left her room before for twenty years, and
people had died around her every day,
often under her very roof, in poverty,
cold, and hunger without seeming to
excite one human feeling in her breast,
or arouse her to the smallest effort for
their relief. No wonder, then, that Mil¬
dred was surprised at such an unwonted
mark of attention, and hardly knew
whether to regard the occurrence as a
subject for gratification or alarm.
Madame Valley scarcely noticed the
feeble salutation with which Mildred
greeted her, but ordering her chair
wheeled so as to face the invalid, she
gazed at her a long time with those wild,
piercing eyes of hers, then asked, in a
tone that almost startled Mildred by its
unwonted tenderness,—
" What is the matter with you, my
child ?"
Poor Mildred, long unused to sympathy
or kindness, was deeply moved by the
real solicitude expressed in Madame
Valley's voice, and could scarcely re¬
strain her tears as she stammered forth
a brief account of her illness, carefully
omitting any allusion to its cause. But
Madame Valley's sharp eyes and sharper
penetration were not to be deceived.
Fixing upon Mildred one of those keen,
searching looks of hers, she continued to
regard the invalid in silence for some
moments, then turning away her eyes
with an air of sudden abstraction and
laying her withered hand on her heart,
she exclaimed, as if talking to herself,—
" Here, here, is the trouble ! It's the
same old story with us all ; they make
us miserable while we are young and
wicked when we are old."
At any other time Mildred would have
been touched by the glimpse of the old
cynic's own inner life that her words
revealed, but misery is proverbially self-
absorbed, and she thought of the words
only in relation to herself, as she an¬
swered, wearily,—
" But I hope I shall die before I grow
old."
Madame Valley's eyes lost their mo¬
mentary look of abstraction, and her
voice recovered its wonted bitterness, as
she replied,—
" No, you are not going to die. The
bungling thing you call ' Providence'
don't regulate the affairs of the world
after that fashion. The happy die ; they
that love life die ; but the miserable live
on and on through endless dreary years
till they have drained their bitter cup to
the dregs. Your disease is not one that
kills people, Mildred ; you will live to be
old, old, old."
Somehow the baseless augury had a
depressing effect upon Mildred. At that
moment, the prospect of a long life
seemed the dreariest that could be un¬
folded to her, and she shrank from the
ill-omened words as most of us would
shrink from a prophecy of death. She
hardly knew how to answer Madame
Valley's bitter utterances. A deep sense
of wrong and injustice in her own case,
—an utter inability to reconcile herself
to what her religion taught her to accept
submissively as the will of heaven,—while
it did not destroy her faith, had upset
all her logic, and left her groping in the
dark like a shipwrecked mariner clinging
to a sinking spar on a midnight sea. She
did not wish to utter the bitter things she
felt, and she had not enough of the spirit
of cant about her to say what she did not
feel, so she fingered nervously at the
papers on the desk before her and re¬
mained silent.
Madame Valley kept silence too, for a
while, but her restless eyes were busy.
She surveyed every part of the little
chamber so narrowly that you might
122
A MERE AD
VENTURER.
have thought she Avas taking an inventory
of the contents to know what they would
he worth in case she should have to levy
an execution for rent ; then returning to
the occupant, she watched her wasted
lingers as they still toyed absently with
the loose papers that were scarcely more
white and thin than themselves, and
asked, abruptly,—
" What have you been working at,
Mildred ? It is true your sickness is
not the sort that kills, but you are too
ill to be writing. Have you no friends
or kinsfolk to take care of you while you
are sick and keep you from hurting your¬
self?"
" I have only a brother and a sister,
who are both younger than I. They
cannot take care of themselves, poor
children."
" IIow old are they?"
" My sister is twenty, my brother just
eighteen."
"Umph!"
The inarticulate rejoinder was uttered
with such a significant inflection that
Mildred felt herself called upon to ex¬
plain away the unspoken accusation.
" I am only their half-sister," she said,
deprecatingly ; " and Roy is not in New
York. If he were here, poor boy, I
should not lack for kindness or atten¬
tion."
" And where is your sister?"
" She is living with friends, up-town."
" And why don't you live with friends
up-town ?"
" I have no friends, for one reason,"
answered Mildred, beginning to feel
annoyed at her visitor's inquisitiveness.
Madame Valley regarded her a mo¬
ment with a puzzling expression, then
said, laconically,—
" You are a great fool, Mildred."
Mildred had always doubted Madame
Valley's perfect sanity, and now the
question seemed placed beyond the realm
of uncertainty.
" I mean just what I say," continued
the old beldam, emphatically, answering
the look of surprise that Mildred directed
towards her. " If you had not been fool
enough to show that you had something
above the common stuff in you ; if you
had shown yourself utterly incapable of
raising a finger for your own benefit or
anybody else's; if you had been frivo¬
lous, selfish, and lazy, then helping hands
would not have been wanting to you.
That is the way with things in this pre¬
cious world of ours. The people that
can't or won't help themselves are the
very ones that mankind is most con¬
cerned about helping, especially if they
are women. If you expect the aid and
sympathy of society ; if you expect to slip
through life easily on the fruit of other
people's labor ; if you expect to be petted
and coddled and pitied and called a poor,
dear thing, just show yourself utterly
worthless and inefficient, and somebody
will be sure to turn up whose business
it is to take care of you. It is a great
mistake for a woman to show capacity.
If she is good for anything at all, the
world not only feels itself relieved of all
further responsibility on her account, but
justified in putting upon her a great deal
more than she is really able to bear. If
she stays at home, her own family pack
all their domestic burdens upon her
shoulders, and if she marries, the chances
are ten to one she will have to support
her husband. You have made this mis¬
take, Mildred : you have shown that you
have pluck, industry, talent, and the
world gives you no quarter; no, and it
never will till it has made you as hard
and selfish and wicked as itself. You
think it will never do that, but I know
better ; years of wrong and misery can
do anything. I was like you once ; I
believed there were such things as honor
and truth and virtue ; I believed in God
and heaven ; I believed in mankind, and
I believed in myself, but now I know it
was all a falsehood and a lie. There is
nothing but rottenness and corruption
everywhere, from the cruel power that
rules a misshapen world down to the
meanest victim of his wrath, and I—I
that once had such faith in my own des¬
tiny am rotten and corrupt like all the
rest."
She spoke with a vehemence that
brought the blood to her sunken cheeks
and made her strange, flashing eyes glow
like living coals. She seemed to have
wrought herself into a passion beyond
her control, and then as if struck with
a sudden consciousness of her own agi¬
tation, and jealous of betraying her feel¬
ings further, she paused abruptly, and
without giving Mildred time to answer a
word, motioned Judith to wheel her back
to her own den.
MR. HENLOW IS RESOLVED TO MAKE MILDRED HAPPY. 123
CHAPTER XXVIII.
mr. henlow is resolved to make
mildred happy.
" But ther ben folk of swiche condition
That when they han a certain purpose take
They cannot stint of hir intention."
Chaucer.
Mr. IIenlow was in his counting-
room, deeply absorbed in bills of lading
and prices current, when a messenger
entered with the morning's mail, and a
delicate white envelope, addressed in the
fashionable, angular hand, which, in
spite of its uniformity, he easily recog¬
nized as Mildred's, dropped out from a
pile of sober blue and yellow documents,
with conspicuous mercantile stamps, that
composed the bulk of his correspondence.
It was the first voluntary communica¬
tion he had ever received from his in¬
tended. The few dry business-like docu¬
ments that had passed between them in
the beginning of their engagement were
not of a lover-like character, and since
Mildred's residence in New York she
had treated his correspondence with ab¬
solute neglect. But Mr. Henlow was not
a man to disturb himself about trifles.
He knew that he had Mildred safe in his
power, which was the main thing to be
considered, and so he did not allow his
serenity to be ruffled merely because she
chose to indulge in a few feminine vaga¬
ries. He flattered himself that he knew
a thing or two about women, and he
was not going to be put out by any of
their nonsense. That Mildred should
volunteer to write to him at all he re¬
garded as a propitious sign. She was
coming to her senses at last, no doubt,
and learning to appreciate the advan¬
tages of the alliance he had offered her.
Very probably she was beginning to feel
some anxiety regarding the stability of
his own sentiments as the time ap¬
proached for the fulfilment of their con¬
tract, and this letter, perhaps, was a
" feeler" to sound his own intentions.
Satisfied with this conjecture of proba¬
bilities, he laid Mildred's note aside for
future perusal while he gave his attention
to the weightier matters of bargain and
trade ; for Mr. Henlow was a model
man of business, who would never have
dreamed of allowing his commercial cor¬
respondence to be delayed by any such
trifle as a woman's love-letter. He opened
the bulky documents one by one, read
them over slowly and methodically, writ¬
ing answers to such as required his per¬
sonal attention, and labelling the rest for
his clerk, then, when its due turn came,
proceeded with a smile of gratified antici¬
pation to unfold Mildred's note.
Mr. Henlow was not a man to betray
violent emotion under any circumstances.
A gradual fading of the smile from his
lips, succeeded first by a look of wooden
incredulity, then by one of stony determi¬
nation, were the only outward and visible
signs of disturbance he manifested as the
real import of the letter slowly dawned
upon his mind. A passionate man would
have been angry ; a man of sensibility
would have been wounded, but Mr. Hen¬
low was neither; he only made some
general reflections upon the utter inca¬
pacity of women for judging of their own
interests, and applauded himself in his
determination to compel Mildred to take
the only course which his superior judg¬
ment felt convinced would insure her true
happiness. He was not influenced by a
blind passion for Mildred ; his nature
was incapable of passion, and hence her
confession that she loved another counted
for little with him. He had been first led
to desire her for his wife by observing
that other men did the same, and his mer¬
cantile instincts taught him that any arti¬
cle in very great demand is apt to be a
good investment. Having once got the
idea of marrying her into his head, you
could not have knocked it out again with
a sledge-hammer. If Mr. Henlow had
taken a notion that the wall of China
was a bit of painted canvas which he
could butt down at a blow, he would have
gone on butting at it till he had butted
his brains out; not so much from a perse¬
vering determination to get rid of the
wall as from a sheer inability to compre¬
hend that the wall would not come down.
He was a man slow in all that he did ;
slow to observe, slow to feel, slow to
comprehend, but when once his percep¬
tions did grasp an idea, right or wrong,
they held on to it with the grip of death.
Mr. Henlow, like most men of his class,
had no very exalted idea of the function
of women. To bear children, to direct
servants, to subserve the pleasure and
convenience of the superior half of crea¬
tion to which he belonged, were, in his
mind, their sole raison d'etre. A woman
without a husband, a baby, and a key-
basket was to him an anomaly, an imper¬
tinence, an entity without its title-deed
to existence. The first duty of every
woman was to get a husband, and, ac¬
cording to Mr. Ilenlow's views, a hus¬
band was a, husband without regard ta
124
A MERE ADVENTURER.
personal qualities ; the only difference in
the desirability of the article, so far as
the women were concerned, depending
upon his ability or non-ability to supply
a wife with the creature comforts of life.
Now he, Mr. Thompson Ilenlow, being
a highly prosperous man, able not merely
to support a wife in comfort, but to pro¬
vide her with all the luxuries of life be¬
sides,—carriage, jewelry, finery of all
sorts,—everything, in a word, which he
could conceive"of as essential to the hap¬
piness of the feminine mind, was by all
odds the most desirable appendage as a
husband that he had any knowledge of,
and Mildred's letter was to him simply a
piece of unaccountable eccentricity which
lie could not comprehend. It all came,
he thought, of her having remained so
long unmarried, and lacking the neces¬
sary balance-weight of husband, key,
basket, and baby to keep her mind in
poise. She had frittered away her time
over books and newspapers till she didn't
know what she really wanted, and had
to go and fancy herself in love just for
want of something better to do. Noth¬
ing better could be expected when women
went to meddling with what they were
not intended for. Reading books and
writing reviews was a business fit only
for men, and a very inferior sort of men
at that, according to Mr. Henlow's ideas.
Just let Mildred once be safely married
and restored to her proper sphere, with
woman's proper duties to occupy her,
and there was no fear but she would soon
be cured of her vagaries and find some¬
thing better to do than fancy herself in
love with every good-looking vagabond
that came in her way. She would see
then how much better it was to have
married a solid, substantial man like him¬
self, who could provide her abundantly
with everything a reasonable woman
ought to desire to make her happy, than
to have thrown herself away on some
trashy fellow who, ten to one, could not
even make a living for himself. If this
newr lover of Mildred's were a man of
character and fortune like Mr. Ilenlow
himself there might be some excuse for
her, but she had admitted in her letter
that he was poor, and it was no more
than likely that he was one of those
trifling Bohemian fellows, with nothing
but a good-looking face and a large stock
of assurance to recommend them, that
lounge around the newspaper offices and
trade on their impudence for a living.
That was the way with women; they
never did know what a man was good
for till they were married to him. They
were all carried away by mere outside.
Just let a fellow have a handsome face
and a trick of saying pretty things to
them, and the women would all run mad
about him, though he didn't know enough
about business to tell a bill of lading
from a bank-note. He, Thompson Hen-
low, was none of that sort of tinsel puppy.
Ile didn't plume himself on looks and
manners and that sort of trumpery ; he
went in for solid worth, he, and believed
in judging a man by his real merits as
a man, and on that test he was willing
to base his claims to the title of a Chris¬
tian man and a gentleman. If any per¬
son could show a clearer record for
integrity than he ; if any one led a more
regular and virtuous life, or could boast
a more irreproachable moral character ;
if any merchant's credit in all the city
stood higher than his ; to that man he,
Thompson Ilenlow, would yield the palm
for excellence, and to no other. Women
never did learn to appreciate these things
till they were married and felt the benefit
of them, and the sooner Mildred could
be married to him, and made to see where
her true happiness lay, the better for
her. He regretted now that he had not
insisted on her marrying him a year ago,
and so ending the matter ; still, he did
not disquiet himself, as he had no doubt
that a few months' experience of the true
bliss of a rational marriage would effect¬
ually cure her of all romantic nonsense.
Thus, the only result of poor Mildred's
appeal was to hasten the consummation
she was seeking to avoid. Mr. Ilenlow
did not answer her letter or appear to con¬
cern himself about it any further that day.
Ile went deliberately over his establish¬
ment, giving directions to the various
clerks and putting everything in order
previous to his own departure next morn¬
ing on the fast mail train for New York.
The step was not a hurried one : Mr.
Ilenlow never did anything in a hurry.
It wras near the usual time for going on
to purchase winter goods, and as he had
counted on leaving home about this period
any wTay, a trifle of a week or so in ad¬
vance of the regular season would not
hurt. Indeed, he considered it fortunate,
since Mildred had taken it into her head
to grow restive, that she should have
chosen this particular time for it, so that
he could dispose of both his errands—
that of the shop and that of the altar—as
one job. Mr. Ilenlow was a prudent,
thrifty man, and did not like to waste
time and money in unnecessary trips
MR. HENLOW SHOWS HIS MAGNANIMITY.
125
from home. Ile had never been any¬
where in his life, except from his own
city to New York, but he had made that
journey so often that he now thought
nothing of it; and if Mildred could only
be brought to reason and induced to
marry him without waiting for the end
of the bargained year,—which was now
very near its close,—he would not feel
that he had lost anything by anticipating
a little his usual time of departure.
On the 4th of August, just two days
after Mildred's letter had reached him,
Mr. Henlow, prompt as the mail itself,
arrived in New York, and proceeded to
the St. Nicholas Hotel. He had lodged
there fifteen years before, when he vis¬
ited New York for the first time to lay in
his first stock of goods, and had never
stopped at any other hotel since. He
was one of those persons who, when they
have once marked out a groove for them¬
selves to move in, never depart from it
unless driven by some overpowering ne¬
cessity. He always travelled by the same
route, dealt at the same houses, fre¬
quented the same haunts, and nothing
would have induced him to budge an
inch from the beaten track. So familiar
was he with his established rounds that
he could almost have walked blindfold
from his hotel to any of the great busi¬
ness houses where he was in the habit
of dealing, but was as ignorant of the
rest of the city as one who had never set
foot in it. He had visited Central Park
but once, had never been inside of Trinity
Church, had never even heard of the
Academy of Design or the Astor Library,
did not care for music, considered the
theatre immoral, and would not have
condescended to turn on his heel to view
the finest painting that was ever put
upon canvas. He had been carried to
the Philadelphia Exposition of 1876 by
the mere force of the current that
was hurrying everybody else in that
direction at the time, but except some
severe reflections upon the impropriety
of exhibiting " naked figures in the art
gallery where women could see 'em," the
only remark he had ever been heard to
make about it was to observe to a friend
that " really the Exposition wasn't such
a humbug after all, for there were some
of the finest broadcloths on exhibition he
had ever seen in his life."
Having no allurements of pleasure to
tempt him, Mr. Henlow could give his
undivided attention to business, and as
there was no need to hurry about the
dry goods, hé determined to take Mil¬
dred's matter in hand first. He ate his
dinner, which he always took early, then
fitted himself up with a bran-new suit of
clothes from the same tailor who had
upholstered him every season for the last
ten years, got a barber of equally long
standing to trim his hair and beard in
the fashion that he had never varied
since he first had a beard, and then, sat¬
isfied with himself mentally, materially,
and morally, he ordered a cab and sallied
forth to pay his court to Venus.
CHAPTER XXIX.
mr. henlow shows his magnanimity.
" Certe ego me novi ....
Placuitque mihi mea forma videnti.
Adspice, aim quantus. Non est hoc corpore major
Jupiter in cœlo."
Ovid.
It was about the hour when the post¬
man went his evening rounds. Mildred
had dressed herself for the first time since
her illness, and was sitting in the little
parlor where she had had her last pain¬
ful interview with Rex, thinking over
all that had happened on that memorable
night, recalling with the famished eager¬
ness of hopeless love every word and
look of him whose mastery over her
heart she had striven so desperately, so
vainly to resist.
It was too late now to dream of undo¬
ing the past, and the future,—that was a
great gulf into which she dared not look.
She shrank with a kind of desperate, un¬
spoken revolt from the contemplation of
her own destiny. She could not bring
herself to face what she knew must be,
and tried to nurse into life the poor little
glimmer of hope that something might
come of her letter to Mr. Henlow,—a
hope so faint and forlorn that it seemed
but the dead ghost of all hope. This
day, the fourth, she might begin to look
for an answer, and she started up ner¬
vously and hastened towards the door
when she heard, as she thought, the post¬
man's knock outside. She opened, and
there sure enough she found the answer
to her letter, but in a shape that she as
little desired as expected.
" Hast thou come to torment me before
my time ?" was the bitter protest that rose
to her mind, as Mr. Henlow's solid pro¬
portions loomed before her in the door
126
A MERE ADVENTURER.
way, but no words passed her lips. One
sickening shudder quivered through her
frame, and conscience stifled the cry that
nature would have uttered. Her first
wild impulse was to fly, to lock herself
in her chamber and shut out the horrible
vision with bolts and bars, but the chains
of destiny held her fast ; she remembered
the duty she owed to this man,—a duty
already violated in her heart,—and chok¬
ing down the bitter loathing with which
his presence filled her like a nauseous
draught, she braced herself for the or¬
deal, and prepared, with desperate reso¬
lution, to face the inevitable. Pale, mute,
motionless, with white despair stamped
on every feature, what a picture was that
for a lover to behold ! But Mr. Ilenlow
was slow at reading the delicate indica¬
tions of look and gesture, and either did
not observe the effect his sudden appear¬
ance had produced on Mildred, or failed
to interpret it to his own disadvantage.
He advanced a step or two, and put out
his hand to be shaken,—for Mr. Henlow
cannot be said, accurately, to have ever
really shaken hands with any one, his
manner of performing that ceremony
being merely to thrust out the four
ample fingers of his right hand with a
stiff, automatic movement, and suffer
them to lie a moment, if you chose to take
them, heavy and irresponsive in your
own, like a glove stuffed with meal-bran.
Mildred made no response to the auto¬
matic gesture, and Mr. Ilenlow's hand
fell again, dangling like a stuffed glove
at his side, as still silent, still with that
white, voiceless despair printed on every
feature, she faintly motioned him to enter.
Mr. Henlow was not a society man in
any sense of the word, and possessed none
of the delicate art which can relieve awk¬
ward situation s or, better still, avoid them
altogether. He could straighten out the
most complicated accounts equal to any
merchant on 'change, or set right the
thousandth part of a fraction of error in
bills of credit, but set him to entertain a
woman with small-talk, or expect of him
a reply to a bon mot, and no baby so help¬
less as he. Ile followed Mildred into her
little parlor, wavered between three
chairs in succession before finally de¬
positing himself on a very spindling one
with a weak leg, crossed his legs, un¬
crossed them again, and then resting a
hand on each knee, broke silence at last
by remarking, as he rested his eyes a
moment on Mildred,—
" You look as if you had been sick."
Then he crossed his legs again, and,
putting his thumbs into his waistcoat-
pockets, he fixed his eyes on the ceiling
and relapsed into silence. Mildred felt
that it behooved her at least to be civil,
and, struggling against the dead, stony
heaviness that filled her breast and almost
choked her utterance, she answered, in a
low, unsteady voice,—
"Yes, I have been ill,—and I am still
far, very far from well," she added,
almost gasping out the words as a sick¬
ening sense of her situation came over
her afresh. Mr. Henlow noted the deadly
pallor of her cheek, the quivering of lip
and limb, but he made no guess as to the
real nature of her malady ; how could he,
when his own heart was incapable of ex¬
periencing the like?
" I thought something must be the mat¬
ter," he said, fumbling in his pockets, and
producing Mildred's letter, " when you
wrote this, because," with an air of
awkward wheedling, " I knew you were
a woman of too much good sense to have
written such a letter if you had been
quite yourself."
Mildred felt her heart turn to stone
within her breast as the last poor, faint¬
ing hope yielded up the ghost and died.
She gathered strength, too, from sheer
desperation, and, drawing herself up
with an air of dignity, she answered, in
a firm, clear voice,—
" Every word in that letter, Mr. Hen¬
low, is perfectly true as regards my feel¬
ings towards you, and will be true so
long as I live."
These words made not the slightest
impression upon Mr. Henlow, who went
on butting stolidly at the moral wall of
China that barred his way, unshaken by
any jars he received, in his confident
belief that the wall was of flimsy card¬
board, and he could walk right through.
"You think so now," he answered,
with an incredulous smile, " because you
are sick, and your mind is unsettled by
the infirmities of the body. I have been
that way myself sometimes, and know all
about it. A little fit of indigestion now
and then has made me feel all out of
sorts, and imagine that my business was
all going wrong, but as soon as my diges¬
tion was restored everything came right
again, and it'll be the same way with you.
When you get well, and are able to think
for yourself, you will see things in a dif¬
ferent light. Women don't always know
what's best for them, anyway, and it's
fortunate for one if she has a person to
direct her who is capable of judging what
is for Ker real interest. You don't know
MR. HENLOW SHOWS HIS MAGNANIMITY.
127
the world like I do ; women never can ;
they don't have the opportunities that
men have, and so it isn't wise for them
to rely too much upon their own judg¬
ment. You just trust everything to me
and I'll be sure to do what's best for you.
I never have been mistaken in any of my
calculations yet, and I know what is for
your real good better than you yourself,
—better than any woman can know."
Disgust and indignation sealed Mil¬
dred's lips. She owed this man honor,
obedience, if she could not give him love ;
he had bought that with the price he had
paid for her hand. Oh, that horrible
compact ! How it seemed to bind her
now in chains of hell's own forging!
How that accursed gold for which she
had sold herself seemed to be pressing
her down under its mountain load of
misery, till her very soul seemed sunk in
a bottomless pit of woe ! Still, she tried
to silence the cry of nature in her breast,
and to conquer the unconquerable repug¬
nance which her sensitive conscience
condemned as in some sort a violation
of her faith. It was true, she had not
promised to love Mr. Henlow, but when
he bought her he had at least not bar¬
gained for her hate, and he had stipulated
for a heart that was free from the love of
another.
Her wretched brother saved from open
shame, peace and comfort brought to her
father's last hours, that faint, dying
smile she remembered so well on the old
man's face,—these were the real price for
which she had sold herself, and could
she return nothing but loathing and
disgust for these?
With Mildred's high sense of the re¬
sponsibilities of marriage, she had tried
to view even the miserable compact into
which she had entered as something
more than a mere barter of so much
humkn flesh and blood for value received
in gold. Her conscience could not be
satisfied with returning hatred and dis¬
gust where she felt that something else
had been tacitly bargained for. A feel¬
ing of self-accusation,—a consciousness
that she herself had not been wholly true
to her pledge,—mingled with the anger
and disgust that filled her breast, and
checked her in the expression of feelings
to which she told herself she had no right
to give way.
If the thoughts that occupied Mildred
could have been revealed to Mr. Iienlow,
he would have understood or appreciated
them as little as he did that other feeling
—the cause of all these inward conflicts
—which he characterized as " a foolish
notion about being in love." That any
woman could regard himself, a man of
such solid worth, with loathing and re¬
pugnance was a fact entirely beyond
Mr. Henlow's conception, and being in¬
conceivable, was naturally wholly unsus¬
pected. So far as he was concerned,
Mildred's scruples about violated obliga¬
tions were altogether superfluous. There
was nothing repugnant to his feelings
in a purely conventional marriage. He
was proud of his capacity for business,
proud of his money, proud of his success ;
and it seemed to him nothing more than
fair, according to all the laws of trade,
that these solid advantages should pur¬
chase for him the beauty and attractions
that other men seemed to value in a wife.
He occupied himself during the long
pause that succeeded his last remark in
taking a careful survey of Mildred's sur¬
roundings, from which he gathered the
text for his next observation.
"You don't look very comfortable
here," he began, after waiting in vain
for some encouragement from Mildred.
"I don't wonder that you get sick and
down-hearted in a place like this ; it is so
different from what you have been used
to, and still more different from what you
will have," he added, in a significant
tone, " when I take you back to Hazel-
hurst with me. I am going to new-fur-
nish the house from cellar to attic. I
have brought eight thousand dollars with
me for the purpose, and you shall go
shopping just as soon as you are well
enough and order the furniture to suit
yourself. You shall buy what dresses
you like too; I'll give orders at Stew¬
art's and Arnold & Constable's, and any
other house you would like to trade at,
for you to receive unlimited credit, and
you may go to Tiffany's and select a set
of jewelry as a wedding present from
me."
This was as near courtship as Mr.
Henlow knew how to come. He drew
closer to Mildred as he spoke and made
an awkward attempt to take her hand.
It was the last touch that snapped the
cords of Mildred's endurance. Hardly
conscious of what she was doing, she
uttered a little scream, and springing
from her seat, shrank away to the remotest
corner of the room, crying in a voice of
frantic protest,—
"No, no, not yet, for heaven's sake!
You have no right to do that now ; the
time has not come yet."
