SffiSSasS&'^v::^ 
 
of tlje 
 
 dJnitier^itp of Jfi3ottf) Carolina 
 
 Collection ot jRottfi CatoUniana 
 gofin feprunt ^(11 
 
 of t|)e (2IIa)30 of 1889 
 
 C8i3 
 
 R.35Qr 
 
This book must not 
 be taken from the 
 Library building. 
 

QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 BY 
 
 CHEISTIAN EEID, 
 
 ATJTHOB OF 
 "A DATJGHTEB OF BOHE-MIA," " VALEEIE ATLMEK," "MOETON nOL'SE," ETC., ETC. 
 
 A 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY^ 
 
 549 AND 551 BROADWAY. 
 
 1876. 
 
ExTEEED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S75, by 
 
 D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 
 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
OONTEISTTS. 
 
 BOOK I, 
 
 IN WHICH THE THREADS ARE JOINED TOGETHER, 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. A Fight with Fortune, 
 II. Two Faces, . 
 
 III. Basil's Yexation, 
 
 IV. Unconditional Surrender, 
 y. " The Claimant," 
 
 VI. Mary Carlisle, 
 Vn. Mr. Devereux's Interview, . 
 VIII. A Visit of Congratulation, 
 
 IX. Rosalind takes a Walk, 
 X. Roses and Thorns, 
 
 XI.. Mr. Devereux enters Society, 
 
 PAGB 
 
 1 
 11 
 
 22 
 31 
 39 
 50 
 65 
 '79 
 90 
 102 
 115 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 IN WHICH THE SHUTTLE IS THROWN. 
 
 I. By the Wayside, 
 n. Theatricals — and other Matters, 
 
 III. At the Lodge, 
 
 IV. " On Pleasure bent," 
 
 ^ V. The Result of Pleasure, 
 iQ VI. Madeleine returns to Stansbury, 
 ^ VII. " La Belle Odalisque," 
 !y*N'III. A Mode of Compromise, 
 
 Vi 
 
 IX. The Eve of Battle, 
 
 127 
 139 
 152 
 167 
 178 
 185 
 lOV 
 208 
 219 
 
IV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 WARP AND WOOV. 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. Basil's Mind is relieved, 
 
 II. Defeat on the Eve of Victory, 
 
 III. The End of the Suit, 
 
 IV. Mary's Answer, 
 
 V. Behind the Scenes, 
 VI. Rosalind makes a Request, 
 VII. "Try not to think the Worst of Me," 
 VIII. Mr. Devereux explains Himself, . 
 
 PAGB 
 
 227 
 239 
 
 250 
 257 
 265 
 270 
 280 
 297 
 
 BOOK IV 
 
 IN WHICH THE WEB IS CUT 
 
 I " For Better, for Worse," . 
 
 II " Thy Face across his Fancy comes," 
 
 III. Mrs. Ingram utters a Warning, 
 
 IV "A Sound of Revelry," 
 
 V " Evil is wrought by Want of Thought," 
 
 VI " When the Lamp is shattered," 
 
 VII The Last of Earth, 
 
 311 
 321 
 331 
 339 
 351 
 300 
 369 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 TANGLED THREADS. 
 
 I An Unexpected Inheritance, 
 
 11 The Message of the Dead, . 
 
 III The Beginning of the End, 
 
 IV The Cost of Sacrifice, 
 
 V " Some there be that Shadows kiss," 
 
 VI The Last Appeal, 
 
 VII Devereux tells his Story, 
 
 VIII Madeleine's Answer, 
 
 376 
 387 
 395 
 409 
 418 
 425 
 436 
 448 
 
 BOOK VI. 
 
 IN WHICH SOME THREADS ARE SMOOTHED. 
 
 I " Last Regret, Regret can die ! " 
 
 II. Devereux is recalled, 
 
 ni. A Lost Ideal, 
 
 rv Among the Roses, 
 
 456 
 466 
 475 
 483 
 
A QUESTION OF HONOR 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 m WHICH THE THREADS ARE JOINED TOGETHER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A FIGHT WITH FORTUNE. 
 
 The elms look like burnislied gold in the dreamy October 
 sunliglit, as their arching boughs meet over the quiet street in 
 the town of Stansburv, on which stands the house that for sev- 
 eral generations has been the home of the Severns. It is a solid, 
 stately, old-fashioned house, set in the midst of a grove of oaks, 
 the youngest of which cannot possibly " circle in the grain " less 
 than seventy years. In the depths of these oaks a red glory 
 seems to be kindled as the sinking sun sends his level rays among 
 their boughs, giving an effect beyond description to the heavily- 
 massed foliage. A feast of color meets the eye, turn where one 
 will. Every tint of russet and bronze, of scarlet and gold and 
 purple, is to be seen, mingled as only Nature, chiefest and most 
 daring of artists, knows how to mingle her colors. In the morn- 
 ing the trees seem hung with jewels, the air sparkles, the sun- 
 shine streams like molten gold, the soft blue haze hangs ove." 
 every thing like a glamour of enchantment. But the afternoon 
 which is more mellow, is also less joyous. As the elms throve 
 their long shadows across the street, as the great oaks begin tc 
 wear their crowns of fire, as the crimson evening light streams 
 
2 A QUESTION OF IIONCR. 
 
 on the moss-grown palings and tall cedar-hedge of the Severn 
 place — lighting up, as if with an illumination, the windows of the 
 house — the subtile sadness which dwells in all autumnal beauty 
 deepens almost to a sense of pain. 
 
 There is something in the place itself which is suggestive of 
 melancholy, some people think ; though there are others who 
 like nothino: better than these old houses which are full of the 
 dignity of age. The Severn house is one of them. It is of brick, 
 substantially built after the manner of a past generation, though 
 there is nothing inconveniently ancient about it, owing to its 
 having been remodeled once or twice according to modern ideas 
 of comfort. Its dark tone gives it a somewhat sombre look, as 
 it stands among the large brown trunks and green, overhanging 
 boughs of its noble oaks, but this aspect pleases the eye which 
 is able to appreciate the exquisite repose that dwells in subdued 
 coloring. There is a stone-flagged portico in front, and many 
 quaint, pleasant nooks both within and without, while a growth 
 of English ivy spreads like a green wall over its western side, 
 climbing to the very attic-window, and almost closing up one or 
 two of the chamber-casements. The grounds surrounding the 
 house are very spacious. On one side is a stretch of close-shorn 
 turf, over which a few beautiful evergreens are set, while on 
 the other a hedge divides the lawn from one of the most attrac- 
 tive of old-fashioned gardens, where cedar and box, roses and 
 mignonette flourish, and there is always fragrance and repose. 
 Strangers are invariably