Mr. IIen^>w was alarmed. A woman
128
A MERE ADVENTURER.
who could not be appeased by the pros¬
pect of unlimited shopping was a being
so altogether anomalous that he began to
entertain doubts as to whether he would
be quite safe in forming a matrimonial
copartnership with her. However, he
was not a man to be set back easily.
He appeared a little confused for a mo¬
ment, then quietly resuming his seat,
said, in a slightly expostulating tone,—
'* AVhy, what's the matter? You are
doing wrong to let yourself get so excited.
That is the trouble with you, as I told
you from the beginning ; you always do
give way too much to feeling. You
ought to learn to control yourself better.
I always do ; you never see me give way
to my feelings like that."
It did not occur to Mildred to retort
that perhaps Mr. Henlow had no feelings
to give way to. She had hardly even
heard what he said. One thought only
filled her mind now, and her answer was
a wild, hopeless appeal to a faculty that
Mr. Henlow did not possess.
" Oh, if you would spare me !" she
cried, coming forward and clasping her
hands in fervid entreaty. "If you would
be generous and not require what it
costs me so dear to give and yet cannot
be worth your possessing ! Ask any
other sacrifice of me ; shut me up in a
convent; make me a serving-woman in
your household ; or charge me with my
brother's crime and send me to prison in
his stead, but do not, oh, do not require
me to become your wife ! For your own
sake, Mr. Henlow, pause and think what
you are doing before you stoop to marry
a woman who can never, never love you,
and for sweet mercy's sake release me
from a promise that misery and despera¬
tion alone induced me to make."
Mr. Henlow uncrossed his legs, crossed
them again, shifted himself uneasily upon
his chair, and looked about him with an
air of embarrassment, but his purpose
was not shaken.
" Haven't I just been warning you
against giving way so much to your feel¬
ings ?" he began, in a severely admoni¬
tory tone. " You will injure your health,
and besides, a person ain't capable of
reasoning properly about anything when
they let themselves get worked up into
such a state of excitement as you are in.
This is a subject for sober, cool reflection,
and if you will calm yoursejf down a
little and let me put the case to you fairly,
I am sure I can convince you that I am
only urging you to act for your own
good and happiness. You women always
allow yourselves to be carried away by
feeling, instead of stopping to reason
about a thing, as you ought to do. Feel¬
ings are a very unsafe guide ; they often
change and mislead us. This thing of
love, especially, is very deceptive ; people
often imagine they are in love when they
are not. I have seen the most senti¬
mental couples quarrel after marriage,
and get so discontented that they could not
live together. It is better to trust to
solid qualities for the happiness of the
married state, and to choose for vour
/ «
husband a man that you can always
esteem and respect."
Mildred listened to this speech with
flashing eyes and a kindling cheek. The
coarseness and insensibility of the man
seemed to absolve her at last from all
scruples on his account and reduce the
compact between them to the mere gross
purchase of slave flesh and blood which
he seemed content to regard it. Very
well, then ; if he would have it so ; if he
was satisfied to possess a slave instead of
a wife ; if love, sympathy, companionship
were nothing to him, let him do without
them. She owed him but the earthy
part of herself,—the soulless clay, that
was all his earthy nature seemed capable
of appreciating. A vague sense of relief
came over her as she disburdened her
conscience at last of the task of stifling
the repugnance she could not conquer
for the man who was to be her husband,
and there was bitter scorn in her voice
as she replied, in a clear, firm tone,—
" But you do not seem to consider, Mr.
Henlow, that I can neither esteem nor
respect a man who is willing to accept
the sacrifice that you demand of me."
Mr. Ilenlow's bilious complexion took
on a tint of green, but he never flinched.
Iiis self-complacency was ruffled ; that
was all.
" You don't consider what you are
saying," he rejoined, in his usual phleg¬
matic tone ; " women never do when they
allow their passions to get the better of
them. I know more about these things
than you do ; women can't be expected
to understand everything, but if you will
quiet yourself and listen while I explain
to you the folly of your conduct, I think
I can prove to you that your only real
prospect for happiness lies in following
my judgment. This man, now, that you
wrote me about; what is his name?"
Rex's name? She would as soon have
uttered blasphemy as have spoken it
there.
" Thai can be of no consequence to
MR. HENLOW SHOWS HIS MAGNANIMITY.
129
you," she answered, with quiet deter¬
mination. " Since your mind is made
up already, there can be no need for dis¬
cussing him."
" No ; except that I want to make it
clear to you how entirely I am consider¬
ing your own interest in not giving way
to your foolish desire to marry him. No
matter about the name ; but do you know
what is his capacity for business, and how
much property he is worth?"
" It would make no difference to me,"
replied Mildred, haughtily, " whether he
were worth a million or nothing."
Mr. Ilenlow chuckled.
" There, that is just the way with you
women," he cried, triumphantly; "you
never do think about things of real im¬
portance. Now, I can tell you, if he was
worth the tenth part of what I am, and
cared as much for you as I do, he would
have raised ten thousand dollars without
any words about it and paid off your
bond, and then you could have married
him without asking me any odds. It
isn't every man that thinks enough of a
woman to pay out ten thousand dollars
for her at an hour's warning, and fewer
still have got the money to do it. Ten
thousand dollars is nothing to me. I
could go down yonder on Wall Street
and raise double the amount at half an
hour's notice any day, and pay it out
without ever feeling the worse for it."
Mildred's only reply was a look of un¬
utterable scorn. Mr. Henlow, though
ordinarily a severely taciturn man, could
be as long-winded as anybody when he
got fairly launched on a congenial topic,
and. entirely unmoved by Mildred's with¬
ering look, he continued to demolish poor
Rex's claims by the unanswerable argu¬
ment of his own superior merit.
"Then, as to moral qualities," he went
on, " there is not another man in the
country who can show a clearer record
than I can. I lead a sober, upright, and
virtuous life, and my wife will never have
to fear a rival in the affections of her hus¬
band. I never drank a drop of liquor,
nor swore an oath, nor smoked a cigar in
my life. I don't play cards, nor dance,
nor go to the theatre, nor indulge in any
other of the bad habits that so often lead
young men to ruin. I have been a lead¬
ing member of the church for ten years,
and always pay my dues regularly and
contribute freely to all deserving charita¬
ble objects. Now, I don't know anything
positive about the character of the man
that has been unsettling your mind so,
but if he lives in New York and has
anything to do with a newspaper, the
chances are all against him. The morals
of New York are very bad," with a sol¬
emn shake of the head, " and a man who
has lived here all his life and mingled
with the worst elements of society, as
newspaper men always do, is more than
likely to have been corrupted by the
wickedness he sees around him. News¬
paper men are nothing but ' dead-beats'
anyway ; they can't help being, for their
calling isn't one that exercises the judg¬
ment or trains them to regular business
habits. I don't suppose there is an editor
in the country who could tell what per
cent, must be put on a stock of fancy
goods to cover risks and leave a fair
profit; they know nothing at all about
real business. You women don't appre¬
ciate these things like we men do, and
therefore are not capable of judging for
yourselves ; but if you could understand
and compare things for yourself, I would
not hesitate to challenge even your judg¬
ment as to whether this man that you
foolishly want to marry is any more cor¬
rect in his morals, or upright in conduct,
or steady in business than you have
always known me to be."
"No," answered Mildred, with vehe¬
mence. "I thank heaven he has enough
of human error about him to make it
possible for human nature to love him."
Mr. Henlow began to wonder if Mil¬
dred was not losing her mind. He was
almost ready to lose patience, but in men
of his temperament that virtue is not
easily exhausted, and he returned to the
charge as confidently as if he had not
met with a single rebuff.
" I know what is the matter with you,"
he said, peremptorily. " You need to be
married, and have some rational employ¬
ment to keep your mind in balance,—
something better fitted to occupy a woman
than frittering away your time over books
and that sort of nonsense. When you get
back to Hazelhurst, and have your house¬
keeping, and your needle-work, and other
things suitable to occupy a woman's mind,
you will soon learn to feel as you ought,
and appreciate all I have done for you.
It is only two weeks now, anyway, to
the end of the year I allowed you, and
as there isn't any chance for you to raise
ten thousand dollars to pay me, I don't
see what's the use of wasting any more
time about it. You will be all right
when you are once safely married, and
so you had better act now like the sensi¬
ble woman you are, and make up your
mind to settle the business at once and
130
A MERE ADVENTURER.
have it over with. Let me see ; this is
Friday, ain't it? Well, suppose you let
me bring a preacher round next Tuesday
and fix things up without any more
fuss."
"No 1" cried Mildred, springing to her
feet once more, fairly ablaze with scorn
and indignation. "No, not one hour,—
not one minute before the appointed time.
A thousand years hence would be all too
soon to become your wife. The misera¬
ble remnant of time that is left me, at
least, shall be my own, and I forbid you
to intrude upon my presence again until
the day,—the very hour that dooms me
to your keeping."
With that she deliberately turned her
back upon him and swept out of the room,
leaving Mr. Henlow in a state of utter
bewilderment at the unaccountable ways
of women. If Mildred had not left him
alone after this outburst he would have
gone on arguing as perseveringly as ever
to prove her folly and his own magnan¬
imity in saving her from the consequences
of it,—butting and battering still at that
immovable wall of a woman's hate, which
he persisted in believing only a wall of
painted card. As he had no one, how¬
ever, to exercise his logic upon, he reluct¬
antly gathered up his hat and departed.
" She will come round in time," he
said to himself, as he made his way down
the stairs and into the street. " I will
call again to-morrow and try to make her
listen to reason."
So much impression had Mildred's in
dignant prohibition made upon his mind.
CHAPTER XXX.
thwarted bt fate.
"Alas ! quod she, on thee, fortune, I plain,
That unaware hast wrapped me in thy chain ;
Fro which to escapen, wote I no soccour
Sauf only deth, or elles dishonour."
Chaüceb.
The few short days of respite that were
left her passed to Mildred like the las ;
days of a criminal under sentence of
death. She counted, with a sinking
heart, each stroke of the clock as it tollec
her nearer and nearer to her doom, ant
she almost hated the brazen tongue that
kept on so pitilessly ringing.the precious
hours out of her scanty list of to-morrows
back into the irredeemable eternity of the
past.
And now the last day has come. It
is the 19th of August, and on the mor¬
row at noon her year of grace will have
expired. At that hour, one year ago,
she had sealed the fatal compact that was
to consign her to a master more dreaded
than gnome, or ghoul, or cloven-footed
demon of mediseval tale. Unless she
oould raise the money for her ransom by
the following day at noon, her own per¬
son, her own soul, it seemed to Mildred,
was forfeit Ten thousand dollars ! She
would as soon have thought of trying to
raise the solid earth itself; or, more pre¬
posterous still, of trying to shake Mr.
Thompson Henlow in his purpose.
How little intention Mr. Henlow had
of being shaken was evident from the
persistence with which he endeavored to
orce his way into her presence. Her
ndignant dismissal of him at the termi¬
nation of their last interview seemed not
;o have affected him in the least. He
presented himself at her door next day
all the same, and though abruptly denied
admittance, continued to repeat the fruit-
ess endeavor, with clock-like regularity,
at precisely the same hour and minute
on each succeeding morning during the
two weeks that remained. He regarded
Mildred as fairly his, by right of pur¬
chase, and could not comprehend why
she should object to a bargain so obvi¬
ously to her advantage. He did not mean
to be obtrusive ; he was not even aware
that his conduct could be characterized
as such. On the contrary, he gave him¬
self great credit for his own long-suffer¬
ing and forbearance in these repeated
efforts to bring a wayward woman to
reason ; and because the wall of China
did not tumble at his first onset, was no
reason why it should not yield at the
twentieth ; and because it did not fall at
the twentieth, was no argument that it
would not at the twenty thousandth or
the twenty millionth.
Of Rex, in the mean time, Mildred had
heard nothing. She did not wonder at
his absence after all that had passed be¬
tween them that night, and sometimes
she almost regretted having allowed him
to remain under the error her words had
conveyed. And yet was it not better so ?
The irretrievable step would so soon be
taken, it was just as well he should think
it already done. It was done for aught
that either of them could do to prevent
it, and now the best she could hope for
herself—the best for him—was that their
paths might never cross again. Never,
never again ! The thought sank into her
THWARTED BT FATE.
131
heart like lead, and weighed her down
under a crushing load of misery. If she
had never known Rex her fate might have
been tolerable, but it was the thought of
the sweet there might have been in her
life that made her future lot so bitter ;
oh, how bitter, God only knew. God!
was there a God? Could a merciful God
let these things be? And she shuddered
to find her own heart echoing some of
Madame Valley's bitter words. Now,
that the time had really come and there
appeared no help for her on earth, no
pity for her in heaven, faith itself seemed
to die in her heart and give place to the
apathy of despair. It was no spirit of
Christian resignation, she admitted, with
a pang, that influenced her now, but a
dogged, unwilling submission to a power
she could not withstand. She shuddered
at the change that had come over her,
and Madame Valley's bitter words kept
ringing in her ears like a prophecy :
" First they make us miserable, and then
wicked." Yes, yes, it was even so with
her. She felt herself growing hard, re¬
bellious, desperate, every hour. It was,
as Madame Valley said, easy enough to
be good, and gentle, and lovely while all
goes well with you, but misery seems to
blight every beautiful blossom of the
heart. She thought of the wretched old
woman in the next room, whose comfort¬
less old age she trembled to think might
be a type of her own, and life itself
seemed but a mockery and a curse ; life
which could open so fair, only to sink into
such a night as this.
Madame Valley had not repeated her
visit to Mildred, and the latter had rather
avoided than sought to renew her inter¬
course with her strange neighbor. Some¬
how the old woman's hard, biting words
awakened too ready a response in her
own heart of late, and filled her with
strange disquiet. She had no ready an¬
swer now to the sceptic's bitter taunts
against all she had once counted precious
and holy. She suspected that the old
woman sometimes uttered her shocking
heresies for the purpose of leading others
to contradict them, but Mildred had no
disposition now to argue with any one.
She was no hypocrite, not even to the
extent of deceiving herself, and she felt
that for her to talk of faith and religion,
when her own heart was full of doubt
and rebellion against God, would be cant
as contemptible as Madame Valley's irré¬
ligion was shocking.
Then, too, Mildred shrank from en¬
countering the gaze of those sharp eyes
that seemed ever seeking to probe her
misery and sound its black depths with
line and plummet. Madame Valley had
suffered too much herself not to recog¬
nize the symptoms of grief in others, and
Mildred felt instinctively that her own
exterior calmness was a flimsy veil
which Madame Valley's keen perception
would easily penetrate. She had ob¬
served, with some embarrassment, that
the old woman's eyes were constantly
fixed upon her, when they were together,
with a peculiar expression, half pity, half
wonder, which showed that she was aware
of some terrible struggle going on in the
heart of her young companion. At times
her look would become almost tender
and entreating, as if the old reprobate
were mutely offering sympathy and con¬
dolence to the young sufferer. If Ma¬
dame Valley had been of a tender nature,
Mildred might have sought relief by
confiding her sorrows to one who was
herself not a stranger to grief; but
though the cynical gibes of the wicked
old woman had begun to possess a sort
of horrible fascination for her, she shrank
from exposing her own sores to a touch
so rude.
The time had now arrived, however,
when she must take a final leave of her
uncanny friend. Mr. Henlow would
probably come the next day, exact to the
minute, with book and parson, and carry
her off, like the demon of old, to her fate.
It was small preparation her departure
required,—smaller than ever the bride
of a rich man had made before, I ween,
—yet she felt that she must not go with¬
out a word of parting to the humble
friend of her humble fortunes ; for Ma¬
dame Valley had been a friend, in her
way, and a better friend, too, than Mil¬
dred yet knew.
So great was Mildred's reluctance to
think or speak of her marriage, that she
had not yet found courage even to inform
Madame Valley of her approaching de¬
parture. She could not bear herself to
contemplate the change. She had learned
to love the humble surroundings of her
days of poverty, and she clung to them
with an affection proportioned to her
horror of the gilded misery for which
she was about to exchange them. She
hated riches as the emblems of her
slavery, and shrank from them as other
women shrink from poverty. Money,—
that meant Mr. Ilenlow, and she hated
it. She had learned to love her very
poverty as something alien to him, and
would gladty have passed all her days
132
A MERE ADVENTURER.
within the dingy walls that had once
seemed so cheerless and forlorn, in com¬
parison with the spacious halls of Hazel-
hurst. It seemed a cruel mockery of
fate that had ordained the happy home
of other days as the prison-house of her
years of slavery, and she felt that no
dungeon on earth could be half so dreary
as llazelhurst desecrated by the misery
of her future life. Even the uncanny
friend of her days of adversity acquired a
sudden value in her eyes as something
belonging to a world of which Mr. Ilen-
low and his detested riches formed no
part.
Her well-known tap at Madame Val¬
ley's door was answered by the usual
invitation to come in. The old harpy
was sitting alone, reading, but she raised
her eyes as Mildred entered, with a look
which betrayed clearly enough that the
visitor's appearance was no unwelcome
interruption. She replied to the saluta¬
tion of her guest with a scarcely percept¬
ible movement of the lips, but Mildred
felt, as she seated herself in silence, that
Madame Valley's eye was riveted upon
her with an earnestness that seemed to
hold her in a kind of spell. She felt at
a loss how to introduce what she had to
say, and Madame Valley, after eying
her a few moments longer, took the in¬
itiative by exclaiming, with an abrupt¬
ness that would have startled one less
conversant with her peculiarities,—
" It's no use trying, Mildred ; you can't
keep it to yourself any longer ; your heart
is breaking with it."
Mildred wondered if it were possible
that some intimation of her impending
doom had reached the old sibyl in her
den. She would have been sorry for
Madame Valley to hear it first from
other lips than her own, for that would
have seemed like slighting one who had
been, in a way, her friend, and that, too,
at a time when friends were very few.
Madame Valley's abruptness did not tend
to restore her composure, and she stam¬
mered out in reply,—
"Can't keep—what, Madame Valley?"
" How do I know?" returned the old
woman, in her curtest tone. " I mean
whatever it is that has been gnawing at
your heart for days, weeks, months,—
ever since I have known you,—till the
Îain has become intolerable, and would
ill you now if misery could kill."
Mildred felt her heart grow big. If the
old woman's tone had been gentler shé
would have broken down on the spot, and
entreated for her wretchedness the sym¬
pathy it craved ; but there was a biting
cynicism about all Madame Valley's
words that repelled Mildred's confidence
even when most assured of her regard.
She suppressed her feelings and answered
in a tone of assumed calmness,—
" I have indeed come to you, Madame
Valley, on an errand that is a painful one
to me, since "
She felt her voice beginning to falter,
and paused a moment to steady it, then
began again in a firmer strain,—
" I felt that this must be my last visit
to you, and I have delayed making it
from day to day, because I had not the
heart to talk about—to think of the end
as so near ; but now there is no more
room for delay : I must go away to-mor¬
row or next day."
The book Madame Valley had been
reading slid from her hand and fell un¬
heeded to the floor. Her face grew white
with sudden surprise, and her voice had
lost its sharpness, as she answered,—
"Going away, Mildred? Must you
too leave me, child?"
The tender, almost suppliant tone in
which the words were uttered was so un¬
like anything Mildred had ever heard
from Madame Valley before, that she
knew not what to make of it.
"Yes, Madame Valley," she answered,
sadly ; " I am going to—to be married."
The fire flashed again in Madame Val¬
ley's eyes as she bent them upon Mildred
in a look of searching scrutiny.
" And you hate him," she cried, as if
looking into Mildred's very soul with that
eagle glance of hers. " You hate him ; I
see it in your face. Oh, Mildred, you
don't know what you are doing ! It is
bad enough when we love them ; they
deceive, and desert, and ruin us,—but to
hate a man as you do him ; oh, my child,
pause and reflect before it is too late !"
Such a burst of passion from that stony
heart was like the water that gushed from
thirsty Horeb at the prophet's touch. Mil¬
dred could control herself no longer, and
covering her face with both hands, cried,
in a despairing voice,—
"It is already too late ! I am in his
power, and there is no hope for me. Oh,
Madame Valley, if you knew all you
would not blame, but pity me."
" Come, my child, and tell me all."
The voice was tender as a mother's, and
tears dimmed the light of the fiery eyes
as they rested upon the drooping form of
the sufferer with a look of soft compassion.
Mildred needed no urging. Her heart was
bursting with its load, and flinging her-
THWARTED BY FATE.
133
self on the floor at Madame Valley's feet,
she hid her face on the old woman's knee,
and told the whole story of her miserable
entanglement, from the terrible day when
she first saw her father's gray head bowed
with grief for his reprobate son down to
the moment when, overcome with anger
and disgust, she had indignantly with¬
drawn from Mr. Henlow's presence. One
thing only she kept back ; she could not
bring her lips to pronounce Rex's name,
though she did not conceal the secret of
her hopeless love.
Madame Valley listened with rapt at¬
tention. She did not interrupt the speaker
with a word, but the rapid changes of her
expressive countenance as she followed
the story showed that she was no unsym¬
pathetic listener. When Mildred had fin¬
ished she remained silent for a time, with
her lips pressed tightly together, as if
fiercely debating something within her¬
self; then, suddenly coming to a decision,
she brought her sound hand down with
an emphatic rap on the arm of her chair,
and exclaimed in a low whisper,—
"Yes, I'll do it!"
Then resuming her usual hard cynical
tone, she said, while a peculiar smile
played round her lips,—
" See here, Mildred, you foolish child,
don't you know that such a compact as
you have entered into with Mr. Ilenlow
cannot be enforced by law? The man is
taking advantage of your ignorance ;
you have only to meet him whenever he
comes to claim you and flatly refuse to
abide by the contract. It has no legal
force, and he can't compel you ; your
brother is dead, so he can't hurt him,
and you have got the game entirely in
your own hands ; you needn't keep your
promise unless you choose."
Mildred recoiled in horror and dis¬
gust. Was this, then, the being to whom
she had been pouring out her soul and
looking for counsel and sympathy ? She
shrunk away from the old traitress's
touch and exclaimed, reproachfully,—
"For shame, Madame Valley 1 How
can you dishonor your gray hairs by
giving such counsels as these! Would
you have me perjure myself? Are the
claims of honor, of conscience, of truth
to count for naught unless enforced by
human laws ? May God forgive you
such thoughts !"
Madame Valley's face brightene<l.
" No, no, child; come back," she said,
in softened voice, as Mildred made an
impatient movement towards the door ;
" I am an old she-devil, I know, but
not so bad but that I can reverence
truth and honor when I find them. You
have forced me, against my will, to be¬
lieve that there is some good in human
nature yet, and I am going to prove my
self a better rewarder of virtue than the
blind ' Providence' to which you have
been vainly trusting so long, for I am
going to help you. Suppose now, you
could pay this Mr. Henlow his ten thou¬
sand dollars by to-morrow noon,—your
conscience would acquit you of all fur¬
ther obligation toward him, would it
not ?"
" Yes ; but it is useless to talk about
that ; a million—a kingdom would not
be more beyond my reach than ten thou¬
sand dollars."
" "But it is not beyond mine," answered
Madame Valley, emphatically. " I will
pay the money and you shall be free."
Mildred stared incredulous. She had
never put much faith in the vague stories
she had heard of Madame Valley's secret
wealth, and this magnificent promise
seemed more like the extravagance of
delirium than the deliberate utterance
of sober reason. She had always consid¬
ered Madame Valley as a little unsettled
in her mind, and dared not trust the
glorious hope. The old woman smiled.
" You don't believe me," she said,
quietly. " You think the old beggar
could hardly raise money enough to
pay for her own funeral. Well, you
shall see. I am rich, Mildred, though
with all my wealth," she added, in a
lower and sadder tone, " too poor to pur¬
chase the only thing my heart desires,
so there is no use hoarding any longer.
I will do this one good deed before I die,
and buy for you the happiness I can
never purchase for myself."
Still Mildred hardly dared believe.
After encountering nothing but misfor¬
tune for so long, it seemed impossible
that anything so good could be true.
"Oh, Madame Valley!" she cried,
scarcely able to think or speak cohe¬
rently. " Ten thousand dollars ! It is a
great sum, and I have no claims upon
you,—I have done nothing to deserve
your generosity."
" Tut, child, I could pay your ransom
a hundred times over at that price and
not heggar myself either," said Madame
Valley, lightly, " so it's no great thanks
I deserve after all. Go, turn up the gas,
and fetch a pen and paper from that
table yonder, and write the check that I
shall dictate, for me to sign."
Then it was really so ; deliverance had
134
A MERE ADVENTURER.
come at the eleventh hour, and hope
out of the very jaws of despair. In the
overflowing gratitude of her heart, she
could have bowed herself and kissed
the very hem of her benefactor's gar¬
ment.
" Oh, Madame Valley," she faltered,
seizing the withered hands of the invalid
and pressing them ardently to her lips,
" may God bless you for this as I never
can ! I have no words to express my
gratitude, but my whole life hereafter
shall act it. I will be to you as a
daughter, and more than a daughter, for
I owe you more than existence,—more
than I owe to any being under my
Creator."
The allusion was an unlucky one, for
it roused the sceptic's bitterness.
" Now don't begin to talk cant," she
replied, impatiently, " and turn the credit
of my little act of kindness over to the
account of ' Providence.' I hate ' Prov¬
idence': it is the author of all the evil
that happens to us, and yet is always
claiming the credit of the little good we
do for ourselves and for each other. But
enough," she added, softening her tone.
''1 don't intend to scold, and I don't want
you to think, Mildred, that I am going
to exact any sacrifice in return for the
little favor I am doing you. You shall
not waste your life on me ; you shall
marry your lover, and be happy if you
can, and forget all about the horrid old
sinner that used to shock you so. I
never wanted a daughter. I was jealous
of her," she continued, in an absent, in¬
coherent way that reawakened Mildred's
suspicions as to her mental soundness ;
" but," she added, laying her withered
hand tenderly on the girl's bowed head,
" if it could have been, I would rather
she were you than any other woman liv¬
ing. No, I would not have been jealous
of you ; I could almost love you, Mildred.
But come," she exclaimed, suddenly
recollecting herself, " we are wasting
time, and you have not overmuch to
spare. Bring pen and paper, and in half
an hour, if you choose, you can hold your
ranaom in your hand."
Mildred obeyed, and penned at Ma¬
dame Valley's dictation the following
order :
New York, August 19,18—.
"W. H. Vançergrieft, 37 William Street.
Pay to Mildred G. Loringyor order, the
sum of ten thousand dollars ($10,000),
with interest on the same at ten per cent,
for one year. Signed
Vandergrieft,—a strange feeling came
over Mildred as she wrote the name and
remembered the singular story with
which its bearer was connected. It was
no time, however, for curious specula¬
tion. Her own affairs were uppermost
in her mind now, and soon overpowered
every other thought. The check was
written and laid before Madame Valley
for signature. Mildred dipped the pen
in ink and placed it in her hand. Ma¬
dame Valley paused an instant before
using it and looked up.
" There is one thing," she said, with a
Binile, " that you have not told me yet,
and I am going to exact a full confession
as my reward for this service ; what is
the name of your lover?"
Mildred blushed, and answered in a
low voice,—
"Reginald Van Dorn."
A wild scream rang through the room.
The paralytic, helpless and rigid as a
stone for years, with a strange automatic
movement, rose suddenly to her feet, and
stood upright for an instant stark and
ghastly as a corpse, glaring into vacancy,
then, with sudden collapse, tumbled to
the floor a heap of senseless clay.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE POUND OF FLESH.
" I crave the law,
The penalty and forfeit of my bond."
Shyloch.
Mildred was so stunned by the sudden
horror of what had happened that it was
some time before she could recover her¬
self sufficiently to move or to act. A
mingled feeling had possession of her.
Even amid the awful solemnity of the
moment, the thought that the check was
unsigned and her ransom lost came over
her like the cold breath of despair and
palsied for an instant every other emo¬
tion, but only for an instant. The first
shock of horror and bewilderment over,
she stooped and tried to raise the sense¬
less mass that lay at her feet. There
was life in it yet ; yes, she felt the faint
beating of the heart, the feeble warmth
of the breath upon her fingers as she
passed them over the colorless lips, and
a hope scarcely less feeble began to flicker
in her own breast. She had recovered
her presence of mind by this time, and
THE POUND
OF FLESH.
135
rang the bell for Judith with a violence
that brought the Amazon quickly to her
post. She paused an instant on the
threshold, horror-struck at the spectacle
that met her view, then rushed forward
with a look of dismay on her face.
"Lord have mercy on us i" she cried,
bending over the prostrate form of her
mistress ; "it's just this way she was
took years ago, when it first happened."
Mildred was too much excited to no¬
tice the hidden allusion Judith's words
contained, but she caught greedily at the
ray of hope they seemed to offer.
" It is no new thing, then 1" she cried,
eagerly, as they laid the patient on her
bed. " She is subject to these attacks ;
she has had them before ; she may re¬
cover !"
" She never had but one," answered
Judith, with an ominous shake of the
head, " and that was more than twenty
year ago, when she was first took ; and
the doctor said then the next one would
kill her."
Mildred's heart sank again.
" Go fetch a doctor, quick !" she cried,
wondering why she had not thought of
that before. "Who is her physician?
Let him be called instantly."
" Please, miss, she don't like the doc¬
tors," said Judith, hesitatingly. " She
says there's no good in 'em, and she's
never let one come near her,—not since
she was first took."
"We must have a doctor!" exclaimed
Mildred, frantically. " Go instantly, and
bring the first one you can find—no—
stay—I will send myself."
She got the address of the nearest
physician from the old apothecary down¬
stairs, and despatched Bridget in breath¬
less haste to his office. The doctor ar¬
rived in a few minutes, and Mildred
waited in anxious suspense while he
made his examination of the patient.
There was something in his manner, as
he let fall the almost lifeless hand, after
carefully feeling the pulse, that made
Mildred's heart sink, and no words were
needed to seal with her the doom of all
hope.
" It is too late. I can do nothing."
Ile spoke with a coolness and composure
for which Mildred almost hated him.
" Can this be death—already, doctor ?"
she asked, with a shiver that almost
made her teeth chatter.
" No, not yet, exactly," answered the
doctor, composedly; "but it is a mere
question of time,—minutes, hours, pos¬
sibly days, when this will end in death.
There is no use deceiving you, young
lady. The patient may linger in this
condition for several days, or only for a
few hours,—that depends on the strength
of her constitution and the degree of
vitality that is in her ; but there can be
only one end, and that is not far off."
"And can nothing be done,—abso¬
lutely nothing to revive her, if but for
one minute?" cried Mildred, wringing
her hands in despair.
The doctor looked at her and his face
softened. He thought it was a daughter
sorrowing for her mother, and she was
so beautiful, and so distressed, that,
schooled as he was to such scenes, his
heart was touched.
"You might rub her body with stim¬
ulants," he said, approaching the bed
again and looking closely at the patient.
" That can at least do no harm ; but it
is impossible to administer any remedy
internally ; there is an almost complete
paralysis of the muscles of the throat,
and the attempt would produce suffoca¬
tion. Keep her head slightly elevated,
and let her lie on the right side, to avoid
all pressure about the heart. I will call
again early in the morning and see if
anything further can be done. Good¬
night."
So, then, the die was cast. Sinking
into a chair, Mildred covered her face
with both hands and gave herself up, for
one short moment, to the indulgence of
her own selfish sorrow. There lay the
precious draft that was to have been her
ransom, on the floor, just as it had fallen
from Madame Valley's fingers, a useless
trifle now, a mere shred of waste paper,
for want of the signature that had been
delayed just one minute too late. Oh, it
was hard, it was cruel, that deliverance
should have come so near only to mock
and deceive her at last ! One great heav¬
ing sob welled up from the inmost depths
of her soul, then sternly repressing her
own feelings, she bade herself remember
the duty she owed to the dying, and
hastened to forget herself in assisting
Judith to carry out the doctor's direc
tions. The simple regimen was soon
put upon its trial, and then there re¬
mained nothing to do but watch ; a duty
which Mildred resolved to take upon
herself. That night's vigil was, perhaps,
the last service she would ever be per¬
mitted to render the friend who had been
ready to do such great things for her.
If death did not carry off the patient be¬
fore morning, a tyrant, inexorable as
death, migkt force Mildred herself away.
A MERE ADVENTURER.
She made Judith go and take some rest,
while she herself sat down by Madame
Valley's bed to wear out the long hours
of suspense as best she might. It was
like watching over the dead ; not even a
sound of breathing was heard in the
room, and the roar of the city fell all un¬
heeded upon the car of the lonely watcher
who sat silent, motionless, like an image
carved in stone, with her eyes riveted
upon the shrivelled features before her,
searching if perchance some sign of con¬
sciousness, some glimmer of reason's
light might appear upon them once more.
Thus the night wore away. The morn¬
ing came and brought no change. Judith
roused herself, and begged Mildred to rest.
Rest ! the word sounded like a mockery
to her ear. She would not stir from her
post, but still kept watching,—watching
and praying so anxiously for the ray of
light that never came. Oh, for but one
moment of reason ! one instant of life
and consciousness before it was too late !
Why did heaven grudge her that, when
so many were dragging out weary years
of existence that they would gladly fling,
like a loathsome burden, away?
At nine o'clock the doctor came. He
said the pulse was a trifle stronger, and
respiration more regular ; life might, per¬
haps, last for several days. Ile recom¬
mended a continuance of the treatment
already prescribed, promised to call again
in the evening, and departed.
Ah, if those promised days of fruitless
existence could only be concentrated into
one minute of vigorous consciousness be¬
fore it was too late ! It was a selfish
thought, but Mildred's time was so nearly
spent that she had become almost frantic.
The clock struck ten : no change ; eleven
sounded, still no sign of animation ;
twelve, and hope died forever. A feel¬
ing of deathlike faintness came over her,
and she sank back on her chair with
little more of consciousness than the
dying woman on the bed beside her.
She was not allowed to remain long in
this state of semi-oblivion. At ten min¬
utes past twelve precisely there was a
ring at the door, and Mr. Thompson
Ilenlow's card was sent in as usual.
The sight of it roused her like the sting
of a serpent. She remembered that she
had no right to disregard the summons
now, and. rising, advanced with falter¬
ing steps towards the door, then paused,
unable to proceed. While standing thus,
ready to sink under the burden of her
great misery, she leaned for support
upon a little table that stood beside Ma¬
dame Valley's vacant chair. Among the
various articles scattered there was a vial
of morphine which the invalid had some¬
times used to alleviate her sufferings
when the paroxysms were too violent to
be endured. A strange light gleamed in
Mildred's eyes as they observed the word
poison labelled on the vial. She glanced
hastily round; Judith was too much oc¬
cupied with her mistress to observe ; there
was no one to betray her, and why might
not she snatch the last desperate remedy
that was left her? Had not men sought
refuge in death from far less than she had
to endure ? There was no definite purpose
in her mind ; she had not yet determined
upon violence against herself, but some¬
how the sight of the poison had a horrible
fascination for her, and seizing the vial
with a stealthy hand, she hurried from
the room, buoyed up by the excitement
of her desperate thought.
It was all done so quickly that Mr.
Henlow had hardly found time to seat
himself in the little parlor, memorable
for so many painful interviews, when
Mildred entered. He extended his hand
with the usual automatic gesture, which
she, as usual, disregarded, and both seated
themselves in silence. Mr. Henlow sur¬
veyed her a moment as a slave-trader
might survey a recent purchase, then re¬
marked, with more sincerity than deli¬
cacy,—
" You look worse than you did when I
saw you last; this place don't seem to
agree with you."
" The place has nothing whatever to do
with it," answered Mildred, curtly.
Mr. Henlow shifted himself on his
chair, crossed his legs and uncrossed
them twice, then began again, in his
habitual deliberate and slightly nasal
tone,—
" When you are once safely married
you will feel better ; it is the excitement
and uncertainty that is disturbing your
mind now."
No answer from Mildred save an invol¬
untary shiver that passed through her
whole frame.
Mr. Henlow crossed his legs over the
other way, and continued,—
"You have not forgotten, I suppose,
that to-day the year expires that I prom¬
ised to wait before calling on you to fulfil
your contract."
" No ; I have not forgotten."
" And as the money has not been paid,
you are ready, I presume, to make good
the other part of the bargain, and marry
me?"
THE POUND OF FLESH.
137
"I must submit to my fate."
Mr. Ilenlow was annoyed, nothing
more. Such persistent unappreciative-
nes£ of the obvious advantages he had to
offer was enough to tax the forbearance
even of a patient man like himself. He
made some allowance for Mildred, how¬
ever, on account of the physical lassitude
from which she was evidently suffering,
and which was to Mr. Henlow the only
legitimate cause of her mental depression.
Let her once be safely married to him, and
fairly established in the enjoyment of her
privileges, she could not fail to come all
right then. Marriage was Mr. Henlow's
unfailing panacea for the follies and afflic¬
tions of womankind ; his faith was much
of a piece with that of the Mormon
prophet, who would deny heaven itself to
the weaker sex unless first sealed to one
of the " saints." He did not think it
worth while, however, to waste time in
remonstrating with Mildred upon the
unreasonableness of her conduct, as the
felicity of being married to him was so
soon to prove itself, and entirely ignoring
her last remark, he proceeded, with uncon¬
scious irony, to inquire when it would suit
her to have the marriage ceremony per¬
formed.
" The question is one of your conveni¬
ence entirely, not mine," answered Mil¬
dred, coldly.
" Well, then, there isn't any use wast¬
ing time on getting up dresses and that
sort of nonsense," continued Mr. Hen-
low, feeling quite relieved that she did
not ask for delay on account of the trous¬
seau. " You can buy whatever you want
afterwards. I'll give you plenty of
money ; and as I am anxious to get back
home to my business, I will come to¬
morrow morning, if you can be ready
by that time, at eight o'clock, with a
preacher and two friends to act as wit¬
nesses, and have it all over. We can
leave on the express at nine, and reach
Hazelhurst next morning to breakfast,
and then you'll begin to feel like your¬
self once more. I would have got
through with it all to-day, but there are
some other business matters that I am
obliged to settle before leaving town, and
so I thought if it suited you just as well
we would put off the wedding till to¬
morrow."
Mildred was so rejoiced at even this
short respite that she scarcely peftseived
Mr. Henlow's superfluous solicitude on
her account. Delay, so unexpected,
awakened deceptive hope once more.
What if Madame Valley should revive
during the next twenty-four hours and
she should get her ransom after all?
Would it be powerless to buy her off?
Catching in her desperate need at even
this faint shadow of hope, she ventured
to broach the subject to Mr. Henlow by
asking nervously, as he rose to depart,—
" If I should happen by some unex¬
pected aid to raise ten thousand dollars
before to-morrow morning, you would
still be willing to receive it, would you
not, Mr. Henlow, though the time agreed
upon has passed ? A delay of only one
day,—that ought not to count against nie
if I complied with the main condition of
the contract and paid you your money."
Mr. Henlow turned livid. That the
wall of China should fail to come down
for all his butting was enough to turn a
man green at the bare idea.
" What do you mean ? Where would
you get ten thousand dollars ? How
would you dare to get ten thousand dol¬
lars ?" cried Mr. Henlow, actually sur¬
prised into talking at a full gallop.
" No ; the time has legally expired ; you
have no right to offer me money now ; I
would not take it if you had ten mil¬
lions to offer. You owe me yourself,
and I mean to have my rights. You
have pledged me your word, and I will
hold you to it though you could count
me your weight in gold here on the
spot."
A bitter smile passed over Mildred's
features, and she wondered at herself for
having harbored so wild a hope eveïi for
an instant.
" Do not disturb yourself," she said,
quietly. " I have no prospect, no hope
of getting ten thousand dollars any¬
where ; I was merely supposing a case."
" There is no use in supposing things,"
replied Mr. Henlow, relapsing by degrees
into his ordinary tone, " when you know
very well, without any supposing, what
you ought to do. I never bother my¬
self supposing cases, and you should
drop all such foolishness too, and make
up your mind like a sensible woman to
marry me without any fuss. I always
keep my word to other people without
making any fuss about it, and I expect
other people to keep their word to me."
" I shall keep my word to the letter,"
answered Mildred, with terrible empha¬
sis. A definite purpose was shaping
itself in her mind now, and as she
pressed her fingers tightly over the vial
concealed in her hand, she felt a secret
exultation in the thought that deliver¬
ance, after rfîl, was still within her reach.
138
A MERE ADVENTURER.
Mr. Henlow failed to read the deadly
meaning in her looks, and secretly con¬
gratulated himself that at last she was
coming to her senses.
"That is right; now you talk like a
sensible woman," he answered, approv¬
ingly. "A person never gains anything
by breaking their word," he continued,
remembering the moral of the Sunday-
school story-books his mother used to
make him read when a boy, and which,
as he had never read anything since,
always came into his mind when he
meant to be didactic ; " even though it
may seem to their advantage, for a time,
to do so, they are sure to suffer for it in
the end. I never broke a promise in my
life, cost what it might to keep it, and
you see how I am rewarded by the re¬
spect and confidence of all good men. I
could go out any day in a place where I
am known and raise ten thousand dol¬
lars on no security but my word. But I
don't care for money. I value truth and
justice and a noble heart above all this
world can bestow. I have tried to im¬
press it upon you all along that I was
not acting in this matter from selfish or
interested motives. I expected to lose
the ten thousand dollars when I made
my agreement with you, but that was
nothing to me in comparison with your
good and happiness. No, I am not mer¬
cenary, and it you could command the
skies to rain down money from above I
would not touch it. I want nothing but
my just rights. You owe me no money
now ; the time for paying that has
passed, but you owe me your plighted
word. You have pledged yourself to
marry me, and I expect you to keep your
promise, as I have kept mine to you."
" I will keep my word," Mildred re¬
peated, with the same ominous calmness.
" You shall have all that I have promised ;
all, even to the last drop of blood and the
last pound of flesh."
The concluding words were uttered in
a low, determined tone, as Mr. Henlow
passed out into the hall. She listened to
the sound of his retreating footsteps as
they descended the stairs, then drawing
a long sigh of relief at finding herself
alone once more, she placed her vial of
poison on the table before her and sat her¬
self down face to face with her destiny.
She had found a door of escape at last,
—a dark, forbidden door^ leading she
knew not whither, nor cared, provided
only it led away from Mr. Henlow. She
was hardly accountable for her acts in
the state to which she was reduced,—
a state bordering upon madness. She
found herself hedged in by two impossi¬
bilities. To perjure herself; that was as
contrary to her nature as for the sun to
turn backward in his course ; and yet, to
live as Mr. Ilenlow's wife, that was im¬
possible too. She would keep her word ;
yes, she would marry him, but it would
be only to fall a senseless corpse in his
arms. She would keep her poison ready
at hand ; there was no one to watch and
thwart her; no one to care what she did
or what became of her ; the road to death
was open and unguarded. She would
swallow the fatal portion the instant be¬
fore she went to be married ; there would
be time to do her part ; she would become
his wife, as she had promised, and then
—a look of wild exultation gleamed in
her eyes at the thought that she would
baffle him at last. She would keep her
promise to the letter ; she would marry
him, but she had not promised to live for
him,—thank heaven for that! she was
free at least to die. She would give him
all of herself that she owed him,—all
that he cared for or could appreciate,—
but as for that higher existence, which
she felt to be her real self, the mind, the
soul, the inner life, what had he to do
with these? So many pounds of slave
flesh and blood ; this was all he desired,
all that his nature could respond to, and
he should have it. Her body he might
take and do with it as he would when
once her soul was out of it. Yes, yes,
she would pay her debt and yet be free !
By what sophistry Mildred gained the
consent of her conscience to this course
it is useless to inquire ; if, indeed, con¬
science or reason either had anything to
do with the matter. She was in a state
of mind where men are governed more
by impulse than by reason. She did not
stop to argue with herself about right and
wrong, to consider consequences, or to
question of the great hereafter. As the
doe, pursued by horn and hound, plunges
headlong down the chasm that bars her
way, so Mildred, pursued by relentless
fate, rushed blindly towards the black
gulf of eternity. Reason was for the
time dethroned, conscience obscured, and
instinct alone remained to be her guide.
It was leading her along a dark and
dubious way, yet the light of a noble
nature shone dimly still amid the ob¬
scurity. Her course may have been in¬
consistent both with sound morality and
with sound logic, but it was perfectly
consistent with Mildred herself that she
should prefer suicide to perjury. Though
A LAST RESORT.
139
quite as criminal in the eyes of some good
people, perhaps even more so, it lacked
that element of baseness which made the
other impossible to her. To falsify her
word, to break a pledge,—and a pledge
given under such circumstances,—that
was against her nature. She could not
do a meanness ; she could not degrade
herself in her own mind if her eternal
salvation, much less her temporal happi¬
ness, had been at stake. But to take her
own life ; that entailed no injury upon
others; that involved no loss of self-
respect, and there was even a certain ele¬
ment of heroism about it that went far to
reconcile her to the deed. It takes cour¬
age to die, and in that thought Mildred
seemed to find some apology for not hav¬
ing the courage to live.
But no matter by what process of rea¬
son or unreason it had been brought
about, her mind was fully made up. She
had the means at hand, and courage to
use them, and her purpose was as fixed
as fate.
And now that the last day of her life
was come, there remained yet one thing
to be done before she could feel ready to
go. She sat a long, long time buried in
thought, her whole mind, her whole soul,
her whole being centred upon one object.
Yes, it was no sin to think of him now,
for ere this time to-morrow would she not
be free? "Free among the dead, like
the slain that lie in the grave."
The stars were beginning to appear
when she awoke from her long revery.
She lighted the gas and began to write.
There seemed to be an inspiration in her
pen that night. Page after page emerged
from under her rapid fingers, till at last
the long letter was complete. She read
over carefully what she had written,
signed, sealed, and directed it, then laid
aside her pen forever.
What that letter contained there was
only one person that ever knew, but the
address on the outside was fair and
Slain: it was to Reginald Van Dorn,
he gazed a moment fondly at the name
she had written, then laid the packet
down, feeling that her last earthly task
was done. It was a bitter moment. She
did not wish to die ; she was young and
beautiful, and might have been happy if
she could have lived for him she loved,
but now,—she bowed her head upon the
table, and unconscious even that she
wept, let her tears fall and blot the name
she had just written so fairly. How
long she sat there, sunk in the dull, dead
stupor of despair, she could not tell.
She was roused at last by a step in the
hall, followed by a hurried rap at her
door, and started up wildly, wondering
if the morning had come already and her
hated bridegroom were at hand. The
door flew open from without ; she raised
her eyes a moment, then with a low cry
sank back palsied on her chair: Van
Dorn himself stood before her.
CHAPTER XXXII.
a last resort.
"The expedition of my violent love
Outran the pause of reason."
Macbeth.
Rex had left Mildred, after their last
interview, fully persuaded that she was a
married woman. Her words produced
that effect the more readily as they served
to explain many things in her conduct
towards him that had before seemed in¬
explicable. The strange persistency with
which she had shrunk from attentions
that were evidently not distasteful to her ;
the impenetrable reserve in which she
shrouded everything relating to her own
history ; the air of deep dejection which
it appeared impossible for her ever to
throw off, all seemed to point to some
unhappy experience whose secrets she
did not choose to unveil, and finally, that
invincible barrier to which she alluded
so mysteriously,—what could it be but
the only thing that his love would ever
acknowledge as a real cause of separa¬
tion between Mildred and himself? Even
that, perhaps, might not have stopped
him, so passionate and headlong was his
nature; but he appreciated Mildred's
character too well not to know that any
unlawful solicitations on his part would
not only be hopeless, but fatal to the end
they were designed to accomplish. She
was a woman with whom honor took
precedence even of love, and Rex knew
that he might as well try to draw one of
the stars of heaven from its course as
tempt her to depart one inch from the
path of rectitude. He knew, instinct¬
ively, that the betrayal of one impure
desire, the utterance of one unhallowed
prayer on his part, would ruin him for¬
ever in her eyes, and though the knowl¬
edge filled him with despair, he felt a
kind of glory, too, in the assurance that
140
A MERE ADVENTURER.
the woman he loved was so far ahove even
a thought of corruption. He dared not
linger in her presence ; he knew that he
could not and remain silent, and so, when
the horrible secret of her life seemed all
at once to have burst upon him, he
rushed headlong from lier sight, feeling
that his only safety lay in never looking
on her face again.
When Rex left Mildred that night he
was more like a madman than a rational
being. A thousand wild schemes chased
each other through his brain ; he would
hunt Mildred's scoundrel of a husband
to the ends of the earth and call him to
account ; he would steal Mildred her¬
self away; he would seize her by force
if necessary and carry her—he could
not tell where,—and he finally ended, as
men of his temperament are too apt to
do when smarting under sudden disap¬
pointment, by launching out on a wild
career of dissipation. He astonished
everybody at the club that night by his
hard drinking, high play, and reckless
conversation, and the next day went to
Long Branch, where he signalized him¬
self by the open recklessness of his ex¬
cesses. From there he sought distrac¬
tion at various other fashionable centres
of idleness and dissipation, and finally,
after a few weeks, being thoroughly used
up, morally, physically, and financially,
he returned to the city ruined in pocket,
injured in reputation, and feeling not
one whit less miserable than when he
went away. lie stumbled into the Metro¬
politan office one evening, after nearly a
month's absence, looking so haggard and
jaded that it was evident, as a city re¬
porter whispered to one of his brethren
of the quill, that " Van Dorn's late bust
hadn't altogether agreed with him."
Luckily for Rex, Mr. Gault was at
Saratoga, and Rex's brother editors, with
whom he was very popular, had contrived
to perform his duties somehow among
them, so that his delinquencies had not
been observed at headquarters.
Lockwood was at his desk when Rex
came in, finishing up a "leader" that
was to go to press that night. He glanced
up a moment as the young man entered,
greeted him with a careless, " Halloo,
Van, ife that you?" and then went on
writing, scratch, scratch, scratch, without
taking any further notice of the intruder.
At last, the article finished and com¬
mitted to the "dummy-box, the writer
laid down his pen and gave his attention
more closely to Rex, who, knowing the
ways of the place, had sat himself down
in silence, not expecting to be noticed till
more important business had been de¬
spatched.
" I say, old boy," Lockwood began,
observing Rex narrowly, "you look
rather played out : what have you been
up to?"
" Playing the devil generally," growled
Rex, who was far from satisfied with him¬
self. " How have things been going on
here?" he added, changing the conversa¬
tion abruptly from his own affairs. " Has
the old gentleman," meaning Mr. Gault,
"been thundering around any?"
" No ; but you may thank me and
Thornly for keeping him quiet," an¬
swered Lockwood. "We've been doing
your work for you, you vagabond, these
three weeks. I've just sent down a con¬
founded article on ' International Copy¬
right,' which I know nothing about, and
which it was your business to write
up."
" That's a good fellow," answered Rex,
composedly. " I dare say it will pass,
for the public knows and cares as little
about the matter as you do."
" If it don't answer you'll catch the
devil," said Lockwood, laughing, "for
it belongs to your department. By the
way," he added, still retaining his ban¬
tering tone, " we've had one change here
since you left that concerns you nearly;
your handsome literary editor, the widow,
as I always called her, on account of her
dismal weeds, has quit."
Rex did not appear at all surprised at
.this announcement, but, leaning forward
and resting his head on his hand, said, in
a low, absent tone, as if speaking to him¬
self,—
"Yes; I expected that."
Lockwood caught the words.
" Oh, so you knew it then, already,"
he answered, with a sly glance at his
friend, whose evident partiality for their
fair associate had often been a subject
of good-natured raillery between them.
" Then I suppose you know all about the
marriage, too?"
"The marriage! What marriage?"
cried Rex, suddenly starting from his
listless attitude.
" Why, don't you know ? She is going
to be married to-morrow morning."
Rex sprang to his feet.
" Lockwood, aren't you lying?"
" Not if I know myself," answered the
young man, amused at the warmth of
his friend, and not realizing as yet what
a serious matter it was to him.
" What do you mean?" cried Rex, ex-
A LAST
RESORT.
141
citedly. " "What are you talking about ?
Tell me all."
" That is just what I am trying to do,"
said Lockwood, laughing, " if you will
only stop bawling at a fellow like he was
deaf, and condescend to listen. Soon
after you left town she gave up her work
here under plea of sickness, and we
heard nothing more of her till yesterday
morning one of Thornly's city reporters,
who has a brother at Draper & Co.'s,—
these fellows go everywhere, you know,
and hear everything and know every¬
body,—told him he heard that Miss
Loring was to be married to-morrow
morning to a rich merchant from the
South ; a Mr. Thompson Henlow, and a
great friend of old Draper's, who had
been invited to witness the ceremony.
By Jove ! she seems to have made a good
thing of it. too, for they say the fellow is
rich as a Jew, and making money every
day. That's a long sight better than
writing for the newspapers at twenty-
five dollars a week, or than marrying a
poor devil like you or me, Bex."
Bex did not hear the concluding words.
Before Lockwood could finish he had
snatched up his hat and rushed into the
street, and calling the first cab that he
met, had himself driven furiously to
Bloomfield Street. One of the second-
floor lodgers was just passing out as he
arrived, so that he entered without ring¬
ing, and rushed into Mildred's presence
unannounced.
In the first access of wrath kindled by
Lockwood's disclosure, Bex's impulse had
been to seek Mildred out at once and over¬
whelm her with reproaches for her false¬
hood and perfidy, and then leave her for¬
ever with his curse upon her unhallowed
nuptials; but when he stood in the door¬
way and saw her sitting there looking so
desolate and forlorn, his heart melted at
the sight. The memory of all that had
happened in that room, of their last part¬
ing, of her great love for him, all came
back to his mind, and his faith in her
returned. No ; she was not selling her¬
self for gold : it could not be that ; there
was something else,—she was wretched,—
they were slandering her ; and when she
raised her eyes to his, so full of agony
and despair, and he heard that piteous
cry from her lips, his whole heart went
out to her with all the might of his pas¬
sionate love.
" Mildred 1 Mildred !" he cried, rushing
into the room and throwing himself at
her feet, " tell me what all this means ?
why have you deceived me? why did
you leave me in darkness till it was
almost too late? Oh, Mildred, think
what you are doing, and repent before it
is too late !"
There were almost Madame Valley's
own words over again. Mildred shud¬
dered, and withdrew her hands from his
^riisp#
" It is already too late,—I was pledged
before we ever met !" she cried, burying
her face in her hands. " Oh, Bex, spare
me,—spare us both the torture of your
presence here to-night!"
" Spare you !" he cried, bitterly ; " I
should rather entreat you to spare me.
Say, Mildred, why will you persist in
making yourself a mystery to me? Why
have you deceived me? Why "
" I never deceived you," she cried,
raising her head and wringing her hands
in agony. " I told you from the first that
there was a barrier between us stronger
even than my love. You interpreted my
words to mean that I was married, and I,
knowing how inevitable was my doom,
thought it useless to correct your error,
even if you had given me the opportunity.
It might have spared you one pang to
believe that all was over, as it so soon
must be now."
" Must be !" cried Bex, excitedly.
"No, by heaven, Mildred, it shall not
be ! Now that I can claim you without
dishonor, I defy heaven itself to tear you
from me."
"Bex! Bex!" she cried, shrinking from
his outstretched arms, "you know not
what you say. My honor is pledged so
deep that marriage itself could not be
more binding."
" I don't care what pledge you have
given to another," said Bex, seizing her
hands and holding them in a grip against
which it was useless to struggle, "you
have given your heart to me, and that is
the highest pledge woman can give to
man. You love me, and on that love I
base my claim to your hand, and I will
defend it with my own life, or the life of
any man that dares to come between you
and me."
" Bex, you would not have me perjure
myself?"
" You will perjure yourself with the
blackest of falsehoods if you marry a
man you do not love,—and you love only
me."
" Heaven help me !" she cried, raising
her eyes imploringly. " Oh, Bex ! it is
cruel to torture me so, when you know
that I cannot help myself. I am in that
man's powep and have no choice ; I must
142
A MERE ADVENTURER.
marry him. I have sold my soul to the
devil, and the hour has come when the
forfeit must be paid."
" Mildred, this is horrible," cried Rex,
with a shudder. " Tell me what you
mean by these terrible words ; explain
to me the secret of that man's power
over you, and I will break it though all
the powers of darkness were in league
against me."
She shook her head mournfully.
" You have no power to help me, Rex,"
she said. " lie is inexorable ; he has re¬
fused to release me, and your entreaties
only serve to make me more miserable.
But it cannot last long now," she added,
with a furtive glance at the vial and the
letter on the table, " and you will know
all in time."
" Now ! I must know all now !" he
answered, in a voice that would brook no
denial. " Be candid with me, Mildred,
and tell me all ; my love has earned a
right to your confidence at least."
She hesitated a moment, then laying
her hand tenderly on his bended head,
rich with its masses of beautiful brown
hair, she said, slowly,—
" Yes, I will tell you all, and then, at
least, you will not part from me in anger.
It may be a comfort to you some day to
remember that your last words to me
were not words of reproach. I would
have told you long ago, but I knew it
could do you no good, and I would only
be exposing, to no purpose, the crimes
and errors of the dead. But now, I feel
that something is due to you and to me,
and will even raise, for your sake, the
curtain of silence that should rest forever
over a dishonored grave."
He was kneeling on the floor at her feet,
with his elbows resting on the arm of her
chair and her hand pressed tenderly in his.
She had not the resolution to withdraw'
from his touch just yet, and did not forbid
his silent caresses while she unfolded the
tale of her miserable enslavement. She
kept nothing back of all her melancholy
story save the last terrible act by which
she had resolved to end the tragedy of her
life. All the rest she related without re¬
serve, from that day when poverty and
shame had first invaded the happy home
at Hazelhurst, down to the moment when
the hope of deliverance had flattered her
for an instant, only to be quenched forever
by the sudden stroke that hgd laid her de¬
liverer low.
Rex listened with a kindling eye and a
burning cheek. Every word that she
spoke only served to inflame his love the
more, by setting forth in clearer light the
true nobility of her character. When she
had finished, he rose, and, bending over
her, kissed her tenderly on the forehead.
" Mildred," he said, as soon as he could
find room for words, " if you had only
told me all this at first it would have
saved us both many a pang. The remedy
is so easy, and yet you were almost lost
because you would not confide in me."
"The remedy, Rex?" cried Mildred,
looking up suddenly. " What do you
mean ?"
"Simply this: that fellow must have
his money, and shall have it. Oh, Mil¬
dred, if you had only told me sooner!"
Mildred opened her eyes wide.
" Why, Rex, what could you do ? I
thought you were poor," she said.
Rex colored slightly as he reflected what
magnificent engagements he had just been
making for a man who had not a penny
in the world, and was over head and ears
in debt besides, but he felt strong in his
love, rich in youth, and hope, and energy,
and though he had not an idea in the
world where the money was to come from,
he had not a doubt that it would come,—
for come it must, and when Van Dorn
once set his head to a thing he seemed
able to accomplish what would have been
little less than miraculous in other men.
He was silent a moment, then looking
Mildred frankly in the face, he an¬
swered,—
"Yes, I am poor, but I'd raise your
ransom were it ten times ten thousand dol¬
lars. The fellow shall have his money,
and you shall be free."
" Ah, Rex, you forget," said Mildred,
sadly. " It is too late even if you had
the money ; it should have been paid to¬
day, before twelve o'clock ; the stake is
already lost."
" Pshaw. Mildred ! you are over-scru¬
pulous," said Rex, lightly. " What differ¬
ence can a few days more or less make,
}>rovided this Shylock gets his money at
ast? He has no right to interpret your
agreement so strictly ; it is ungenerous,
it is unmanly, and he cannot refuse to
absolve you from your promise if the
money is paid before the priest has made
it irrevocable."
"But he will!" cried Mildred, anx¬
iously. " He told me that the time was
past, and he would not release me if I
could command the skies to rain down
gold upon his head."
" I don't wonder," said Rex, regarding
her with a look of unrestrained admira¬
tion. " I wouldn't give you up for all the
A LAST RESORT.
143
riches of the universe, Mildred ; no, not
for heaven itself."
Mildred cast down her eyes.
"You will have to, Rex ; my word is
pledged, and Mr. Henlow will hold me to
it."
" But I tell you, Mildred, I will re¬
deem your pledge," he cried, passionately.
" Only trust me, and I swear I will pay
the last dollar, if I have to sell my soul
to do it !"
" It is too late, Rex," she answered,
despondently. " I know the man I have
to deal with ; my ransom would not be
received now if it were offered ten times
over."
" But it shall be received !" cried Rex,
impetuously. " By heaven, he shall take
it! I will fling his vile gold in his face;
I will cram it down his throat; I will
choke him with it ; I will strangle him
and send him to h "
He broke off suddenly, remembering
where he was ; then, after a short pause,
continued in a less violent tone,—
" The man was a low, miserable dog,
Mildred, to take such ungenerous advan¬
tage of your misfortunes, and if he should
be mean enough to try and force you to
his terms upon a mere technicality when
you have complied with the essential parts
of the contract, his selfish demands would
merit no consideration. He has no right
to impose any such terms upon you ; even
the law allows a debtor three days of
grace."
" But there is a higher than human law
that binds my conscience, Rex. My word,
my honor are pledged, and I must be true
to them."
" Mildred, Mildred," cried Rex, impa¬
tiently, " are you resolved to destroy your
own happiness and mine for nothing? I
tell you you are not bound to marry this
man. I swear that your debt shall be
paid to him, if I live ; and you must not,
you shall not marry him ; give me your
promise, Mildred, that you will not."
"Tempt me no more, Rex, for pity's
sake," she cried, rising and pacing the
floor excitedly. " My word is pledged,
and I must be true to myself."
"And false to me," he exclaimed, with
a touch of anger in his voice.
" False to you ? Never ! I have found
a way, Rex. I will be true to you, be¬
lieve me, but I must be true to my pledge
first. Oh, Rex, trust me, only trust me
a little longer, and spare me the pain of
your reproaches when I have so much
else that is hard to bear !"
" How can I trust you ; how can I be¬
lieve in your affection," he answered,
angrily, " when I find you deaf to every
entreaty of mine, and obstinately bent
upon destroying both yourself and me?"
" No, Rex, you wrong me ; it is not
my will, God knows, but I cannot help
myself."
" Because you will not. You love me,
but you love this man's gold better.
You spoke the truth ; you have sold your
soul to the devil, and you want to draw
your pay."
He knew that the words were unjust,
and repented as soon as he had uttered
them. Mildred quivered from head to
foot, as if every word had been a deadly
shaft.
"Oh, Rex, have you no mercy?" she
cried, stretching out her clasped hands
imploringly towards him, and tottering
forward a few steps, she fell senseless at
his feet.
He snatched her up in his arms, and a
wild, desperate impulse took possession
of him. Seizing a light woollen shawl
that happened to be lying on the sofa, he
muffled her head and shoulders in it, and
then turned to extinguish the light be¬
fore opening the door and venturing out
with his burden. As he approached the
table above which the gas-jet burned his
eyes fell upon the letter addressed to
himself, and upon the small vial beside
it. He shuddered as the meaning of
these silent preparations flashed upon
his mind. He thrust the letter into his
pocket, then took up the vial and hastily
examined its contents. A look of deadly
import came into his eyes. Now, if he
could only give her enough of this drug
to keep her stupefied till he could accom¬
plish his purpose ! It was a rash and
reckless experiment, but he was in a rash
and reckless mood. He withdrew the
stopper from the vial, then hesitated.
He did not know how to measure the
drug ; what if he should give too much
and kjll her? It was a terrible thought ;
but better even that, he whispered, than
to see her wed another. He made a rash
guess, measured on the blade of his pen¬
knife what he supposed would be a strong
narcotic dose, inserted it hastily between
her lips, then pocketing the vial, he ex¬
tinguished the light and passed out into
the hall. There was no one stirring, and
he hurried on down-stairs to the cab that
was waiting in the street below. He
gave a hasty direction to the driver as he
sprang in with his burden, and in an¬
other moment they were galloping at a
furious pace, towards the bay.
144
A MERE ADVENTURER.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
rex finds that he has gone too far.
"Hut every man may not have the perfection that
ye Reken, ne i am not of the nombre of the right
parfit men."—Chaucer.
The Metropolitan news-yacht, " Presi¬
dent.'' was lying at the pier, just ready
to steam out of the bay, when Rex
alighted from his cab, and signalling the
captain, ordered the gangway-plank low¬
ered, and hurried on board with his uncon¬
scious burden. The presence of a woman
in such a situation looked suspicious, to
say the least, but the crew of the " Presi¬
dent" were sufficiently occupied with
their own business ' without concerning
themselves about that of their superiors.
They had not been reared in such a state
of Arcadian simplicity as to go out of
their minds with astonishment if a young
gentleman did now and then get into a
scrape with a woman, and so the captain
winked at the mate,-and the mate grinned
at the boatswain, and no further notice
was taken of Rex or his companion.
He passed on into the cabin, and de¬
positing his precious burden on a couch,
sat down beside her, and began to think
now, for the first time, of what he had
done and of what remained to do. He
had no settled purpose. Some vague idea
of boarding the first outgoing steamer
they happened to fall in with had floated
through his mind when he first directed
his course to the bay, but in his excited
state it was impossible to determine upon
any settled course of action. He now
began to realize, for the first time, the
possible consequences of the step he had
taken, and its madness appalled him,—
vet he had no desire to recede. One
thought, one purpose mastered every
other feeling of his heart. To snatch
Mildred from the fate to which she had
bound herself ; to prevent the consum¬
mation of a vow that would lose her to
him forever, he felt capable, at that mo¬
ment, of facing any peril, or even of com¬
mitting any crime. Ile seemed for the
while bereft of reason. He had not in¬
tended to do wrong; he did not realize,
even yet, quite how wrong he was, but
his impulsive nature, swayed by the un-
governed passion of the moment, was
leading him blindfold along a dark
and slippery path. His conduct was
altogether unjustifiable ; he had compro¬
mised, perhaps irretrievably, the reputa¬
tion of the woman he loved; he had
placed her life in jeopardy, he had vio¬
lated her commands, disregarded her
entreaties, dishonored her word ; but at
least he had saved her from the polluting
touch of a rival, and for that he would
not have shrunk from death itself. Ile
even felt an insane delight in reflecting
that one consequence of his mad deed
would be to bind her irrevocably to him¬
self. lier name would now be linked
with his in such a way that she must
marry him, and in the exultation of that
thought he almost forgot the foul wrong
he had committed in bringing a stain
upon the fair fame of an innocent
woman.
One fear alone appalled him : what
would Mildred say when she came to
herself and learned what he had,done?
Would she forgive him and quietly
accept the consequences of his rash step,
or had he sinned past all hope of forgive¬
ness? A sudden misgiving seized him
as he asked himself the question. He
remembered the unflinching firmness of
her conduct in the past, the stern adhe¬
rence to principle which had withstood
every temptation, and the very traits
which excited his respect and admiration
inspired him now with the gravest fears.
He knew that his conduct would admit
of no real justification ; he had no excuse
to offer save his great love for her,—a
plea ever the most winning to a woman's
heart,—and yet even that had not been
able to prevail with her over the claims
of duty. He trembled as he thought of
the firmness with which she had resisted
him till nature itself gave way, and
though the flesh was tveak, her spirit
had shown no sign of flinching to the
end. If she should, after all, still prove
inflexible; if he should find, too late,
that his fault had raised a new barrier
between them, that would be worse than
the consummation he had risked so much
to avoid, and the thought almost made a
coward of him.
But by and by, as the night wore
away and still the slumberer showed no
signs of waking, a new fear assailed him.
Anxiously he hung over the unconscious
sleeper, who had sunk now into a stupor
so profound that death itself could
scarcely seem more inanimate. The
breathing had become so slow and faint
that each respiration seemed like a death-
gasp, and the half-open eyes were up¬
turned with a glassy look that was terri¬
ble to behold. The first faint gleam of
dawning day, as it crept in through the
skylight, added its own ghastly white¬
ness t<i features haggard and worn with
REX FINDS THAT HE HAS GONE TOO FAR.
145
recent suffering, and now all shrunken
and stamped with the image of death.
Rex's blood curdled at the sight, and
great drops of cold perspiration oozed
out upon his forehead as the terrible
thought that he had murdered her took
possession of his mind. He was almost
beside himself with grief and remorse.
Now he would pour whispers of passion¬
ate love into her unconscious ear ; now
almost stifle her with unheeded caresses ;
and now, snatching her up in his arms,
would tear wildly up and down the little
cabin in his frantic efforts to rouse her,
but all in vain. The lips that he kissed
so passionately gave no response to his
touch, and the hands that he pressed
fell cold and lifeless from his clasp like
the hands of a corpse.
"Great God, I have murdered her!"
he cried, as wearied with the hopeless
task he laid her down again and sank on
his knees beside her couch. Then he
began to implore her forgiveness, all as
if she could hear, and then to tell her of
his undying love ; and then, like the
madman that he was, to reproach her for
not answering his passionate appeal ; and
at last, when words had failed him, he
laid his head upon her pillow and uttered
a groan that might have moved the very
dead ; but nothing could move her now.
Suddenly he raised his head, with a
brighter look.
" I will go with you, darling," he said,
kissing her tenderly, and he felt in his
pocket for the remnant of the poison he
had placed there. With the vial he drew
out the letter he had found at the same
time on Mildred's table, and which he
had forgotten till that moment. It was
addressed to him,—her last message, per¬
haps,—and he must not die without hear¬
ing it. There, bending over her almost
lifeless body, he broke the seal and read,
with a throbbing heart, of her undying
love for him, and of the terrible expedient
by which she had determined to reconcile
truth to him with the faith she had
plighted to another. It was a glorious
thing to have won such love from such a
woman ; but, oh, how doubly cruel to
have won it only to lose !
He folded the letter, placed it over his
heart, then fixed his eyes once more upon
the silent sleeper, whose last slumber
seemed already to have begun. Ile was
perfectly calm and self-possessed now ;
he had only hastened a little what was
to come any way, and there would be
two victims instead of one.
" Yes, I will go with you, my darling,"
he repeated, gazing tenderly upon the
pallid features. " I will stay by you
during your last struggle. I will watch
over you and see you safe through the
dark valley, and then I will follow in the
way that you have gone and meet you on
the other side."
He measured out a deadly portion of
the drug in one hand, and placing the
other on Mildred's pulse, sat waiting for
its last beat to sound his own doom.
There was no fear of interruption from
any one. A storm had arisen during the
night and forced their little craft—bound
for some point on the neighboring Jersey
coast—far out into the boisterous At¬
lantic, where she was struggling with a
sea that would have tried the timbers of
a stouter bark.
The danger was imminent, and all
hands were busy fighting against wind
and water, too intent upon their own
safety and that of their vessel to be
troubled with curiosity about the pair
shut up in the cabin. Rex knew by the
rolling of the vessel, by the hurried
tramping of the sailors on deck, by the
lashing of the waves and roaring of the
wind, that a storm was raging around
them, and perhaps he was aware of the
gravity of the situation : but what is
danger to a man who has made death his
goal? He gave no thought to earth, sea,
or sky, but sat waiting in silent suspense
for the last throb of the pulse that was
to signal his own launch into eternity.
Suddenly, while thus watching, his
fingers relaxed their grasp, and his heart
gave a wild bound in his breast. He
had seen the heavy eyes slowly open at
last, look at him an instant with a vacant,
drowsy expression, then close again, not
with that death-like rolling upward of
the balls between the half-opened lids,
but quietly, firmly, as if in gentle sleep.
Rex was elated with sudden hope.
Springing up from his kneeling posture,
he raised Mildred in his arms and re¬
newed with frantic eagerness his efforts
to rouse her ; and not now without re¬
sponse. It was long before she could be
thoroughly awakened, but at last the
drowsy lethargy began to wear away,
and lifting her head from Rex's breast,
she sat upright on the couch and gazed
confusedly around. Gradually a sense
of the situation seemed to dawn upon
her, and fixing her eyes upon Rex with
a look of alarm, she asked hastily,—
"Where am I?"
"With me, my darling," answered
Rex, encircling her again with his arms ;
146
A MERE AD VENTURER.
" far out upon the ocean, where no one
can come between us now, you and I
are alone together."
She was fast becoming herself again,
and as her mind grew clearer a suspicion
of the truth began to dawn upon her.
Breaking away from his embrace, she
rose hastily to her feet and said, in a tone
of bitter reproach,—
" Rex! Rex ! what have you done?"
" Saved you, Mildred," he answered,
rising and bending fondly over her ;
"saved you from the desecration this
day was to have consummated."
Suddenly it all flashed upon her,—the
memory of the terrible night that had
gone before, the knowledge that the hour
had arrived for redeeming her pledge and
found her an involuntary recreant to her
word. Waving Rex from her with an in¬
dignant gesture, she retreated to the far¬
ther side of the cabin, and answered, in
a reproachful tone,—
" No ; you have not saved, but ruined
me."
There was a decision in her manner
that alarmed Rex. Following her, and
seizing her hand, he cried imploringly,—
"Oh, Mildred, you do not mean that!
If you love me you cannot mean to kill
me with your reproaches !"
" Yes ; I am lost and ruined !" she cried,
wringing her hands in despair. " Oh,
Rex, why did you suffer your mad pas¬
sion to iead to this? Take me back at
once ; let me keep the faith I have
pledged, and then you shall see how I
will keep faith with you."
"Take you back, Mildred? That is
impossible till wind and sea permit," he
answered, pointing upward to the patch
of murky heaven that was visible through
the skylight, " and then it will be too
late."
"No ; it will not be too late," she re¬
plied, firmly ; " unless you wish to wrong
me as my worst enemy has never done.
Take me back to where you found me,
and let me keep my faith inviolate."
Rex hesitated a moment, then answered,
with an air of embarrassment,—
" Mildred, don't you see how impossi¬
ble that is now? I have wronged you
grievously, I feel, and can offer no excuse
but my unconquerable love for you. Per¬
haps, if I had known before how you
would take it, I might have acted differ¬
ently : I don't know ; I W£s mad when I
stole you away, and a madman is hardly
accountable for his acts. But now thai
the wrong is done," he continued, grow¬
ing more and more embarrassed, " there
is but one remedy. If our little craft
survives the storm we must land at the
first port we can make, and there become
man and wife."
" I your wife ? Oh, Rex, will you never
abandon that fruitless hope? Will you
never learn reason?"
" It is you, Mildred, who must learn
reason now," answered Rex, growing red
with the shame that an honorable man
could not but feel at the position in
which he had placed himself ; " and
though the words I am about to speak
heap condemnation on myself, you can¬
not be ignorant that after what has hap¬
pened your name will be connected with
mine in a way that will make marriage
necessary ; it is the only reparation I can
offer now, and your character, your repu¬
tation require that you should not refuse
it." _
Mildred's cheeks grew crimson. She
turned hastily away and walked to the
farther end of the cabin ; then, after
pacing excitedly to and fro several times,
she returned, and confronting Rex, an¬
swered, haughtily,—
"No; you cannot cheat me with that
device. My reputation, it is true, may be
destroyed by this rash deed of yours ; if
so, I cannot help it. Reputation, after
all, is but what the world thinks of me,
and I can survive its loss ; my character
is what I am myself, and can only be de¬
graded by my own act. Y ou have blasted
and ruined me in the eyes of the world,
I know, but you shall never persuade me
to dishonor myself in my own."
Rex was alarmed at her manner.
" Mildred, forbear, or you will drive
me mad !" he cried, in a tone of passion¬
ate entreaty. " Is it a crime past all for¬
giveness to have loved you too well? I
have done wrong, I admit, grievously,
inexcusably wrong, and have nothing to
urge in my own defence but that I love
you. Oh, Mildred, let that love plead for
my pardon, and prevail with you to ac¬
cept such reparation as I can make.
Only consent to marry me, now that my
folly has left you no other resource, and
I promise to spend my life in laboring to
repair the damage I have done. I will
make good your word, I will pay your
ransom to the man I have robbed of your
hand ; yes, Mildred, only trust me, and I
will forfeit my life but your honor shall
be vindicated."
" Trust you? How can I trust you,"
she cried, bitterly, "when you have
shown yourself devoid of every feeling
tha4f should influence an honorable man ?
REX FINDS THAT HE
HAS GONE TOO FAR. 147
What confidence can I ever have in one
so ungenerous as to disregard the prayer
of a woman who is in his power?"
Ilex's cheek flushed crimson, then grew
suddenly white again. He had ruined his
cause by putting himself in the wrong.
Remonstrance he might have met with
remonstrance, tears and entreaties he
might have answered with prayers, but
reproaches, and merited reproaches at
that,—what resource has an honorable
man against these? Rex's soul was
chivalrous to the core, notwithstanding
the error into which his impulsive nature
had betrayed him, and an imputation on
his honor was more than he could stand.
Mildred might have gone on arguing for¬
ever without convincing him, but the
moment she took her stand on the strong
ground of an injured woman demanding
redress,— from that moment Rex was
conquered. He had no longer a word to
say in his own behalf. He did not speak
for some time, and when at length he
broke silence it was in a constrained but
resolute tone.
" Mildred, you have said enough," he
answered, slowly. " If there is any
atonement under heaven I can ■ offer,
speak and it shall be made. Rather than
hear you utter again such words as those
you have just spoken, I would consign
you with my own hand to a rival's arms.
Tell me, what do you require?"
" Only that you will take me back to
the place from which you brought me,
and let me at least prove that I am ready
to redeem my pledge."
" You shall have your way ; though I
tell you, Mildred," he said, resuming
unconsciously something of his old ten¬
der manner, " it will be but to humiliate
yourself in vain. Forgive me the sug¬
gestion, but do you think a man who
could be ungenerous enough to exact
such conditions of his aid as Mr. Ilenlow
has imposed upon you would have the
fairness to believe in your innocence
when appearances are so compromising
as my folly, my wickedness has made
them ?"
" It matters nothing what he believes,"
answered Mildred, quietly. " My duty
is clear, and I shall not seek to evade
it."
" Do what you will," Rex answered.
" I shall never seek to thwart yoyi again.
I have wronged you cruelly, I know, but
now that I have given up everything
else, let me at least have your forgive¬
ness ; only say that you pardon me, and
I can endure all the rest."
She said nothing, but did not withdraw
her hand as Rex bent down to kiss it.
He held it a moment lightly in his own,
then releasing it gently and folding his
arms across his breast, he retreated a
step or two, and said,—
" I have one thing more to ask you,
Mildred, if I have not forfeited'your con¬
fidence utterly."
"What is it?" she asked, while her
look more than her words encouraged
him to speak.
" That you will let me be your mes¬
senger to the man Henlow, and explain
to him how you have been the victim of
my folly. It is I who have done the
wrong, and I who should make repara¬
tion. I will take the full blame of my
actions upon myself, and exonerate you
from all voluntary participation in them.
I, who am responsible for all that has
happened, can best declare your inno¬
cence and my own guilt. Can you trust
me now, Mildred ?"
Rex was as chivalrous in his repara¬
tion as he had been thoughtless in his
wrong-doing, and in the ardor of his re¬
pentance it seemed to him that he could
never make sufficient atonement. It was
a terrible ordeal he was proposing for
himself, but the pain of having once in¬
curred her displeasure made every other
sacrifice seem light in comparison.
Mildred hesitated a moment before
making any reply, and then asked,—
" Can you trust yourself, Rex ?"
"Yes," he answered firmly. "When
my word is once pledged you shall see
that I can be as true to it as you. I will
tell him that you are still ready to keep
your pledge if he demands it ; I will give
him every assurance of your innocence,
and prove to him by every argument an
honorable man may condescend to use
when speaking of a respectable woman,
that the circumstances of this elopement,
so far as your part in it is concerned, do
not afford the shadow of a reason why
the most fastidious man should hesitate
to make you his wife. I will do all this
honestly, faithfully, and then, Mildred,"
drawing nearer and gazing wistfully into
her eyes, " if, after all, he should prove
as ungenerous as I hope to heaven he
will, may I come back to you then ?"
" It is better not to talk of that now,"
she said, turning away, but the light that
flashed in her eyes as she spoke kindled
in Rex's heart a hope to which lie dared
not give expression. From that moment
he felt that; upon Mr. Ileulow's littleness
of soul, in which he had unlimited confi-
148
A MERE ADVENTURER.
dence, all his hopes depended, and by
a strange inversion of probabilities, his
prospects seemed to brighten in propor¬
tion as he thought the meaner of the man
whose course was to decide them.
He avoided Mildred's presence after
this interview, and spent most of his time
on deck with the men, for besides the
impropriety of augmenting, by too assid¬
uous attentions, the suspicions his folly
must already have awakened in their
minds against her, he felt that he dared
not trust his good resolutions to the
temptation of beholding her too freely.
The storm abated towards evening, but
the yacht had been driven so far out of
her way that it was near noon the next
day before she reached her destination,
and two or three hours more were con¬
sumed in returning by rail to the city,
so that Mildred was absent from her
lodgings, in all, nearly two days,—ample
time for scandal to whet her busy
tongue.
In the mean time, while still aboard
the yacht, after taking some much-needed
rest, she bad penned a brief note to Mr.
Henlow, merely stating that the accident
which had prevented her meeting him at
the appointed time would be explained
by the bearer, and expressing her readi¬
ness to make good her promise to him if
he still demanded it. This note she con¬
fided to Rex unsealed on alighting from
the cab in which he had conveyed her
from the depot to her lodging in Bloom-
field Street. Rex did not offer to enter
the house with her, but pausing a mo¬
ment at the door, he took her hand and
said,—
" Mildred, if what I fear should hap¬
pen, we two will never look upon each
other again in this world ; but if what
I hope, then the next time I clasp this
hand it will be mine forever ; will it not,
darling?"
A gentle pressure on his fingers told
Rex all he wished to know, and then she
was gone.
" Now God grant the dog may prove
as narrow-souled as I think him 1" said
Rex to himself, as he turned from the
spot where Mildred had left him, and
springing into the cab, he ordered him¬
self driven straight to Mr. Thompson
Ilenlow's hotel.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
mr. henlow's moral courage.
"And therefore ye shuln venge you after the ordre
of right, that is to sayn by the lawe."—Chaucer.
Mr. Thompson Henlow prided him¬
self upon being a plain, common-sense
man, who always did everything in a
plain, common-sense way ; his stand¬
ard of common sense being founded, of
course, exclusively upon Mr. Ilenlow's
own opinions and practice. Ile had been
in the habit always of dining in the mid¬
dle of the day, and he made it a point
never to change any custom of his for
the sake of conformity to the rest of the
world, no matter how great the incon¬
veniences of non-conformity ; and indeed,
the more the rest of the world differed
from him on any point, the more Mr.
Henlow made a virtue of not giving in ;
as how could he, in fact, do otherwise,
since Mr. Henlow was always positively
certain of having reason and common
sense on his side, while the infallibility
of the rest of mankind was by no means
an established fact.
What especial merit there may be in
dining at two when the rest of the world
dines at six, may not be very patent to
all minds, but Mr. Henlow took such
credit to himself for his non-conformity
in this particular that, if his life had de¬
pended on making the change, he would
have heroically suffered martyrdom rather
than renounce his principles. He had
always dined at two, when a boy, in his
father's house; his father and his grand¬
father before him had dined at two, and
what was good enough for them, Mr.
Henlow declared with a flourish, was
good enough for him ; he was not going
to change his habits just to be in the
fashion,—not he. No, a person ought
never to change ; and after this oracular
utterance Mr. Henlow felt that there was
nothing more to be said.
Accordingly, he stalked into the dining-
room at his hotel every day punctually
at two ; and wasting no time over wine
or frivolous conversation, would despatch
the business of eating in about half an
hour, and then sally forth again to the
other business of buying and selling, feel¬
ing himself all the while a kind of moral
hero for having made this silent protest
against the depravity of those who per¬
sisted in dining at a different hour from
that which Mr. Henlow and common
sensq. prescribed.
It was just as Mr. Henlow was rising
MR. IIENL OWS MORAL COURAGE.
149
from the table, after having despatched
his beef and mutton with due solemnity,
that Van Dorn's card was handed him.
He felt an instinctive conviction, the mo¬
ment he glanced at the name, that his
rival was seeking his presence, and pro¬
ceeding at once to his private apartment,
gave orders for the visitor to be shown in.
Mr. Henlow never committed the weak¬
ness of giving way to emotion. Passion
he had none, and his feelings were not
of a quality ever to get beyond control.
Upon the first discovery of Mildred's ab¬
sence on the morning appointed for the
marriage, sheer amazement at the pos¬
sibility of any plan of his being frustrated
had, for an instant, stupefied every other
faculty. This was succeeded by some¬
thing as nearly akin to rage as Mr. Hen-
low was capable of experiencing. His
anger was never violent and explosive,
but silent, steady, and effective, like the
noiseless current of the galvanic battery.
There was no outburst, no tumult, no
bitter protesting and railing ; but with
livid cheeks, and lips set like iron clamps,
he quietly went his way, resolved upon
having—-justice, he called it, but he meant
revenge. Impeded by no scruples of deli¬
cacy on his own account, he took no pains
to hush up the story of Mildred's flight
and broken faith. It was too spicy a
bonne bouche to escape the diligence of
certain sensational reporters and scandal¬
mongers, who lost no time in serving up
the affair for public delectation with such
additions and exaggerations as repre¬
sented the character of the lady concerned
in the most questionable light ; and Rex,
when ushered into Mr. Henlow's pres¬
ence, was already, though he knew it
not, the hero of a first-class scandal, over
which all New York was smacking its
lips as it sipped its lemon-punch or swal¬
lowed its mug of beer.
Mr. Henlow was too wise a man to11 cry
over spilt milk," as he expressed it, and
finding that he had lost his bride pro¬
ceeded next to consider Mildred's bond,
as to what use he might make of it that
would be most mortifying to her and
most embarrassing to her lover ; not for¬
getting, at the same time, a prudent side
thought as to the possibility of recover¬
ing his ten thousand dollars. From first
to last he betrayed no sign of perturba¬
tion ; he did not lose a single meal ; he
read the daily market reports with the
same apparent interest as before Mildred's
disappearance, and conducted himself in
all respects like the well-regulated man
that he gloried in being. So far from
sinking into the dejection natural to a
disappointed lover, after the first shock
of amazement was over, he began to draw
a certain satisfaction from the catastrophe
in the shining contrast it afforded between
his own spotless integrity and the de¬
pravity of human nature in general, as
exemplified by Mildred Loring's nature
in particular. He had never broken his
word ; he had never swindled people out
of money by false promises ; he had never
committed a fault or even an imprudence,
and Mildred would learn some day, to her
sorrow, the difference between a common
piece of human frailty like her present
lover and the immaculate perfection she
had discarded in Mr. Thompson Henlow.
Yes, bitterly would she repent her choice,
no doubt, when time had made her a sad¬
der and a wiser woman ; and Mr. Henlow
fairly smacked his lips with satisfaction
in contemplating the swift retribution
that was sure to overtake the wicked.
But Mr. Henlow was resolved that no
repentance on Mildred's part should ever
avail with him now. No ; he washed his
hands of her forever, and she might go
on to destruction in the path she had
chosen without any hindrance from him.
He had offered her assured happiness,
and she would none of it : now let her
reap the consequences of her folly ; and
Mr. Henlow wrapped himself anew in
the comforting sense of his own superi¬
ority. He was even beginning to per¬
suade himself that his recent engagement
had been entirely at variance with his
own inclinations, and that he was very
fortunate to have escaped the machina¬
tions of such a wicked woman as Mildred
had proved herself to be. He had not,
of course, arrived at this state of feeling
all at once, but had gradually brought
himself to it by persistently looking at
the matter from those points of view that
were most soothing to his own vanity. It
was utterly impossible for Mr. Henlow to
admit, even to himself, the actual failure
of any project of his; consequently, when
the wall of China failed to tumble down
for all his butting, it was not because the
wall was impregnable to his blows, but
because he did not choose to butt any
longer.
It may well be imagined the office Rex
had taken upon himself was anything but
a pleasant one, and his reflections, on
being ushered into Mr. Henlow's pres¬
ence, were not of a nature to increase his
self-possession. The situation was an
awkward one ; but Rex had made up his
mind to eafn Mildred's forgiveness, and
150
A NE RE ADVENTURER.
was ready for the emergency. Advan¬
cing a few steps, he bowed with dignity,
and said,—
"Mr. Thompson Ilenlow, I believe?"
" That is my name," Mr. Ilenlow an¬
swered, stiffly.
There was a short pause, then Rex re¬
sumed,—•
" I come to you, Mr. Ilenlow, as the
messenger of a lady whose name, I trust,
will be a sufficient introduction. This
note," producing Mildred's brief missive,
" will explain the nature of my errand."
Mr. Ilenlow unfolded the paper, read
it slowly through, then laid it, with a
stony smile, on the table before him.
Rex waited a moment for Mr. Ilenlow
to speak, but as the latter said nothing,
he continued,—
"As I am responsible, Mr. Henlow, for
Miss Loring's failure to keep her engage¬
ment with you, I felt it my duty to see
you in person and exonerate her from all
blame. She had no voluntary share in
the circumstances which led to her recent
sudden withdrawal from the city. The
whole blame of the transaction rests
with me, and I sincerely regret the rash¬
ness and folly of which I have been
guilty."
" I dare say you do," replied Mr.
Ilenlow, sardonically.
Rex colored, but he remembered his
promise to Mildred, and went on without
altering his tone.
" Miss Loring has never once cherished
a thought of violating the faith she con¬
sidered that she had pledged to you,
though I confess that I have tried, by
every means in my power, to induce her
to do so. On the evening before the day
appointed for your marriage, when she
had fainted away in my presence, I took
advantage of her unconscious state, car¬
ried her off, and kept her insensible, by
means of drugs, for hours; but when she
revived and found what had been done,
she immediately demanded to be brought
back, declaring that she would never
falsify her word, and no prayers nor en¬
treaties of mine could move her. That
is why I am here, for I am aware that
one of the consequences of my miscon¬
duct will be to cast a shadow of suspicion
upon her in the minds of some who may
be incapable of appreciating the spotless
purity of her character, and I have come
to add my word of honor as a gentle¬
man to the already ample assurance you
have in her character as a lady, that
there was nothing in her recent involun¬
tary elopement with me that need cause
any honorable man to hesitate to make
her his wife."
" Why don't you marry her yourself,
then?" asked Mr. Henlow, with a sneer
that sent the blood tingling to Rex's
cheeks.
" That is my business," he answered,
haughtily. " Yours is to consider whether
you will still hold Miss Loring to her
engagement. You have her written as¬
surance there," pointing to Mildred's
note on the table, " that she is ready to
make good her word, if you desire, and
I am waiting, as her appointed messen¬
ger, for the answer I am to bear back to
her."
" Then you may tell her," replied Mr.
Henlow, with grim composure, " that
she has counted on the wrong man if she
expects Thompson Henlow to lend the
shelter of his name to any woman who
has disgraced her own."
" You must clothe your message in
decent words if you expect me to be the
bearer of it," retorted Rex, whose joy at
Mr. Henlow's voluntary rejection of Mil¬
dred did not hinder him from resenting
the coarseness with which it was con¬
veyed.
" Clothe it in what words you like,"
replied Mr. Henlow, stolidly, " so you
make her fully understand that she can't
entrap me into marrying of her now."
Rex wavered an instant between con¬
tempt for the man's littleness and indig¬
nation at his coarseness, but finally satis¬
faction at so complete and unequivocal a
surrender of his claims upon Mildred's
hand overcame any annoyance Rex might
feel at the manner in which it was made,
and retiring a step or two towards the
door, he said, quietly,—
" I am to understand, then, that you
positively and unequivocally decline to
marry Miss Loring under any circum¬
stances ?"
"Yes, I do," answered Mr. Henlow,
emphatically. " You will not find me
the right tool for your purpose if you are
trying to patch the reputation of your
mistress by "
Before Mr. Henlow could finish Rex
darted forward like a flash of lightning.
" Take that word back," he cried,
shaking his clinched fist in the speaker's
face, " or I'll send your teeth down your
throat after it !"
" What I have said I have said," re¬
plied Mr. Henlow, without changing a
muscle of his countenance.
" Then take that to keep it company,"
retiymed Van Dorn, dealing him a blow
MR. HENLOW S MORAL COURAGE.
151
that made his teeth chatter in their
sockets.
Mr. Henlow never winced ; he scarcely
even changed color as, stepping deliber¬
ately aside, he quietly rang the bell, and
then, returning to the spot from which
he had moved, he folded his arms across
his breast and said, calmly,—
" If you venture to repeat your cow¬
ardly assault I shall have a witness
present, and then the police court may
settle with you • come on now if you
like ; I am ready."
At the same moment a waiter ap¬
peared, in answer to the bell, and at Mr.
Henlow's command, stationed himself
just inside the door. Rex was so taken
aback by this novel way of resenting an
affront that he stood for a moment half
in doubt whether to laugh or to accept
Mr. Henlow's challenge.
" Strike me again, if you like," con¬
tinued Mr. Henlow, in his most deliber¬
ate tone. " It will make a fine item for
your paper, in to-morrow's police-court
reports, if I have you taken up for assault
and battery."
" Gentlemen have a different way of
settling their difficulties than through
the police-courts," answered Rex, con¬
temptuously.
" Gentlemen or no gentlemen, the law
is good enough for me," answered Mr.
Henlow, loftily, " and to it I will appeal
for protection."
" The devil take the law and you too !"
muttered Rex, prudently retreating from
his too tempting proximity to Mr. Hen-
low's person. " You have no showing
against me at the law, and I don't intend
that you shall have any, if that is your
game, but I am ready to give you the
satisfaction of a gentleman whenever you
choose to demand it. There is my card,"
tossing one upon the table, "and if you
see proper to send a friend to wait upon
me any time within the next twenty-four
hours, he will be sure to find me at
home."
Mr. Henlow's look of righteous dis¬
dain at the reception of this offer would
be hard to describe.
" You have mistaken your man," he
said, eying Rex's card askance, " if you
think you can inveigle me into a duel.
You may call me a coward if you like,
and I would be one if I could be fright¬
ened by the sneers of you and your set
into violating morality, and disregarding
the laws of God and man so far as to
send you a challenge. No ; I am not
such a coward as to be driven by the
mere fear of being called a coward into
committing a crime against the laws of
morality. ' True courage is afraid of
nothing but to do wrong, and my princi¬
ple is always to do what's right, no mat¬
ter what other people may think of it.
You have hit me a wicked, unjustifiable
blow, and now you ask me to be fool
enough to right one wrong by committing
another ; but I will show to you and to
the world what grandeur there is in the
forbearance of a Christian gentleman,
such as I have always tried to prove my¬
self. Many a man would be afraid to
refuse your silly proposal lest he should
be set down for a coward, but Thompson
Henlow never yet lacked the courage to
say no. A person ought never to be
afraid to do what's right, for that is the
only true courage. Many a man is
coward enough to risk becoming a mur¬
derer for fear of beins; called a coward :
but I have never been afraid to do right,
and I am not going to desert my princi¬
ples now for fear of anything the world
may say. I have more respect for the
laws of God than for the opinions of
men,"—here there was an extra swell for
the benefit of the waiter,—" and will even
suffer wrong rather than resort to wrong
for redress. I consider duelling a bar¬
barous, wicked practice, opposed to all
the laws of religion and civilization, a
practice fit only for fools and cowards,
and, as I am neither the one nor the
other, I prefer to look to the laws of my
country for protection. Take back your
card, sir, and if you want to provoke a
duel, go to some man who has not the
moral courage to say no."
Rex's sense of the ludicrous was so
aroused by this homily that he with diffi¬
culty retained his gravity to the end of
it. He felt rather relieved, however,
upon reflection, in not having on his
hands just then, in addition to all his
other perplexities, an affair of honor,
which is a much more delicate thing to
manage in New York than in the more
primitive South or West. So he checked
his amusement, and replied to Mr. Hen-
low's effusion of copy-book morality with
suitable dignity.
" Your decision settles the matter, Mr.
Henlow," he said, bowing stiffly. " I
have offered satisfaction,—it rests with
you to accept or decline it."
" There is one kind of satisfaction you
have neglected to offer," said Mr. Hen¬
low, with a grim smile.
" If you mean an apology," answered
Rex, coldly, " I have none to make. I
Ió2
A MERE ADVENTURER.
regret nothing in iny conduct towards
you."
" Regrets and apologies are of no value
to me," replied Mr. Henlow, with the
same grim composure that had marked
him throughout the interview; "but
since you appear to have taken charge
of Miss Loring's person, I presume you
are ready to assume her debts also ; at
least," he added, producing Mildred's
bond, " I hope you will have no objec¬
tion to reminding her of the little sum
she owes ine for keeping her brother out
of the penitentiary, and which I shall
put in suit if it is not paid within three
days."
This was Mr. Ilenlow's trump card,
and it told. Rex had forgotten all about
the money, and the reminder came upon
him like a cold plunge on a winter morn¬
ing. lie had no more idea where the
ten thousand dollars were to come from
than the girl in the fairy tale had of
spinning straw into gold, but he did not
stop for that ; come it must from some¬
where, and with characteristic rashness
he answered, as boldly as if he had had
it in his pocket,—
" There is no need to trouble Miss
Loring about the matter. Call at Rut¬
land National Bank at twelve o'clock
day after to-morrow and your money
will be paid you ; good-evening." And he
withdrew from Mr. Ilenlow's presence,
feeling that if he had just gotten royally
out of one scrape he had gotten himself
royally into another, and had still a
difficult labor to accomplish before Mil¬
dred could be fairly his.
CHAPTER XXXV.
mr. gault's stinginess.
" For where your case can be no worse,
The desperatest's the wisest course."
Hudibras.
It was not till after Rex had withdrawn
from Mr. Ilenlow's presence and began
to cool off a little that he fully realized
the rashness of the obligation he had un¬
dertaken To raise ten thousand dollars
on two days' notice is not always an easy
matter, even for a rich man ; and for
Rex, whose sole capital was in his brain,
and whose recent dissipation had left him
without credit and in debt, the attempt
seemed wellnigh hopeless. But Van
Dorn was not a man to be appalled by
any emergency, and if the sum had been
twice as great, or even ten times, he
would still as unhesitatingly have pledged
himself to raise it. He did not consider
the matter as a question of what could
or could not, but of what must be done.
Mildred's honor required that the debt
should be cancelled, and whatever con¬
cerned her honor touched him more
nearly even than what concerned his
own. It was his fault that she had
broken faith with Mr. Henlow, and he
was doubly responsible,—responsible to
Mr. Henlow for his money, and to Mil¬
dred for the redemption of the pledge he
had forced her to violate. Rash as it
seemed, the promise he had just made
amounted, after all, to nothing more than
the formal acknowledgment of an obli¬
gation which was already fully recog¬
nized by his conscience. lie felt that he
had no right to claim Mildred ; that she
could not be fairly and honestly his till
this debt, so binding on the honor of
them both, was cancelled. He dared
not, therefore, follow the promptings of
his heart and fly at once to Mildred's
presence with the glorious news that she
was free, for he felt that she was not yet
quite free ; that she never could be free
till Mr. Ilenlow's bond was redeemed.
Van Dorn was a man of wonderful
energy when roused, and bold in devising
expedients as he was prompt in executing
them. Any plan that could be proposed
by a man without a penny in his pocket
for raising ten thousand dollars at a mo¬
ment's notice must necessarily have been
a very wild, not to say desperate, one,
and none more so, as it would have
seemed to a person less intimately ac¬
quainted with the character of his chief,
than the one which Rex determined to
try. Mr. Gault, the last man on earth
to whom anybody else would have thought
of applying for such a purpose, had been
in Rex's mind from the first as the like¬
liest means through which to obtain what
he required, and to Mr. Gault, accord¬
ingly, he resolved to apply. Rex was
not unaware of the singular influence he
ossessed over the old man, and was em-
oldened by the knowledge to a degree
of audacity that did not scruple at de¬
manding ten thousand dollars of a man
who had never been known to part with
ten cents without cavilling over it.
Mr. Gault was at Saratoga, but dis¬
tance is the least formidable of all obsta¬
cles in these days of telegraphs and
lightning expresses, especially to a news-
MB. GAULT'S
STINGINESS.
153
paper man, who sees distance annihilated
every hour in his press despatches, and
who may be writing a leader in a New
York newspaper office to-day and tel¬
egraphing a special report from some
point three or four hundred miles away
to-morrow. Rex looked at his watch,
saw that he had barely time to catch the
next train for Albany, and without stop¬
ping for a moment's rest or refreshment,
he jumped into a cab and ordered him¬
self driven to the Grand Central Depot.
He tore a leaf from his note-book and
penned, as he rode along, the following
hurried lines to Mildred :
" I hope you will not doubt me when
I tell you that I have faithfully discharged
my mission. I have said everything that
truth and honor demand ; everything,
believe me, that you could desire to have
said, and he has declined to receive any
explanation. I go now to obtain the
means for discharging that other debt
for whose payment you gave so costly a
pledge ; and then, when you are freed
from every other tie. do not think me too
presumptuous if I cherish a hope that the
love which is too precious for all the
treasures of earth to purchase may be
yielded at last as a free gift to Rex."
He sealed and posted this note at the
depot, then boarding the outgoing train,
was the next moment speeding away
towards the most magnificent watering-
place in the world.
It was night when Rex arrived at
Saratoga, and the glare, and the glitter,
and the glory of its grand hotels, palaces
of pleasure and vanity, dimmed the lights
of heaven. Mr. Gault was at the United
States Hotel, where he usually stopped,
and thither Rex proceeded at once in
search of him. The season was at its
height, but our hero had no eyes for the
array of beauty and fashion that sur¬
rounded him on all sides as he passed
hurriedly along on his way to the office
to inquire for Mr. Gault. The chief was
in his own room, and gave orders for
Rex to be conducted thither with a read¬
iness that would have alarmed the young
man had he known what it portended.
The truth was Van Dorn had chanced
upon an unpropitious moment for his ap¬
plication. Mr. Gault had found an arti¬
cle in that morning's Metropolitan which
excited his displeasure to such a degree
that he had been upon the point of re¬
turning to the city forthwith and raising
a very hurricane in the office there ; but
cooling down a little after dinner, he
finally satisfied himself with transmit¬
ting his wrath by mail, and at the very
moment of Rex's arrival was busy indit¬
ing an irate epistle to that unconscious
object of his displeasure. Upon Van
Dorn chiefly, in Mr. Gault's absence, de¬
volved the management of the paper,
and upon his shoulders rested the re¬
sponsibility if anything went amiss. As
the reader is aware how little attention
Rex had given to business during the
last few weeks, it may readily be con¬
ceived that a heavy score had accumu¬
lated against him.
Mr. Gault laid aside his pen as Yan
Dorn entered, looked straight through
him a moment into the regions of inter¬
stellar space, then slowly bringing his
eyes to a' focus upon the young man's
face, he demanded, in a most inauspicious
tone,—
"Well, sir, what have you come here
for ?"
Most people in Van Dorn's situation
would have been at a loss how to prefer
their exorbitant demand. They would
have stumbled and beat about the bush
for some means of breaking it gradually,
modestly, if possible, and would have
almost smothered the demand itself under
the prefaces and apologies in which they
would have enveloped it. But Rex's
eagerness was too great for diplomacy,
and his impulsive nature did not admit
of longues ambages. Unabashed by the
awful frown of his offended chief, Rex
advanced boldly into the royal presence,
and blurted out, without preface or pre¬
amble,—
" Mr. Gault, I want ten thousand dol¬
lars !"
A double-lever cotton-packing screw
could not have drawn Mr. Gault's face
up into a tighter knot than did the an¬
nouncement of this arrogant demand.
He looked right through Rex, into the
outermost bounds of space, for full ten
seconds before he could recover himself
sufficiently, to reply, and then thundered
out in an awful tone,—
" You impudent young dog ! Do you
think I can spit money ?"
The power of " spitting money" might
have struck Yan Dorn as an accomplish¬
ment much to be desired in his present
circumstances, if he had been in a condi¬
tion just then to make reflections, but he
merely noticed that Mr. Gault's reply was
not an absolute refusal, and he returned
impetuously to the charge.
" I must have the money, Mr. Gault.
154
A MERE ADVENTURER.
Ask what you will in return ; I will sign
anything; I will sell myself to you body
and soul ; I will bind myself to serve you
as long as I live without money and with¬
out price. I have no rich friends to give
bond for me ; I have no property to offer
as security, but my services are worth
something, and I will give you a fee-sim¬
ple to them as long as I live. I am of
use to you on your paper,—you know
that, and "
This unlucky allusion nearly finished
Van Dorn's business for him. It brought
hack to Mr. Gault's mind the recollection
of the young man's recent delinquencies,
and awakened the fires of wrath that had
been smouldering merely for want of a
convenient object to blaze out upon.
" You talk about being of use to my
paper? You?" he roared, interrupting
Rex in the midst of his speech. " Can
you have the impudence to tell me that,
when the paper has been going to the
devil these three weeks as fast as it can?
Here you've gone and let that fool
Thornly write half a column of rubbish
on National Banks, though he knows no
more about finance than a cat. Why
couldn't you make him stick to his own
business, the scoundrel, instead of pub¬
lishing trash like that, and making all
the world believe the Metropolitan is get¬
ting weak-kneed on the currency question,
—when I had just left orders, too, for it
to take a vigorous stand ? And there
was that stuff about the Eastern Crisis ;
what do you mean by publishing such
infernal trash that ain't fit to be seen in
a country newspaper edited by a journey¬
man printer? If you had your deserts,
sir, you wouldn't get off with anything
less than a six month's suspension, if you
weren't kicked out of the office alto¬
gether,—and yet you have the impu¬
dence to talk about mortgaging your
services for ten thousand dollars ! No ;
not one dime do you get out of me. If
you are fool enough to make such debts,
instead of minding your business, you
may pay 'em yourself." And the old man
rammed his fists into his pockets, raised
his shoulders up to his ears, and strode
moodily up and down the room, with his
face twisted into a knot as hard as if he
had swallowed a peck of green persim¬
mons.
It was a necessary part of the paternal
relation Mr. Gault had assumed towards
Van Dorn that he should exercise, when
he saw fit, the paternal privilege of "blow¬
ing-up" his favorite,—an assumption to
which Van Dorn submitted quite natur¬
ally, receiving the old man's lectures as
a matter of course, like a wild son taking
a dose of correction from an irate father,
and heeding it as little. He waited qui¬
etly till Mr. Gault's first ebullition had
subsided, and then went on as boldly as
if he had met with no rebuff.
" But the money, Mr. Gault ; if you
don't help me my honor's lost. I must
have ten thousand dollars by to-morrow
morning, or "
" And I tell you you shan't have a
dime !" cried Mr. Gault, wrathfully. " I
can't spit money for you to throw away.
What do you want with ten thousand
dollars ?"
" I want it to save two lives from end¬
less misery ; I want it to save the honor
and purchase the ransom of the noblest
woman that ever lived."
Mr. Gault ceased his walking, and with¬
drawing his gaze a moment from the con¬
templation of infinity, he fixed it full upon
Rex, and exclaimed, in a tone of comic
gravity,—
" So you are in love, you young fool,
are you?"
"Yes, I am in love, Mr. Gault," Rex
answered, frankly ; " and it is for her
sake that I entreat the aid I would never
have asked for my own."
"Who is she?" demanded Mr. Gault,
with the air of a judge interrogating a
criminal.
" Mildred Loring."
" Umph ! That comes of having taken
a woman into the office ; I always thought
it would lead to mischief."
Nevertheless, Mr. Gault's tone had soft¬
ened perceptibly in spite of his unsympa¬
thetic language. He took a few more
turns up and down the room, then halt¬
ing abruptly, said, with an air of resig¬
nation,—
"Well, she is uncommonly handsome,
and I suppose you couldn't help yourself ;
come, tell me about it."
Rex needed not to be urged. He was
a man who had no secrets, and he told
without alteration or concealment the
story of his love for Mildred, from the
day when he first looked upon her face
down to the moment of his parting from
her that morning. There was something
rather comical in the idea of Mr. Gault
acting as the confidant of a love-affair,
but Rex was in too serious a mood just
then to see the comic side of the situa¬
tion. Mr. Gault listened as attentively
as if the speaker had been making out
the skeleton of a leading article. He sat
with, his eyes fixed on the regions of inter-
TOO
LATE.
155
stellar space, drumming monotonously
with the fingers of his right hand upon
the back of his left while the young man
told his story, interrupting the speaker
neither to make comments nor to ask ex¬
planations. When Rex had finished the
listener ceased his drumming, and apply¬
ing the forefinger of his left hand to the
tip of his left nostril, remained for several
moments in that attitude of contempla¬
tion ; then, without removing his eyes
from the outer limits of the universe, he
said, slowly,—
" You were wrong in some things, Van
Dorn, very wrong,—and yet I can't alto¬
gether blame you."
" And the money, Mr. Gault," broke
in Yan Dorn, returning persistently to
the charge. "You see now that I am
obliged to have it."
Mr. Gault's face grew long again. He
brought his gaze back within the bounds
of the solar system, and answered, with
a lugubrious sigh,—
" Yes, I suppose there is no help for it ;
the money must be paid."
A fervent "God bless you, sir!" that
broke from Yan Dorn's lips failed to
lighten the cloud of unutterable woe
that settled upon Mr. Gault's counte¬
nance as he turned to his desk, and
tearing the least possible edge of blank
paper from the margin of an old letter,
proceeded to write thereon, in a cramped
and scarcely legible hand, a check for the
sum required. He signed his name, then
hesitated, put his finger on a paper of
revenue stamps that lay convenient, with¬
drew it, glanced anxiously from the check
to the stamps, and from the stamps back
to the check, till Van Dorn, seeing what
was the matter, came to his relief.
" Never mind about the stamp, Mr.
Gault," he said, reaching out his hand
eagerly for the check ; " I will attend to
that myself."
Still Mr. Gault hesitated ; then, with a
look of stern resolution, like one deter¬
mined to hold out through every tempta¬
tion, he made a sudden dive at the stamp,
as if to make sure of it before his cour¬
age failed, plastered it on upside-down,
and then delivered the precious document
to Rex. Paying out money was a sort of
moral childbirth to Mr. Gault,—agonizing
in the process, but the delivery once safely
accomplished, he could rejoice as sincerely
in the good deed he had brought forth as
a mother in the contemplation of her off¬
spring.
" Here is your money," he said, with
a look of hearty relief, now that it was
all over, "and I wish it might purchase
you the power to exercise more discretion
in future."
Rex seized the paper, and with it the
hand that had extended such timely aid.
" Mr. Gault," he said, in a voice trem¬
ulous with emotion, " by this act you
have bound me to you for life. I may
never be able to pay you back in money,
but I trust I can at least show you that
human love and gratitude are themselves
things not to be despised."
Mr. Gault withdrew his hand from the
young man's grasp and turned hastily
away, but not before Rex had detected a
bright drop glistening in the corner of
his eye.
" Come, come, no nonsense," he said,
with an air of mock vexation; "be off
with you now, you young scamp, and
tell your girl about it, and make your
plans for the wedding as quickly as pos¬
sible. I will be back in the city myself
to-morrow, for you won't be fit to be
trusted with business till your honey¬
moon is over."
CHAPTER XXXYI.
too late.
" Mors ultima linea rerum est."
Hobace.
Mildred's first thought, on finding
herself at home once more, was of the
wretched old woman whom she had left
in a dying condition. She was much
surprised to learn from Bridget, whom
she summoned soon after her arrival,
that Madame Valley was still alive,
though in what condition, whether con¬
scious or not, the girl could not tell.
Mildred's mind was too disturbed to allow
her to rest, and scarcely bestowing a
thought upon the needs of her own shat¬
tered system, she proceeded at once to
Madame Valley's room.
The door was opened by Judith, who
had scarcely left her mistress's side since
the day she was taken. The sight of
the place brought over Mildred afresh
the memory of the dreadful catastrophe
she had witnessed there three days be¬
fore, and she paused a moment in the
doorway to collect herself before ventur¬
ing to look again upon the miserable
wreck of humanity whose final exit from
156
A MERE ADVENTURER.
the drama of life was so intimately asso¬
ciated with her own terrible experiences.
"IIow is she?" Mildred whispered,
as Judith motioned her to enter.
" Come in and see, miss," answered the
giantess, with a solemn inclination of
her turbaned head. " She has been her¬
self since about noon ; you can see it by
her looks, though she can't speak nor
make no sign."
Mildred approached the bed, and was
startled at the appearance of the suf¬
ferer. She was dying slowly, even now;
her face was shrunken and pallid as mar¬
ble ; her skin clammy with the cold dew
of death ; but the eyes were open, and the
sudden look of recognition that flashed in
them as Mildred drew near showed that
the light of reason had returned, and was
still glowing brightly behind the faded
embers of departing life.
Mildred sat herself down by the bed,
and the eyes of the dying woman fastened
themselves upon her with a restless,
pleading look that was piteous to behold.
Mildred was troubled, for those dying
eyes seemed to be silently imploring
something of her, and she knew not how
to interpret the prayer. Judith observed
the look, too, and coming behind Mil¬
dred's chair, she said, in a low tone,—
" She wants something, miss ; she has
been looking that way ever since she
came to herself. I'd give my life to know
what to do for her, but she can't make no
sign."
Mildred considered awhile, then rising
from her seat and bending over the suf¬
ferer, she said, softly,—
" There is something you wish to say,
Madame Valley ; I can see that in your
eyes, but have not power to interpret
their language further. If there is any
sign you can give to aid me, no matter
how feeble, I will not rest till I have
learned what you desire. If you can
press my hand now, ever so feebly "
She finished the sentence by taking
first one, then the other of Madame Val¬
ley's withered hands in her own; but they
lay like lead in her clasp,—cold, heavy,
irresponsive to her touch. But the eyes
grew more eager than ever, and their look
of passionate longing became so intense
that it seemed to burn its way through
the icy bands of death, and painted a
faint, livid flush on the cheeks of the
dying woman. Mildred tried hard to
think of some clue by which to guess the
meaning of that mute entreaty. She
wondered if it could be that now, when
the hour had come that tries men's souls,
Madame Valley's scepticism had failed
her, and she had begun to feel, like so
many other scoffers when the terrors of
death have compassed them about, a sore
need of the God she had spurned so long.
What if the burdened soul were striving
to frame a prayer, and there were no voice
to give it utterance? What if the hard
heart were touched with a late repent¬
ance that the lips were forbidden to con¬
fess? Mildred trembled. It seemed a
fearful thing to let a human creature lie
there and die like some poor brute, with¬
out a prayer, without a single Christian
rite, without one holy word to speed the
parting soul on its way ; yet, when Mil¬
dred remembered the bitter aversion
Madame Valley always manifested to the
very name of religion, she hesitated to
obtrude the subject upon her. If the
patient were still in her usual frame of
mind the suggestion would be not only
impertinent, but mischievous ; and yet,
if she had softened but ever so little, was
it not worth risking something to know ?
After a little reflection, Mildred felt that
her duty as a Christian would not permit
her to leave the subject in doubt, and,
bending low over the sufferer's pillow,
she said, in a timid whisper,—
" Madame Valley, if it is the peace of
God you desire, it is never too late to
seek for that. I dare not send for a
clergyman unless I knew you wished it ;
but if it is the thought of your soul that
troubles you, God will need no outward
sign to understand and supply all your
wants."
There was no responsive look in the
eyes, but neither did the fire of anger
flame in them as it was wont in former
times at the bare mention of the name
of God. They merely remained fixed
upon Mildred a moment with an indiffer¬
ent expression, then turned wearily away
and gazed into vacancy. Mildred saw
she had not yet divined aright the mean¬
ing of that look, but she had gained an
important point.
" You have given me the sign that I
needed," she cried, eagerly, as Madame
Valley fixed her eyes again upon Mil¬
dred's face with their former expression
of unsatisfied longing. "If now I suc¬
ceed in divining your wish aright, look
away, as you did just now, in token of
affirmation ; you understand the signal ?"
Madame Valley looked away an in¬
stant, then fixed her eyes once more
eagerly upon Mildred's face.
" Is there any person you wish to see
or sepfl a message to ?" asked Mildred.
TOO
LATE.
157
Again Madame Valley turned her eyes
away, and brought them back to Mil¬
dred's face with a brightened look.
" Now," continued Mildred, fixing her
eyes attentively upon the sufferer, " I
will repeat the letters of the alphabet,
one by one, and as I come to those that
spell the name of the person you wish to
see, look away at the mention of each
one respectively, till we have made out
the full name."
Slowly she called over one letter after
another, making a little pause at each
one to give the patient time. She went
through nearly the whole alphabet once
without evoking any response, till at
last, when she came to the letter V,
Madame Valley turned away her eyes.
Mildred then went back to A, and re¬
peated the same process till she had
spelled out the four letters V A N D,
when Judith, who was standing by, and
who knew how to spell a little, suddenly
touched her arm and exclaimed,—
" I know. I know, miss, who she means !
it's Mr. Vandergrieft ! He'll know what
she wants better than anybody else, if
vou'll just send for him."
The name sounded to Mildred like a
sudden revelation. She remembered all
she had heard about the strange little
old man, and the vague surmises that
Madame Valley's connection with him
had once before awakened in her mind
came over her again with the force of an
inspiration. She caught at Judith's sug¬
gestion with alacrity, and wasting no
more time on the tedious process of
spelling, exclaimed, eagerly,—
" Yes, it must be Mr. Vandergrieft ;
he shall be sent for immediately."
She was so confident of the success of
this discovery that she did not observe
the shade of disappointment that came
over Madame Valley's face as she spoke,
and turning to Judith, she asked, hur¬
riedly,—
"Where is Mr. Vandergrieft to be
found ? Do you know his address?"
" Yes, miss," answered the giantess,
promptly. " It's only two or three blocks
away ; just around in William Street."
A messenger was despatched forth¬
with, and in less than half an hour the
little old man came shuffling into the
sick-room. He spoke to no one on enter¬
ing, but walked straight to the bed, and
fixing his sharp eyes on the patient, re¬
garded her intently for a moment, and
then said, in a fine, piping voice, that
jerked out the words as if they had been
shot from a blow-gun,—
" You have heard some news, Vic-
torine then turning to the black
giantess, he demanded, abruptly,—
" What has happened ?"
" Ask the young lady there, master,"
replied Judith, respectfully. "She was
with her when the fit came on, and can
tell more about it than me."
Old Vandergrieft devoted a moment
more to the inspection of this new party
in his client's affairs, looking at her
critically first over his spectacles, then
under them, and finally, having satisfied
himself as to her appearance, he asked,—
" Can you tell me, young lady, what
brought on this last attack of Madame
Valley's?"
" It is due to no external cause that I
am aware of," replied Mildred, feeling
somewhat overawed by the presence of
the mysterious little man. " I had been
with her for an hour or more before
the attack came on, and our conversa¬
tion was entirely about myself and my
own affairs ; there was nothing to excite
her."
The old man shook his head.
" I have known her too many years,"
he said, " to be mistaken as to what is
on her mind when she looks that way ;
something has happened."
" I assure you that you are mistaken,"
answered Mildred, made bold by contra¬
diction. " She had been kind enough to
sympathize with some troubles of mine,
and generously volunteered to relieve
them. She had made me write a check
for that purpose, which she was about to
sign when the stroke came on. Here it
is," she continued, producing the crum¬
pled slip of paper which she had pre¬
served through all her adventures,—" a
draft upon you ; only the signature is
wanting."
Mr. Vandergrieft took the paper and
examined it closely. That Madame Val¬
ley should have made such an offer at
all was a circumstance sufficiently ex¬
traordinary to excite surprise, but that
she should have volunteered to give away
so large a sum, filled the mind of her
shrewd attorney with suspicion.
"Why did she not sign her name?"
he asked, dryly, looking under his spec¬
tacles at the paper, then over them at
Mildred.
" She had stopped to ask me a simple
question, and at that very moment,
almost before the answer had passed my
lips, she fell senseless."
" And vçhat was the question?"
" It was merely to ask the name—of—
158
A MERE ADVENTURER.
an—acquaintance of mine," answered
Mildred, with a tell-tale blush.
" And the name,—what was it?"
Mildred hesitated a moment before she
could bring her lips to reply, without
faltering,—
u Reginald Van Dorn."
Old Vandergrieft checked an involun¬
tary start.
" That," he said, looking hard at the
speaker, " was the name of her son."
It all came upon Mildred now like a
flash ; all that Rex had told her of his
own history, all that she knew of Ma¬
dame Valley and her embittered life, the
story of the advertisement and old Van-
dergrieft's connection with both, all
seemed to associate themselves together,
somehow, in her mind, and form one un¬
broken chain that linked her lover to his
mother. Yes, there was his mother ; she
could not say how the knowledge came
to her, but the intuitions of her own
heart told her so as plainly as if the reve¬
lation had come from heaven. Yielding
to the irresistible impulse of the moment,
she fell on her knees beside Madame
Valley's bed, and seizing both the lifeless
hands in her own, began to cover them
with kisses, while she gave vent to her
feelings in an outburst of incoherent
words.
" Yes, yes, you are his mother ; I know
it now," she cried, passionately ; " and
through him you are mine! Oh, poor,
unhappy mother, why did not my heart
tell me before? No wonder you were
embittered against all the world, with
your poor life blasted and ruined by such
a sorrow ! I know not how you lost
him, or what cruel fate snatched him in
childhood from his mother's arms, but I
know what you suffered,—I know now
why, in your desolation, you cursed
heaven and earth, for, oh, it would be a
misery darker than perdition to live
without him ! And how his noble heart
has been yearning all these years for his
mother ! How tenderly he has treasured
the one little relic of her that was left
him ! Ah, it is cruel to think you have
found each other at last only to part for¬
ever ! To think that I have been so near
you both and yet have let you remain so
far from each other,—lost in the great,
wide world. Oh, it was cruel, cruel,
cruel !"
She laid her head down on the pillow,
beside the dying woman, and gave way
to a burst of passionate tears. It was
not like her to be so overpowered by
emotion, but the occasion was one to
rouse the deepest feelings of her nature,
and all unnerved as she was by the ter¬
rible strain of the last few days, it was
not possible for her to maintain her self-
control. Madame Valley had no means
of responding to Mildred's passionate
demonstration, but a look of tenderness
and joy beamed for an instant in her
dying eyes, and the moisture of undried
tears washed away the death film.
Old Vandergrieft stood quietly looking
on, not too overwhelmed with emotion
to draw practical conclusions from the
scene before him. He was never thrown
off his balance, no matter what happened,
and after waiting a reasonable time, as
he thought, for Mildred's emotion to sub¬
side, he touched her lightly on the arm,
and asked, in his little, jerky voice,—
" Young lady, where is this Reginald
Van Dorn of yours? We must send for
him and find out if he really is my
client's son."
" He is her son ; I know he is," cried
Mildred, raising her head with a look
almost of defiance at the bare suggestion
of a doubt. " My own heart tells me so,
and all that he has ever told me about
himself agrees thereto. Yes," she added,
suddenly rising to her feet, " he is her
son, and he must see his mother before
she dies."
She went to the table, and wrote has¬
tily, on two slips of paper, these words,—
" Come quickly ; let nothing detain
you, or it will be too late.
" Mildred."
And a messenger was despatched with
each, one to Rex's lodging, the other to
the Metropolitan office, with orders to
wait until the summons was delivered
into his own hands.
The dying woman fixed her eyes upon
the door with a look of eager expectation,
longing impatiently for the moment when
her son should enter her presence. Mil¬
dred sat by the bedside, scarcely less
eager, scarcely less impatient than the
dying mother herself, raising her eyes at
every sound in the vain hope of seeing
him appear upon whose presence, at that
moment, so much depended. In vain
they watched and waited through min¬
utes that seemed like hours, and through
hours that seemed like years, while the
unconscious object of their solicitude,
in fatal ignorance of the terrible conse¬
quences involved, was speeding away, as
fast as steam and iron could carry him,
farther and farther every moment from
TOO
LATE.
159
the one spot whither he should have been
hastening.
The day wore on, and when the post¬
man went his evening rounds Rex's note,
written after the interview with Mr. Hen-
low, was sent up to Mildred. She recog¬
nized the handwriting, and tore open the
missive with eager fingers, but the joy its
intelligence would have imparted was
smothered in disappointment at the delay
of his return. And that she should be
the cause of his absence at such a time
as this ! That the love of her should be
the fatal impediment that held him away
from his dying mother's side ! It seemed
a cruel irony of fate. If the note had
only told where he had gone,—if it had
given any clue to his whereabouts,—there
might have been some hope of reaching
him in time ; but to know only that noth¬
ing could be done, except to wait still as
they had waited so long already, and the
end drawing every moment more near,
filled her with despair. As she finished
reading the letter and turned towards the
bed, she saw the disappointment por¬
trayed on her own countenance mirrored
in the eyes of the patient, who had been
watching her narrowly while she read.
The dying woman seemed to know in¬
stinctively that the letter contained news
of her son, and her eager eyes read Mil¬
dred's face while Mildred read the writ¬
ing. Hope died in her heart as Mildred's
countenance fell, and with hope seemed
to vanish her last hold upon life. She
had apparently held out this long from
sheer force of will, because she would
not die ; but it was clear now that not
even the powerful vitality of her tem¬
perament, aided as it was by that almost
indomitable resolution of hers not to die
till she had beheld her son, could prolong
the struggle much further. Mildred was
alarmed at the sudden change.
" Oh, mother,—-Rex's mother !" she
cried, throwing herself on the bed, and
pressing the clammy cheek of the sufferer
tenderly to her own, "do not give up
yet; he will come, he must come soon.
My message has not reached him yet,—
he does not know what need there is for
haste ; but he loves me, and he will not
tarry long. Look at me, dear mother,
and smile a blessing on me for his sake.
Oh, you are happy to be the mother of
such a son, even though you have never
known the joy of possessing him. One
minute of his love, one dying look at him,
nay, even to be cherished in his memory
after death, is a more precious privilege
than to have basked a lifetime in the af¬
fection of any other man. Rouse your¬
self, dear mother, listen to me while I
talk to you about him. I can say many
things for him that there may not be time
to say when he comes himself."
A faint smile flitted over the pale fea¬
tures, and something of their old fire
kindled in the dying eyes once more.
So powerful was her longing to see him
who bore, at least, the name of her son,
so divine the instincts of maternal love,
that they seemed to defy for a time the
power of death of itself, and to hold the
parting spirit suspended on the very
brink of eternity.
Mildred noted the change, and, warm¬
ing herself with the congenial theme,
continued to pour into the greedy ears
of the mother her eager praises of the
son and lover. She repeated the story
of Rex's early life as she had heard it
from his own lips; she told of his gallant
struggle with the world, of his brilliant
success, his talents, his beauty, his won¬
derful fascinations of person and man¬
ner,—all that she thought it would most
rejoice a mother's heart to know ; she
tried to fan the spark of life by telling
of Rex's passionate longing for his un¬
known mother, and the touching care
with which he had cherished for so
many years the one relic of her that had
fallen into his hands. Then she told of
her own acquaintance with him, the be¬
ginning and progress of their love, and
the hope that had come at last of a happy
consummation. The listener seemed to
revive as her ears drank in the tale so
grateful to a mother's heart. She could
receive no physical stimulant, but the
mental one seemed to answer instead.
The name of Rex served as an elixir that
almost had power to draw her from the
grave itself, and Mildred drugged her
with it as with wine.
But at last even this resource began to
fail. The hours wore on, and hope de¬
ferred made the heart sink. The patient
herself seemed to realize that the end was
now rapidly approaching, and her restless
eyes turned ever and anon towards the
door with a look of intense longing.
Alas! would Rex never come? Oh, if
he could only know ! If some messen¬
ger swifter than the lightning could flash
the news to him and bear him back on
its wings, even that were all too slow for
the craving heart, whose sands of life
were flowing away faster than the mo¬
ments sped by !
It was now past midnight, and Mildred
saw tha^ the end was very, very near.
160
A MERE ADVENTURER.
The eyes were gradually becoming fixed,
but that look of speechless longing seemed
to pierce even through the glassy stare of
death, and stamp itself, with the rigidity
of marble, upon every feature, a silent
witness, as it were, of the mighty yearn¬
ing the mother's heart was carrying un¬
satisfied into eternity. Mildred was al¬
most beside herself. Messengers were
despatched anew to every place in the
city where there seemed the least chance
of hearing news of Rex, and the doctor
was summoned again in the vain hope
that he might, with his art, coax life to
stay its flight a little longer.
Öld Vandergrieft stood by with folded
arms, quietly awaiting the end. Judith,
crouched on the floor at the foot of the
bed, had covered her head with her apron,
and was muttering, in a low, mournful
tone, her negro wail for the dead. The
doctor looked at the patient and said
nothing, but Mildred saw from his face
that all hope had fled. She was going
with the mighty yearning of her mother's
heart unappeased ; going with that pite¬
ous look on her face, with that agony of
hopeless longing in her soul. Oh, Angel
of Death, stay your hand, if but for one
hour, for one minute more; spare the
mother a little longer, that she may carry
the memory of one parting kiss into eter¬
nity!
Mildred opened the window and looked
out. The eastern stars were beginning
to pale before the first faint blush of
dawn, and the busy life of the city was
slowly reviving after its midnight lull.
Suddenly the sound of a vehicle driven
furiously over the rugged pavement of
Bloomfield Street drowned the more dis¬
tant roar of the great thoroughfares, and
sent a thrill of hope to Mildred's heart.
She hurried back to the bedside, but saw
that it was already too late.
" Oh, for one moment !" she cried, fran¬
tically, seizing the doctor by the arm.
" Can you not, with all your skill, revive
her for one moment?"
He passed his hand quietly over the
lips and nostrils, then placing his fingers
on the eyelids, pressed them tightly to¬
gether, and turned away : it was all over.
Just then the vehicle that had been
driving so furiously stopped at the door
of No. 115, and the next moment Mil¬
dred heard ringing on the stair the step
Bhe had so long listened fon in vain.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
mr. vandergrieft makes an ex¬
planation.
"To aid thy mind's development—to watch
The dawn of little joys, to sit and see
Almost thy very growth, to view thee catch
Knowledge of objects—wonders yet to see!
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,—
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me ;
Yet such was in my nature."
Childe Harold.
On his return from Saratoga, Rex had
gone directly from the depot to his lodg¬
ing, where he found Mildred's message
awaiting him, and springing back into
the cab which had just conveyed him
thither, he dashed away as hard as he
could go towards Bloomfield Street. The
tenor of Mildred's note alarmed him
more by what it left unsaid than by
what it told. The vague and unknown
is always more harassing to us than even
the certain knowledge of calamity, be¬
cause then imagination pictures every
evil that can befall us, and we suffer
them all in anticipation. That sweet
rapture of enjoyment, dreamy, undefined,
like a delicious intoxication that seems
to pervade our whole being after the
first intelligence of some unexpected
good fortune,—a blissful state in which
Rex had been absorbed ever since the
happy termination of his interview with
Mr. Gault,—was now dispelled by the
cold shade of an unknown danger. That
something terrible had happened to Mil¬
dred was the appalling fear that occupied
his mind. Mildred was the one object
of his solicitude, the one centre round
which all his hopes and fears were clus¬
tered, and all the possible calamities his
imagination had conjured up during that
ride it would not be easy to describe. Iiis
impatience increased as he approached
her abode, and before the driver could
stop his horses Van Dorn had sprung to
the ground, and was flying up the dingy
stairway that led to her apartment three
steps at a bound. Mildred was as quick
as he. She had started at the first sound
of his footstep, and met him on the land¬
ing. She was too much agitated by the
scene she had just witnessed to think or
speak coherently.
" Oh, Rex," she cried, clinging to his
neck, as he clasped his arms around her,
" you are too late,—just one minute, yet
everlastingly too late !"
" Great God, Mildred, what is the
matter?" cried Rex, terrified at her
words and manner. " What does all
MR. VANDERGRIEFT MAKES AN EXPLANATION.
101
this mean ? Tell me, in heaven's name,
what has happened to you?"
"It is not to ine, Rex,—nothing has
happened to me," she answered, strug¬
gling to regain her self-control ; " but,
oh, Rex, such a terrible thing has hap¬
pened to you !"
Sobs choked her utterance for a mo¬
ment, then she faltered out,—
" My poor boy, she is dead,—your
mother is dead, and you have come too
late."
Rex started and turned pale.
" Mildred," he cried, in a trembling
voice, " for God's sake, what is that you
are saying ?"
Mildred had begun to calm herself a
little by this time, and replied in a more
tranquil tone,—
" I am telling you no fable, Rex ;
your mother has been found,—found and
lost."
The young man staggered backward a
few steps, and it was some moments
before he could speak ; then he said, in
a voice unsteady with emotion,—
" Mildred, are you sure of what you
are saying? I know you would not de¬
signingly trifle with me,—but it is so
strange,—I cannot take it in."
" It is a sudden, strange discovery,
Rex, but there is not a doubt in my
heart. Come," she added, leading the
way into the little parlor where old Van-
dergrieft had retired while the body was
being robed for its last repose, " there is
one here who can tell you more than I
know. He has been in her confidence for
years, and he alone possesses the key to
the mystery of your life. You have seen
him before,—it is old Mr. Yandergrieft ;
come and listen well to what he may
tell you."
They entered the room as she spoke,
Rex following like one in a dream. Old
Yandergrieft halted in his monotonous
pacing to and fro, and stood for some
time quietly inspecting the young man
from head to foot, eying him first over
his spectacles, then under his spectacles,
and finally through his spectacles. When
he had brought this ocular investigation
to a close, he jerked out abruptly the
query,—
" Are you Reginald Van Dorn ?"
" That is my name, if I can claim a
name at all," answered Rex, too much
occupied with his own emotions to no¬
tice the oddities of the queer little old
man.
Mr. Vandergrieft took another careful
survey of the young man's person, then
observed, with his little gimlet eyes still
boring at him,—
"You don't look much like your
mother, young man, if she is your
mother."
" She is his mother, I know it !" inter¬
posed Mildred, quickly, who felt, some¬
how, as fully convinced of the fact as if
an angel from heaven had told her so.
" That remains to be proved, young
lady," replied the astute old lawyer, be¬
traying his impatience at the interrup¬
tion by an extra jerk in his voice. " Mr.
Van Dorn," he continued, addressing
himself again to Rex, " I may have some¬
thing of very great importance to com¬
municate to you if the surmises of this
young woman should prove correct, but
I must first be permitted to ask you a
few questions ; sit down."
Rex obeyed mechanically, and Mildred
turned to leave the room, her native deli¬
cacy forbidding her to remain an idle
witness of such an interview, but Rex
called her back.
" No, Mildred, do not go," he said,
beckoning her to his side. " What con¬
cerns me concerns you too, now, and I
want you to know all, whether it be good
or bad."
She sat down by him, with her hand
resting on his shoulder. Old Vander¬
grieft took a chair opposite. He wasted
no time on preliminaries, but, looking
hard at »Rex under his spectacles, com¬
menced business at once by saying,—
" In the first place, I want to hear the
history of your early life as accurately,
minutely, and circumstantially as you
can relate it."
After a little pause, to collect his
thoughts and reflect where to begin, the
young man complied, relating substan¬
tially the same that he had already told
to Mildred, varied by frequent interrup¬
tions from Mr. Vandergrieft, who stopped
him now and then to question him mi¬
nutely upon certain points of his narrative.
He asked many things about the various
cities Rex had been in during his early
wanderings ; at what time or place such
and such an event had occurred; inter¬
rogated him closely about the appear¬
ance, habits, and occupations of his
companion ; about the sums of money
he had at times become possessed of, by
what means they were obtained, how
spent, etc., etc., and even tried carefully to
sound Van Dorn's memory as to whether
he had any recollection of a time previous
to the beginning of his vagabond life;
and finally, when the young man had
162
A MERE ADVENTURER.
concluded his narrative, asked to see the
picture which had been left to him as the
likeness of his mother. The old man
took the portrait and regarded it atten¬
tively for some time, then, returning it
to Hex, said, dryly,—
"Yes, that is Victorine Vallée, and
you are her son."
" Then, if I have a mother, for heaven's
sake tell me where she is !" cried Rex,
excitedly. "Take me to her; 1 must
see her."
"You cannot go to her now; she is
dead," said old Vandergrieft, with phleg¬
matic calmness.
Mildred laid her hand softly on Rex's
brow, and whispered.—
" You shall see her by and by, Rex,
when—when everything is ready. She
has but just died, and there are some
necessary offices to be performed first."
The young man covered his face with
his hands and remained silent. Old Van¬
dergrieft surveyed him attentively for
some minutes, then observed, compos¬
edly,—
" I presume you would like to hear
the evidence for what I have just told
you."
Rex raised his head.
" Yes, in heaven's name, tell me every¬
thing," he answered, with forced calm¬
ness. " For her sake and mine let me
know all."
"I have been your mother's legal ad¬
viser," Mr. Vandergrieft began, "all her
life, and was her father's before, her. I
have been her confidential agent in all
transactions relating to her lost child, so
that my knowledge of the facts is direct
and incontrovertible. Your mother was
Marguerite Victorine Vallée, the only
child of one of the wealthiest creóle in¬
habitants of New Orleans. Your father
was Captain Robert Henry Van Dorn, of
New York, an officer in the United States
Army. You were born on the 8th of
September, 1847, about two years after
their marriage, and on the very same
day your father was killed in the Mex¬
ican war, at Molino del Rey. He was a
man of pleasure, not particularly atten¬
tive to his wife, and very prodigal of her
money ; but, as he did not come into pos¬
session of yourmother'8 fortune till after
the death of old Monsieur Vallée, which
happened but a few months before his
own, his extravagance had not impaired
it materially when she became a widow.
She was very handsome, as well as rich,
and, of course, had many suitors, and
a little over two years after Captain
Van Dorn's death, against the advice of
all her friends, she made a second mar¬
riage, which proved a signal instance
of the folly women commit in marrying
men they know nothing about. Her sec¬
ond husband also claimed New York as
his home, and went by the name of Wil¬
liam Corey Kendall. Ile was strikingly
handsome, and had, at that time, the ap-
Eearance of a gentleman. He represented
imself as a lawyer of standing in the
city, who was travelling South for health
and pleasure, but was, in reality, noth¬
ing else than a professional gambler
and sharper. New Orleans, where your
mother had again taken up her residence
after the death of her first husband, was
too remote from New York in those days
for the truth to be easily ascertained,
and Mrs. Van Dorn, an impulsive creóle,
never stopped to consider what she was
doing, or to make inquiries into the char¬
acter of the man she was about to marry.
"Your mother's friends in New Or¬
leans had, fortunately, taken the precau¬
tion, before she married again, to have
the greater part of her fortune settled
upon herself and child, and this soon be¬
came a source of bitter contention with
Kendall, who was sorely disappointed at
not getting the whole of his wife's prop¬
erty at once into his own hands, and
reproached her openly with having de¬
ceived and defrauded him. He would
demand money of her to squander in
gambling and debauchery ; she would
resist for a time, only to yield at last un¬
der the abuse and brutal treatment he
heaped upon her, and so they led a mis¬
erable life of it.
" Things went on in this way till the
whole of her fortune was spent, except
about thirty thousand dollars, invested
in real estate in this city, which had
been settled upon you, and the manage¬
ment of which was in my hands. She
could use the interest, but had no power
to touch the principal. Kendall now
bent all his energies to getting possession
of this property. He brought his wife
to New York, to the house we are now
in,—a home so different from anything
she had ever been used to before, that she
would on no account receive any of her
old friends in it. The family of her first
husband, who were people of high social
position, were bitterly offended at her
second marriage, and she made no effort,
on her part, to heal the breach it had
occasioned. She had no near relations
of her own, and was too proud to expose
the iöisery she had brought upon herself
MR. Y AND ER GRIEFT MAKES AN EXPLANATION.
163
to the knowledge of her father's old
friends who had counselled her against
the step that led to it. In her sorrow
and mortification, she shunned all inter¬
course with those who had known her in
more prosperous days, and soon succeeded
in isolating herself as completely as if
she had been dead. For more than
twenty-five years past I have been, per¬
haps, the only person living who could
tell what had become of Victorine Vallée.
I had the management of her property,
and she was obliged to consult me in the
disposition of it. Worn out with con¬
tinual wrangling, she would have given
up without a struggle what was left, but
could not get at it, except the income,
and that was nothing to Kendall. He
bullied and threatened, and even threw
out hints of violence against the child
that stood in his way. You were the
only comfort the poor mother had in her
misery, and her affection for you amounted
almost to monomania. Terrified at Ken¬
dall's threats, she betrayed her alarm in
every look, and thus taught him her vul¬
nerable point.
" He continued to bully and threaten,
and your mother was in a state of per¬
petual alarm. I thought I was doing my
duty by my client to take care of the
property intrusted to me, and refused to
give it up when she begged it for that
vagabond's benefit. I thought—I hoped—
he would desert her when he found that
no more money was to be got out of her,
but I never believed he would carry out
his threats about the child, till one day
he suddenly disappeared and the child
with him. A note was found on your
mother's table,—I have it still among my
papers,—warning her that it would be not
only useless, but fatal to the child, if any
attempt were made for his recovery
through the police, or otherwise than by
negotiating with the writer through such
channels as he should appoint. He then
proceeded to state his terms,—ten thou¬
sand dollars cash, to be paid on delivery
of the child. He directed that her reply
be made through the advertising columns
of the Metropolitan, a paper then just
struggling into existence, and probably
chosen by him for that reason as offering
the less conspicuous field for his trans¬
actions. The special advantage of this
method of communication was that it
fave no clue to the whereabouts of the
idnapper, as would have been the case
if he had had to furnish a letter address.
He also took pains to prescribe a certain
formula for all negotiations with him,
which should render them unintelligible
to every one except the parties concerned.
" It is needless to describe the effect
of this blow upon my unfortunate client.
She was seized immediately after read¬
ing the note with an attack similar to
that which has just carried her off, and
never entirely recovered, either in body
or mind. There was something more
than property at stake now, and I con¬
sidered it my duty to obey the instruc¬
tions of my client in every effort to re¬
cover her child. I replied to Kendall as
he directed, accepting his terms. In a
few days another communication was re¬
ceived from him, demanding that five
thousand be paid in advance, the other
five on receipt of the child. I complied,
sending five thousand out of my own
pocket, for I felt that I was in a measure
responsible for what had happened in
not having yielded to my client's wishes
at first, and given up the money as she
desired.
" After this nothing was heard from
Kendall for several months,—until he
began to want more money. Then came
a fresh overture,—three thousand dollars
cash to pay some pressing debts, and five
thousand more on delivery of the child.
I replied, as directed, through the Metro¬
politan, but, taught by experience, I re¬
fused the three thousand in advance,
promising instead ten thousand on de¬
livery of the child.
" Ä long silence ensued ; then came a
series of communications to the mother
that were devilish in their cruelty. One
informed her that Reggie, as she used to
call you, was old enough to make his own
living now, and had been apprenticed to
a professional pickpocket. Another con¬
tained merely a photograph of the ragged-
est, dirtiest, forlornest looking little vaga¬
bond that ever cumbered the streets, but
the features were unmistakably those of
the stolen child ; you were a beautiful
boy, and there was no mistaking the
likeness. The next communication was
more cruel still. It told, with an air of
great glee, what a hopeful pupil you
were, and enclosed a ragged fifty cent
bill as a trophy of your first successful
operation in your new profession of
pocket-picking."
" It was a lie !" cried Van Dorn, sud¬
denly raising his head, his cheeks burn¬
ing with shame and anger. " I was a
miserable little vagabond, God knows ;
my associates were thieves, and beggars,
and sharpers, but, so help me God ! I
never sunk so low as to steal myself."
164
A MERE ADVENTURER.
" Ah, hut your mother didn't know
that," old Vandergrieft went on, calmly.
" She didn't know what that man's bru¬
tality might have made of you.
" These communications drew forth an
offer, on our part, of fifteen thousand dol¬
lars cash for the immediate restoration of
the child. The offer was accepted, but
two thousand were demanded first, to pay
expenses. Kendall's letters at this time
were post-marked Cincinnati, and the
money was ordered to be sent to that
place. It was remitted at once, and
then, as before, an interval of silence
ensued. Kendall had found that he had
made a good thing of it, and was evi¬
dently not going to give up the child till
he had secured the last cent that was to
be got out of the mother, even if he did
so then. You may wonder we did not
set detectives after him, but I knew Ken¬
dall ; he was too sharp for the police,
and would have been more apt to detect
them than they him. He had threatened
repeatedly that the first attempt to reach
the child by any means except through
negotiating with him would be the death-
warrant of the former, and I am con¬
vinced that, if his own safety had re¬
quired, he would have murdered you."
" I know he would," cried Rex, again
interrupting the speaker. " I bear on
my body to this day marks of that man's
cruelty to me when I was a child,—
there !" And rolling back his cuff he dis¬
played a faint purplish scar extending
entirely across his arm. This was more
than Mildred could stand, and, throwing
her arms round her lover's neck, she hid
her face on his shoulder and wept silent
tears of sympathy. Old Vandergrieft
regarded the young couple a moment
under his spectacles, then calmly pur¬
sued his narrative :
" Things went on in this way for more
than two years, Kendall making various
demands at different times of sums rang¬
ing from one thousand to five thousand
dollars, and enforcing payment from the
frantic mother by threatening to break
off negotiations altogether, and thus de¬
stroy the only hope of ever recovering
her child. In this way he got out of her,
not counting what I paid out of my own
means, more than fifteen thousand dol¬
lars in all, absorbing her entire income
for three years, and a large share of her
capital. These were no doubt the occa¬
sional windfalls alluded to in your narra¬
tive, which you supposed to have been
gained at play. At last, she made an
agreement to pay twenty-two thousand
dollars, all the property she had remain¬
ing, and to receive her child in return.
I was to repair in person to a certain
place which Kendall was to name, pay
him there the money agreed upon, and
take the child back to its mother. Every¬
thing was settled, and I was only wait¬
ing for Kendall to name the time and
place of meeting, when just at this point
the negotiations suddenly ceased, and we
never heard of Kendall or the child
again. The cause is now for the first
time made clear : it was Kendall's death.
I had always suspected till now, though
I never told my client so, that it was the
child who was dead. Kendall was prob¬
ably sincere at this time in his intention
to restore you to your mother," continued
Mr. Vandergrieft, with an indiscriminate
jumbling of the second and third persons
that was enough to confuse Rex as to his
own identity, " for the address he gave
was a genuine one. I was living with
my family at 558 Fifth Avenue at the
time of his evasion, but soon after re¬
moved to West Twenty-first Street. My
former residence was pulled down the
next year, to make way for the mansion
of a great railroad king, which absorbed
two or three adjoining houses ; that part
of the Avenue was, in time, remodelled,
and the numbers changed,—a fact which
will sufficiently account for the fruitless-
ness of your search.
" Years of disappointment and suffer¬
ing produced their natural effect upon
your mother. Her reason became disor¬
dered, her person the wreck that this
young lady has seen. She never gave
up hope,—or rather, I may say, she never
gave up struggling against her despair.
Her knowledge of Kendall's rapacity led
her to direct all her efforts toward raising
a sufficient bribe to tempt him to deliver
up the child. From the most extrava¬
gant and self-indulgent of her sex she
became the most miserly, denying her¬
self all but the barest necessaries of
life, in order that she might have the
larger bribe to offer for the recovery of
her son. Her property happened to be
in a part of the city where its value in¬
creased with enormous rapidity ; the
Atlantic and Great Northern Railroad
depot now stands on it, and the company
paid, fifteen,years ago, one hundred and
twenty-five thousand dollars for the land.
The next investment I made for her was
equally fortunate, trebling itself in a few
years, and as the income has been added
to the principal at the end of every year
for a quarter of a century, the original
MR. VANDERGRIEFT MAKES AN EXPLANATION. 165
sum, twenty-two thousand dollars, has
been doubled and trebled and quadrupled
over and over again, till my client has
died a millionnaire. This money was all
devoted to one object, and she seemed to
regard it as a sort of trust fund, which it
would be sacrilege to touch, except for
the ransom of her child.
" When Kendall's negotiations ceased
so suddenly, our only chance of open¬
ing communication again was through
his appointed medium, the Metropolitan.
You have probably noticed in the col¬
umns of that journal an advertisement
which reads thus :
" < W. C. K. $425,000 given if you will
restore what I have lost ; all former stip¬
ulations observed. Address the same
party as before.
M. Y. K.'
" That advertisement was meant for
Kendall's eye, and it has been standing
for twenty-five years, unchanged in a
word, except that the reward offered has
steadily increased from twenty-two thou¬
sand dollars, till to-day it is nearly half a
million. I long ago ceased to base any
hopes upon this overture, but your mother
clung with the persistency of a drowning
man to the only resource that seemed
left her, and I made it my duty to obey
implicitly and without question the de¬
mands of a client whose wishes I had
disregarded once too often.
"lour mother's character underwent
a complete change after the terrible
trouble that had come upon her. She
seemed to have become embittered against
the whole world, and shutting herself up
in the room where she has just died, ad¬
mitted, until this young lady," glancing
over his spectacles at Mildred, " contrived
to win her favor, absolutely no one to
her presence except myself and the
woman Judith, an old family-servant,
who has been her faithful friend through
all misfortunes. When she is carried
out of that room for burial, will be the
first time that she has left it, so far as I
know, for over twenty years. She pur¬
chased the house so as make sure of
never being compelled to leave it, lest
Kendall should some day return with the
boy and not know where to find her.
She resumed her maiden name of Vallée,
calling herself Madame Vallée, corrupted
by the people around her into Madame
Valley, a variation which she afterwards
adopted, the better to hide herself from
the knowledge of former friends. She
seemed now to live for but one object,—
to heap up money in the vain hope of
buying back her boy. For this she be¬
came the niggardly old woman she has
appeared to those who did not know her
in brighter days ; for this she became the
greedy usurer, the exacting proprietor,
the merciless creditor,—but that was not
her true character. The real Victorine
Vallée was a devoted Christian, a tender
friend, a faithful wife, a gentle, loving,
and lovely woman ; but, as I have said,
her mind had been disordered by her
troubles, and for years she has been, I
may say, a partial maniac. Though her
faculties were bright and clear to the
last on most subjects, there were others
upon which she was not to be held an
accountable being : her hardness, her
cynicism, her atheism were no parts of
herself; they were her insanity.
"As to the rest, this young lady here
can tell how it came to be discovered
that you were my client's son, as it was
through her that the discovery was made.
She has been much with your mother for
the last few months, and can tell you
more about her every-day life than I can.
There remains nothing more for me to
say now, except that the fine fortune you
have inherited is in my hands, subject
to your order."
The old man ended his narrative as
abruptly as he had begun it, chopping it
off at the close without superfluous com¬
ment. Rex sat with his face buried in
his hands, overcome by emotions too
deep for utterance.
Mildred rose silently as the old man
ceased speaking, and left the room. In a
few minutes she returned, and touching
Rex gently on the shoulder, whispered,—
" Come."
Ile rose and followed silently as she
led the way to the chamber where his
dead mother lay. He was very pale, and
his step unsteady. He was almost afraid
now to look upon the face he had been
dreaming about so long.
" Mildred," he said, staying her hand
an instant as she laid it on the latch, " is
the beautiful mother I have been wor¬
shipping so long utterly changed ?"
She understood him, and paused a mo¬
ment, half regretting to dispel the illu¬
sion ; ah, it would be a cruel shock for
him to see that weary, wasted face !
" Time and suffering have done their
work, Rex," she answered, softly, " but
she will always be young and beautiful
to us."
Mildred opened the door, and motioned
166
A MERE ADVENTURER.
him to enter, .then closing it softly behind
him, she quietly withdrew, leaving the
son alone with his dead mother.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
an old man's love.
" Optima quseqne dies miseris mortalibus sevi
Prima fugit ; subennt morbi, tristisque senectus
Et labor, et duree rapit inclementia mortis."
Virgil.
Mildred waited half an hour or more
before returning to the chamber of death
where she had left Rex with his mother.
She found him kneeling beside the corpse
with his face hid in the drapery that
covered it, and approaching softly, knelt
down beside him. Her presence seemed
to kindle his emotion afresh, and he be¬
gan to weep like a child.
" My poor mother," he cried, raising
his head and gazing sorrowfully into the
poor, wasted face, " if my love can be
anything to you now in that unexplored
world to which you are gone, know that
you shall be dearer to my heart for the
suffering you have endured than even
your tenderness could have made you,
had I been blessed with your presence
while living. Yes, mother, every line of
this poor, wasted face tells of your love
for me ; every circumstance of your
wrecked and ruined life makes me a
debtor to your memory for more than
ever child owed to the affection of a living
parent. Oh, if I had but found you in
time for my love to make some amends
for the past ! But now you can never
know your son, and all that I can do is
to cherish your meiûory as the most
sacred possession of my heart. Yes,
mother, you shall abide with me always ;
these cold kisses of yours," pressing his
lips to her withered cheek, " shall linger
on my lips forever, and even she whose
love has blessed my life," putting his
arm around Mildred and drawing her
closer to him, " shall be the dearer to my
heart because she was near to yours."
"And to think I should have known
her so long," cried Mildred, bitterly,
"and never found it out till too late!
My own heart ought to have told me, but
it was too full of its own selfish sorrow.
Dear mother, can you forgive me, even
now, for keeping your Rex's love all to
myself while you were pining and dying
for want of it?"
She rested her head on the lifeless
breast, and there was a long silence, in¬
terrupted only by the sound of suppressed
sobs. At last, wiping her eyes, and
looking up into her lover's face, Mildred
said,—
" There is something I want to tell
you, Rex ; I think it will be a satisfac¬
tion to you to know it, as it is to me."
" Speak on, darling."
"It is something she said to me the
last time we spoke together, just before
the fatal stroke came on. I did not know
then that she had a son ; I thought her
words were wild ; but, oh ! they seem so
precious to me now, for I think they
meant that if she could have chosen a
wife for her son her choice would have
been the same that he has made for him¬
self. She loved me a little for my own
sake, and if she could know all that we
are to each other now I am sure it would
content her well."
" God bless you both for that, Mildred !
You are each the dearer to me for the
other's sake. I shall never forget that I
owe the discovery of my mother to you,
and if anything could make you nearer
to my heart than you were before, it would
be the thought that you are the minister¬
ing angel that hovered over my mother's
dying bed ; that your sweet presence did
so much at last to fill the blank that the
loss of my unworthy love had made in
her life, and that the oflices it was denied
my hand to fill Avere so much better ren¬
dered by yours. Yes, it is a comforting
thought to me that my poor mother's life
had a little sunshine poured into it at
last from the same source whence springs
all the brightness of my own."
They knelt there a long time beside
the dead, and Mildred talked to the son
about the mother as a little while ago
she had talked to the mother about the
son, happy in feeling herself a connecting
link between them. That death should
have overtaken the mother in the very
act of bringing together those two so
near to her, though she knew it not, was
a touching thought to them both, and
drew them closer to her and to each
other.
Late that afternoon came a summons
from Mr. Gault for Rex to proceed at
once to his office. The chief had returned
from Saratoga a few hours before, and
had suddenly bethought himself of some
important business that he would like to
have Rex attend to before taking advan-
EOW ROY
TOOK IT.
167
tage of the leave of absence that had been
granted him. Hex's reply to the sum¬
mons produced a most startling effect
upon the old man. It was merely a short
note, excusing himself from obeying by
a brief statement of what had happened.
Mr. Gault turned pale as he read, and
his hand trembled violently. When he
had finished he stood a long time, motion¬
less as a statue, gazing into the remotest
bounds of space ; then, returning with a
sudden effort to the limits of the sub¬
lunary world, he repeated to himself two
or three times, in an agitated voice,—
" Can it be ! Can it be !" and catching
up his hat, hurried down-stairs and took
the cars for Bloomfield Street. There he
heard from Rex's own lips the story of
his newly-discovered parentage, and of
his mother s blighted life. The old man
was powerfully agitated at times during
the narrative, as appeared from his tightly-
pressed lips, and a strange, restless wan¬
dering of the eyes, usually so fixed in
their absent, far-away look ; but Rex was
too much engrossed with his own emo¬
tions to perceive the disturbance of his
companion.
When he had finished, Mr. Gault re¬
mained silent a long time, offering no
comment and expressing no surprise ;
then, rising from his seat and turning
towards the door, he said, in a subdued
voice,—
" Rex, let me look upon your mother's
face once before I go ; it is from no feel¬
ing of mere idle curiosity that I make
this request."
Rex arose and led the way to the room
where his mother's body lay prepared
for burial. He was about to open the
door, but Mr. Gault prevented him.
" No, Rex," he said, still in that
strange, subdued voice ; •" I wish to go
alone."
The young man, surprised at his man¬
ner, withdrew, and Mr. Gault entered
the chamber of death. Ile approached,
with a faltering step, the couch upon
which the corpse was laid, and, slowly
raising the white cloth that covered its
face, started suddenly back with an in¬
voluntary shudder.
" Great God ! can this be Victorine ?"
he cried, in a tone of horrified surprise,
as he stood gazing at the wreck that death
had left behind. The shock was terrible
at first, but he gradually gre\y familiar
with the spectacle, and his rugged face
became soft with a look of unwonted ten¬
derness. Kneeling down, he kissed the
withered hands reverently.
" You know now, Victorine," he said,
tenderly, while two tears stole unheeded
down his furrowed cheeks, " how much
better I loved you than did all the rest
of them then, covering the face again,
he silently withdrew from the room, and
hurried away home without speaking to
any one. Ile remained shut up in his
own house for several days, and when he
appeared on the streets again, his looks
were so altered that everybody who knew
him thought he had been through a se¬
vere illness.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
how rot took it.
"For which of you will stop
The vent of hearing when loud Rumor speaks?
I from the orient to the drooping west,
Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold
The acts commenced on this ball of earth ;
Upon my tongues continual slanders ride,
The which in every language I pronounce,
Stuffing the ears of men with false reports."
Shakspkare.
" Extemplo Liby» magnas it Fama per urbes :
Fama, malum quo non aliud velocius ullum;
Mohilitate viget, viresque acquirit eundo."
Virgil.
After the occurrences recorded in the
last chapter, Mr. Gault's attachment to
Van Dorn seemed to become stronger
than ever, and his benevolence extended
itself to the young man's fiancée also.
Indeed, if Mr. Gault had been a match¬
making old woman, and Mildred his
daughter, he could not have manifested
a livelier interest in the fortunes of the
young couple. He insisted upon taking
Mildred to his own house and keeping
her there, under his fatherly protection,
till after the marriage, which was neces¬
sarily delayed somewhat by the painful
occurrences that had just taken place in
the family of one of the parties most
nearly concerned.
The ceremony, of course, was to be
strictly private. Even if the recent death
of Rex's mother had not forbidden any
display upon the occasion, Mildred was
a woman of too much refinement and
good taste not to desire to avoid, rather
than invite, the sort of presse with which
public curiosity always invests the person
of a bride, especially when its gaze is
attracted by the vulgar éclat of a big
wedding. Marriage is something too sol¬
emn and sacred for its holy rites to be
converted into a public spectacle, and the
1G8
A MERE ADVENTURER.
taste which could suggest conspicuous
display on such an occasion must be, to
say the least, a very crude one.
The first thing Mildred did, after she
had had time to compose herself a little,
was to write to her brother and sister,
whom, with Mr. Gault, Mr. Yandergrieft,
and the two faithful servants, Judith and
Bridget, she desired to have as the only
witnesses of the ceremony. But the
scandal created by Rex's rash attempt
at elopement had reached them before
her letters. Such an escapade on the
part of a man whose talents had made
him a person of some social consequence,
was too tempting a morsel to be neglected
by the gossips. The affair got into the
newspapers, where it was spiced and
seasoned with high flavors of exaggera¬
tion till it became a delicious piece of
naughtiness, fit to satisfy the most pru¬
rient appetite. Mildred's old acquaint¬
ances, especially the female ones, began
to recollect her now that she furnished
such a convenient mirror against which
to reflect their own superior virtue, and
most of them suddenly remembered, too,
that they had never quite approved of
her. The news, of course, found its
way the first thing to No. 558 Fifth Ave¬
nue, and Mrs. Fairburn had just come in
to talk it over with Mrs. Macouley, when
the postman delivered Mildred's letter to
Fanny.
" Do you know, my dear, I always
thought her too flighty," Mrs. Fairburn
was saying to Mrs. Macouley, in a confi¬
dential whisper. " It is a bad sign when
a woman has tastes and occupations so
different from those that interest the ma¬
jority of her sex."
" Yes, these literary women are always
badly balanced," answered Mrs. Macou¬
ley, with a shake of her blonde head ;
" one never knows when they are going
to commit some extravagant folly."
" Why, what on earth could the girl have
been thinking about!" broke in Mrs. Fair-
burn, with a fresh burst of amazement at
Mildred's infatuation. "Mr. Henlow is
one of the very best matches to be found
anywhere, and even if she had not lost her
fortune, she could hardly have expected
to do better. Why, any girl in her senses
would have jumped at the chance ; but as
you say, Mrs. Macouley, these over-edu¬
cated women are always badly balanced ;
I never knew one to have any common
sense."
" Mildred's father made a great mis¬
take in bringing her up as he did,"
chimed in Mrs. Macouley, complacently.
" I am thankful my girls were educated
differently."
"Yes indeed, Mrs. Macouley," pur¬
sued Mrs. Fairburn, arranging the dia¬
mond cross that sparkled on her bosom,
" Mildred Loring never did care enough
for public opinion ; she was too original,
and originality, Mrs. Macouley, is a
dreadful thing in a woman."
" You are quite right, Mrs. Fairburn,"
returned Mrs. Macouley. " If Mildred
had been content to be like other women,
and remain in woman's proper sphere,
this dreadful scandal would never have
occurred. You remember, my dear, when
her father first lost his property, I offered
to recommend her to Mrs. Bankhouse as
governess for her children, where she
would have had a comfortable home with
eminently respectable people, and ten
dollars a month salary. It is not so
much, perhaps, as she has been able to
make in other ways, but what is money,"
sighed Mrs. Macouley, virtuously, "com¬
pared to a woman's character and posi¬
tion in the world?"
" Dear, dear, and to think how many
good offers she has refused," pursued
Mrs. Fairburn, musingly, "and then to
come to this ! I wonder if the man will
marry her now?"
" Of course not," replied Mrs. Macou¬
ley, authoritatively. " Men never do
marry women who compromise them¬
selves in that fashion. I am very sorry,"
she continued, drawing out with her
plump white fingers a long thread of the
Berlin wool she was knitting, "on
Fanny's account, for it will injure the
poor child's prospects if 6he is known to
have a sister who has acted in such a
dreadful manner, and it is very important
for a girl in Fanny's circumstances to be
settled in life as quickly as possible."
" By all means ; and for that reason I
would keep her entirely removed from
her sister's influence," said Mrs. Fair-
burn.
"Yes indeed," replied Mrs. Macouley,
promptly. "I have made up my mind
that there shall be no intercourse what¬
ever between the sisters as long as Fanny
remains under my care. I don't wish to
be uncharitably severe towards Mildred,
—I am the last person in the world to do
anything of that sort,—but I owe a duty
to my own family and to society, and
under the circumstances I shall feel com¬
pelled to drop her."
"And so shall I," echoed Mrs. Fair-
burn.
J us/ as she uttered the words Fanny
HOW ROY
TOOK IT.
169
came in with Mildred's letter, and gave
it to lier aunt to read.
"Well, my dear, of course you won't
go," said Mrs. Macouley to Fanny, when
she had finished the perusal. "Your
sister's conduct has been so very im¬
proper that you cannot, in justice to
yourself, countenance her in it. It is too
late for marriage to save her character
now, and I think, out of regard for your¬
self and your relations, you should de¬
cline all further intercourse with her."
" Yes, my dear, your aunt is quite
right," chimed in Mrs. Fairburn, offi¬
ciously. "Your sister has chosen her
own path, and has no right to complain
if her family do not choose to follow her
in it ; she can't expect you to compromise
yourself for her sake. What is it Miss
Loring wants?" continued Mrs. Fair-
burn, with the curiosity natural to her
sex, turning again to Mrs. Macouley.
Mrs. Macouley replied by handing her
Mildred's letter to read.
" Dear me !" exclaimed Mrs. Fairburn,
as she glanced over the contents, " so he's
going to marry her, after all! Well, a
precious business she has done for her¬
self, to refuse all the brilliant offers she
has had, and then have to put up with a
newspaper reporter at last ! You see
now, my dear," addressing herself with
an admonitory air to Fanny, " this is
what comes of putting off marrying too
late. A woman ought never to wait till
she is past twenty-one ; she loses all her
best chances by delay, and besides, your
sister's conduct will be apt to react upon
yourself and injure your own prospects,
unless you show a proper disposition to
condemn it."
"It was very wicked in Mildred to
show such utter disregard for the feel¬
ings of her family," said Mrs. Macouley,
indignantly. "Even if she has lost all
self-respect, she has no right to compro¬
mise the dignity of those who have the
misfortune to be connected with her.
She has created a dreadful scandal, and
cannot expect herself to be countenanced
any longer by respectable people. "
Fanny went to her room feeling that
she was somehow the injured victim of
Mildred's naughtiness, and, filled with
this impression, she penned the follow¬
ing answer to her sister's note:
"Dear Mildred,—
"Aunt Clara says you have made a
dreadful scandal, and of course you can't
expect us to countenance you any longer
after all the dreadful things you have
done. It will compromise my own pros¬
pects in life, having you for my sister,
unless I show a proper disposition to
condemn your conduct. You never would
do like other people, and this is what has
come of not being content to take some
of the good offers you have had and set¬
tle down in your own proper sphere, as
other women do. I am sorry, but if you
will do dreadful things and make people
talk, you must not expect me to com¬
promise myself by having anything more
to do with you."
As Fanny read over what she had
written she felt a secret qualm for its
coldness, and added, byway of apology,—
"You must not think me too hard on
you, Milly dear. I don't suppose you
meant any harm, but if you will do dread¬
ful things that make people talk, how can
I help feeling shocked at them ? You
know I was always telling you about
your ways, but you never would listen
to me. I am glad, at any rate, that you
are going to be married, and hope you
will be happy in spite of all the dreadful
things you have done. Your sister
" faxnv."
Mildred had just read this letter, and
was hesitating between a tear at its heart-
lessness and a smile at the very evident
sources of poor Fanny's inspiration, when
Rex Van Dorn entered, laughing heartily,
with an open letter in his hand. It was
the first time she had seen him at all dis¬
posed to mirth since the tragic dénoue¬
ment of his mother's melancholy history,
and pleased at the change, she darted
forward to meet him with an answering
smile upon her own lips.
" What do you think !" he cried,
scarcely able to speak for laughing, as
he flourished the paper before her eyes.
" I have just received a challenge to mor¬
tal combat!"
She knew it must be a joke, or he
would not have told her, yet she could
not help feeling a little uneasy.
"What do you mean?" she exclaimed,
seizing the paper that Rex held out to
her. " You can't be in earnest ; it isn't
a real bona fide challenge!"
"Yes, a challenge of the most peremp¬
tory and uncompromising character; a
challenge to deadly combat with a foe
thirsting for blood; a foe determined to
admit of no compromise, to grant no
quarter,—there !"
He gave the document into Mildred's
hand, and, sure enough, what should it
be bu# a formal challenge from Leroy,
170
A MERE ADVENTURER.
done up according to the strictest eti¬
quette of the code. The boy had heard
of the scandal that Rex's hair-brained
elopement had occasioned, and with his
Southern blood all on fire and his youth¬
ful ardor unchecked by wiser counsels,
had hastened to seek the only redress
which men's instinctive and healthy no¬
tions of honor allow where the character
and reputation of a lady is concerned.
Without stopping to inquire into the
matter, Roy had made up his mind for a
fight, and the first intimation Rex had of
his being in the city was the receipt of a
formal challenge from him.
Mildred grew pale as she read, in spite
of Van Dorn's reassuring laugh.
" What did you do, Rex?" she inquired,
anxiously.
"What did I do?" replied Rex, gayly.
"Why, I just behaved like the most
ignominious scoundrel you ever heard
of, backed square out and refused to
fight, without even trying to shelter my
pusillanimity behind the flimsy veil of a
conscientious scruple."
" I knew you wouldn't hurt the boy,"
Mildred said, looking gratefully up into
her lover's face; "but come, Rex, what
did you say in answer to this foolish
thing?"
"I ? Oh, I said I was ready to go down
on my knees and apologize, if he would
only vouchsafe not to assassinate me out¬
right; and if that didn't satisfy him, I
would even consent to make what atone¬
ment I could by marrying you."
Mildred laughed till the tears came
into her eyes.
"Oh, Rex, it is too comical !" she ex¬
claimed, as soon as she could find voice
to speak ; " but I hope you didn't ridicule
the poor boy too unmercifully, for, after
all, he was right in principle."
" Yes, I like the young rascal's pluck,"
said Rex, recovering his gravity, "and I
took care not to hurt his feelings, though
I couldn't help poking a little fun at him
too. I wrote him a brief account of the
real facts in the case, and requested him
to meet me here, and let us make a full
explanation all round and have an 'ami¬
cable adjustment.' I would not have
been surprised to find him here before
me."
In fact, while Van Dorn was speaking,
the door-bell rang, and the next moment
Roy was ushered into the room. Rex,
smothering his amusement, advanced
with a smile of welcome to meet the
young Hotspur.
"Well, Roy," he began, extending his
hand cordially, "you have received my
letter of explanation by this time, I hope,
and are ready to make friends."
Roy received the friendly overture in
sullen silence. He suspected Rex of a
secret disposition to laugh at him, and by
way of asserting his dignity began at
once to scold Mildred. He was used to
that, and knew how to go about it.
"Well, I do think you ought to be
ashamed of yourself, Mildred," he began,
walking straight up to her without deign¬
ing to bestow even a look upon Rex.
"On the contrary, I am at this mo¬
ment the proudest and happiest woman
in all New York," said Mildred, with a
smile, as she nestled fondly to her lover's
side. Rex put his arm round her waist.
" Come, Roy," he said, addressing
himself again to the sulky boy, " you see
you have got to put up with me for a
brother-in-law, so you might as well bear
it with a good grace, and come and let
us be friends once more."
Roy's old fondness for Rex began to
get the better of his dignity.
" It isn't that I mind,—I'd as soon
give my consent to her marrying you as
anybody," he said, with gracious conde¬
scension, "if she had only been content
to go along and get married without all
this fuss ; but Mildred never can be
satisfied to do like other people. If you
had stayed quietly at home like Fanny,
and let me take care of you, as I wanted
to do," he continued, turning to his
sister, " instead of bulging around the
world like a steam-engine, doing things
on your own hook, all this would never
have happened."
" But you forget one very important
point, Roy," answered his sister, with
a laugh; "if I hadn't gone 'bulging
around the world,' as you call it, I should
never have known Rex."
" And I never would have fallen in
love with her," added Rex, with a twinkle
in his eye, "if she had acted otherwise;
for you know if there is anything in the
world I do admire it is a 'bulger,' what¬
ever that may be."
Roy hesitated a moment, in doubt
whether to sulk or to laugh ; then, as his
eyes rested on Mildred, the comparison
that he had just applied to the refined,
elegant woman at Rex's side struck him
as so inexpressibly absurd, that he
yielded to the impulse and laughed out.
The upshot of it all was that he soon
became a sympathetic listener to the ad¬
ventures of the lovers, and left the house
at last, fi*lly persuaded that there wasn't
MR. GÁULT TELLS
A LITTLE STORY.
171
eucli another old trump in all the world
as his prospective brother-in-law.
When he was gone, Mildred handed
Rex Fanny's letter.
" Pshaw ! the girl is a fool," he mut¬
tered, under his breath, as he finished
reading ; then tossing the precious docu¬
ment aside, without further comment, he
turned to Mildred, exclaiming,—
" By the way, that reminds me of a
piece of news I heard on the streets as I
was coming here : Macouley & Fairburn
have suspended."
Mildred looked up.
" What, already ?"
" Yes ; liabilities, two million,—assets,
six thousand ; they've made a big haul."
CHAPTER XL.
mr. gault tells a little story.
" 'Tis necessity
To which the gods must yield ; and i obey."
Beaumont and Fletcher.
It was a busy time,—the few days imme¬
diately preceding the marriage. Mr. Gault
had associated Van Dorn with himself as
joint editor and proprietor of the Metro¬
politan, and in addition to the formali¬
ties incident to that important step, Rex
had his own private affairs to arrange
with Mr. Vandergrieft, and his first ini¬
tiation to make in the not very generally
familiar art of managing a large estate.
There seemed no end of consultations
and settlements, and drawing up and
signing of documents, but at last all these
prosaic matters were satisfactorily dis¬
posed of ; the last paper was duly signed
and sealed, and stowed away in its ap¬
propriate pigeon-hole, and there remained
nothing to mar the happy anticipation
of the future.
It was the night before the wedding.
Mildred had already retired, and Rex
was only lingering to have a few last
words with Mr. Gault relative to the
management of their beloved newspaper
while the junior editor was absent on his
bridal tour. The old man seemed weary
and abstracted, and Rex, thinking he
wanted rest, made haste to finish his
business, and was about to withdraw,
when Mr. Gault suddenly roused him¬
self, and requested the young man to
resume his seat.
Rex obeyed. Mr. Gault did not speak
immediately, but relapsing into his re very
sat for some time gazing absently into
the fire, or rather through the fire into
the vacant depths of space; then, all at
once, raising his eyes and fixing them
upon the face of his companion, he said,
abruptly,—
"Van Dorn, I have a little story to
tell you,—about an old lover of your
mother's."
The name of his mother was always a
magic sound to Rex, and the sudden sur¬
prise Mr. Gault's words occasioned made
him start and fasten upon the speaker a
look of eager inquiry.
" Yes," continued Mr. Gault, answering
the look ; " I knew your mother once,—I
was born in New Orleans."
Rex assumed a listening attitude, and
his face wore an expression of the deep¬
est interest. After a little pause, Mr.
Gault went on :
" lier father, Mr. Vallée, in addition
to his other ample possessions, was chief
proprietor of the leading newspaper in
the city. I was a journeyman printer in
the establishment. My parentage was
very humble ; I never had any advan¬
tages of either home or school training,
but I was ambitious and I was industri¬
ous. I studied hard, I worked hard, and
I gradually rose. I was the best composi¬
tor in the office : the knowledge I had
picked up by assiduous reading kept me
from making the blunders over hard
names and technical words that ordinary
printers so often fall into, and by and by
I began to be trusted to make up a col¬
umn of general news, or to report a city
item now and then, or clip a few selec¬
tions from exchanges, or perform some
other not very conspicuous work about a
paper. Remember, that was over forty
years ago, when the management of a
newspaper, especially in the South, was
a very different thing from what it is now.
" My efforts gave satisfaction. I was
gradually trusted more and more. Mr.
Vallée began to notice me ; he seemed to
like me, and lost no opportunity of show¬
ing his good will. He gave me a gener¬
ous helping hand as I worked my way
up in business, and even undertook to
gain me a footing in society by intro¬
ducing me at his own house. It was a
foolish venture for a poor and obscure
man, especially in those days when social
distinctions were rigidly insisted upon by
the haughty aristocracy of the South :
but I was young then ; I had great faith
in the power of merit ; I was ignorant
of the supreme importance of breeding
172
A MERE ADVENTURER.
and culture,—ignorant of my own unfit¬
ness for such society, and, fool that I was,
I rushed upon my fate.
" I shall never forget that night when I
first set my presumptuous foot within the
charmed circle where I was never meant
to tread. It was at a ball given by Miss
Vallée to some Northern friends who were
spending the carnival season with her.
Ilow surpassingly beautiful she appeared
to me, who then beheld her for the first
time, you can never understand. It
would be necessary to see her as she was
then, in the glory of her youth, and to
remember that such a vision of beauty
and grace was a new experience to my
untutored eyes, in order to comprehend
its effect upon me. But if her beauty
had been all I might have escaped; it
was her goodness, her delicate regard for
the poor printer's feelings, that did the
business for me.
" Of course I was awkward and out of
place in the society to which I had been
introduced. I was totally unfitted for it :
my home associations had been of the
humblest sort; I had no accomplish¬
ments, no graces of person or manner,
and the light conversation of the ball¬
room was an unknown tongue to me.
Nobody spoke to me, nobody noticed me,
and my position would have been very
uncomfortable but for the exquisite tact
of your mother, who, observing my isola¬
tion, came up to me, and devoted herself
to my entertainment with a disinterested¬
ness that must have been heroic. I was
too ignorant of the world then to see
through the graceful and gracious arts
by which a well-bred woman knows so
well how to put an awkward guest at his
ease. I thought she felt a genuine inter¬
est in me ; I know now she must have
been terribly bored by me. She drew me
out with such skill, she led the conversa¬
tion so naturally and so easily to subjects
that I knew how to talk about, she ap¬
peared to take such a lively interest in
everything that interested me, she was
such an attentive listener, such a grace¬
ful talker, that I forgot my shyness in
her presence ; I forgot myself entirely
for the moment, and felt as much at ease
as the best bred gentleman among them.
" I did not know how to dance, but she
contrived that I should escort her to the
supper-table, and managed to invest me
with such importance by he* notice, that
several other ladies allowed me to be
presented to them, but none could draw
me out as she did. My old awkwardness
came over me again as soon as I tried to
talk with other women. Strange to say,
though I felt her to be superior to them
all, she was the only one who could make
me forget my own inferiority. I saw that
some were disposed to patronize me ;
others were graciously condescending ;
with all there was apparent effort, and I
felt that I was a failure.
" With her it was different ; there was
no appearance of condescension, no con¬
scious effort,—all seemed genuine. It
was that kind of notice which makes a
man respect himself for being the object
of it, and adore the woman who bestows
it upon him. Oh, what an art it is that
high-bred women possess of making us
pleased with ourselves ! A beautiful,
graceful, but dangerous art, that throws
a charm over the world they live in,—
and all the more beautiful, and all the
more dangerous to me, because I never
suspected that it was art.
" If I had known more of the world, per¬
haps I might have been wiser, but I can¬
not tell ; wisdom has never yet been able
to save a man from love,—and I was in
love : that one night sealed my destiny."
The old man paused, and sat gazing
into the fire with that far-off look of his,
as though he were gazing down the long
vista of years that divided him from his
youth. Rex did not disturb his reflec¬
tions ; he was deeply moved himself, and
waited in silence for the old man to re¬
sume his narrative. This he did, after a
long pause.
" I knew," he continued, recovering
himself with a slight effort, " that my
love was worse than hopeless. I never
once had the presumption to fix my aim
so high, and I ought to bave had the
wisdom to keep away from your mother's
presence ; but love is never wise, nor was
I. On the contrary, I was constantly at
Mr. Arallée's house after that night. His
liking for me seemed to increase every
day, and he loaded me with kindness and
attentions. I have sometimes thought,
from the extreme favor with which he
regarded me, and the flattering opinion
he expressed of my capacities, that per¬
haps he would not have objected to me
as a son-in-law,—but it was not to be.
Though I had not the wisdom to keep
out of danger, I at least had not the folly
to deceive myself with a hope, and Yic-
torine never deceived me. She was a
coquette ; she flirted and trifled with
other men, but she had the grace to
spare such humble game as I. Though
I never dared unfold to her my love, she
knew it all the same, and I think she
MR. GAULT TELLS
A LITTLE STÖRT.
173
pitied me, and generously endeavored to
extinguish the flame she had unwittingly
kindled. She treated me always with
that sort of sisterly kindness which is
more crushing to the hopes of a lover
than open aversion, and when she became
engaged to your father, one of the first
things she did was to confide the secret
to me. It was delicately, generously
done, and I underètood the hint. The
very next day I signified to Mr. Vallée
my intention of leaving the city and
pushing my fortunes elsewhere. He was
grieved, but I think he suspected my
motive, and did not endeavor to dissuade
me. I promised to write to him, but I
never did, nor even made use of the val¬
uable letters of recommendation with
which he provided me. I had learned
wisdom at last, and resolved to cut my¬
self off forever from all chance of even
bearing of Victorine. To think of her
as the wife of another was death to me,
so I determined to blot her forever out
of my existence. I kept my resolution,
and from that time till the day when I
looked upon her face after the blight of
death had passed over it, I never saw or
heard of Victorine again."
There was another pause, and a bright
drop fell unheeded from the old man's
eye, as he sat silently gazing into the
fire. Rex drew nearer, and laid his
hand on the arm of his companion's
chair.
"You know now, my boy," continued
Mr. Gault, resting his hand kindly on
the young man's shoulder, "the secret
of my friendship and attachment for you.
Perhaps you may be inclined to ask how
I came to know of your parentage. I
did not know, but I felt a strong inward
conviction of the fact,—a conviction,
however, unsustained by any proofs that
would have warranted me in confiding
my surmises to you. When you first
came to me, seeking employment, I was
struck with your name,—Mr. Vallée,
your grandfather, was called Reginald,
—and with something in your voice and
manner that reminded me of my old
friend. Besides, I saw your father once :
his face made a lasting impression upon
me, and you are strikingly like him. I
would not have been the more favorably
inclined to you on that account, perhaps,
but I determined to give you a trial for
your mother's sake, and I am rejoiced to
say that I have never repented" the deter¬
mination. Later, when in answer to my
inquiries, which must have seemed to
you at the time a little impertinent, you
confided to me, with evident reluctance,
a brief outline of your history, the facts
seemed so utterly at variance with my
previous knowledge of the position and
prospects of your family, that I could
not reconcile them with my belief that
you were Victorine's son. Not wishing
to harass you with fresh doubts and un¬
certainties by suggesting an opinion that
might, perhaps, after all, be founded
upon a mere coincidence of names and
resemblances, I concluded to say nothing
to you of my own conjectures unless
they could be verified by some positive
evidence. If I had known of the minia¬
ture in your possession, it would have
resolved the last doubt ; but you neg¬
lected to mention it in the brief state¬
ments made to me, and I had to seek for
evidence elsewhere. Unknown to you, I
set detectives at work immediately to
unravel the mystery, if possible ; but all
their efforts were fruitless. The great
civil war had intervened, you know, de¬
stroying records, and blotting from men's
minds the memory of things that were
before. The only certain information
I could ever obtain was that your father
had been killed in the Mexican war,
leaving a widow with one child, but
whether a son or a daughter I could not
discover. There all trace was lost, and
the most natural conclusion seemed to
be, if your story were true, that your
mother had died while you were an infant.
Ah, what blind tools we are at last in
the hands of destiny ! Here we have all
been groping blindfold, as it were, for so
many years, in search of what lay right
under our hands, and we knew it not !
It would have been § thought worth
carrying with me to my grave if I could
have had the privilege of finding out
Victorine before she died and restoring
to her her son."
Rex was deeply moved. " Mr. Gault,"
he said, looking with moistened eyes into
the old man's face, "if the gratitude of
the son can make any compensation for
the love that the mother could not give,
let me spend my life paying the debt.
Oh 1 my best of friends, I have never
known a father, but you have been more
than one to me, and shall always fill a
father's place in my heart and in my
home. My wife shall be to you a
daughter, and I will be to you a son, and
you shall have from our hearts not grat¬
itude merely, but the honor, love, and
reverence of affectionate children for a
beloved parent."
He was as good as his word. His
174
A MERE ADVENTURER.
house one day became the old man's
home,—the peaceful refuge of his latter
days,—where " honor, love, obedience,
troops of friends," the sweet accompani¬
ments of old age, waited on his declining
years and soothed his passage to the
grave. Rex and Mildred each gave him
a father's place in their heart. He lived
to see their children playing around him,
and to fondle in his arms a little Yic-
torine, whose dimples, and roses, and
baby smiles were prophetic, let us hope,
of a brighter destiny than that which
clouded the life of her unhappy namesake.
There remains but little more to tell.
Our old friends, Judith and Biddy, were
both adopted into the household of Mr.
and Mrs. Van Dorn, where they remained
contentedly, the former till her death at
a ripe old age, the latter till the more
felicitous occasion of her marriage with
a thrifty young carpenter of her own
nation, when she was set up by Mrs.
A au Dorn in a modest establishment of
her own. It may also gratify the reader
to know that, through the generosity of
Mr. and Mrs. Van Dorn, Patrick's blind
old aunt was prevented from feeling very
severely the consequences of her little
speculation in the Mattapony Mills.
The Macouleys and Fairburns went
abroad soon after the second failure of
the firm, in order to economize, Mrs.
Macouley said, because it was so much
cheaper living in Europe than in Amer¬
ica. They seem to have done their econ¬
omizing in a very pleasant fashion, for
their names have figured conspicuously
for several seasons in the society columns
of the London and Paris journals, where
the magnificent toilets of the two Amer¬
ican heiresses are much commented upon.
A recent number of a leading London
journal hints at the approaching mar¬
riage of a French marquis, well known
in both London and Parisian society, to
a certain fair American, Miss K. M.,
famous for her piquante wit and splendid
attire ; a description which her friends
on this side the water find no difficulty
in applying to the vivacious Kate Macou¬
ley. The same paper, in its account of
a drawing-room recently held by the
queen, speaks of the sensation created by
the Misses Macouley, of New York, who
almost outshone royalty itself in the
magnificence of their jewels and laces.
From all these things it may be inferred
that the Macouleys have " economized"
with great success, since we all know
that both diamonds and marquises are
very expensive luxuries, and must always
be paid for in cash.
Fanny was married, just before the
family left for Europe, to Mr. Thompson
Ilenlow. She has never withdrawn her
edict of excommunication against Mil¬
dred on account of the scandal occasioned
by her.
Roy has not yet startled the world with
any remarkable invention. lie calls on
Rex every now and then for two or three
hundred dollars, just to get things started,
as he says, but somehow things never do
get beyond the starting-point. He is
very sanguine, however, in his expecta¬
tion of doing something some of these
days, and when he does the reader will
doubtless hear of it.
Mildred and Rex are as happy as the
little prince and princess at the end of a
fairy tale. Society was disposed to os¬
tracize them at first, on account of the
scandal preceding their marriage, but
when it found that they had an elegant
establishment, with half a million to back
it, society began to take a more charita¬
ble view of the matter, and to conclude
that Mrs. Van Dorn was not so much to
blame after all ; for things will be mis¬
represented, you know, and it is so hard
to get at the exact truth, etc., etc.; and
so, after talking the matter over with its
neighbor, society came to the conclusion
that it would visit her. But Mrs. Yan
Dorn did not care particularly about be¬
ing visited, and so the charitable inten¬
tions of society were, to some extent,
frustrated. Still, though very domestic
in her tastes, and not much addicted to
what is known as mere fashionable soci¬
ety, she is not unreasonably exclusive or
averse to good company, and if the sym¬
pathetic reader desires to make her ac¬
quaintance, he will doubtless meet with
a gracious reception.
THE END.
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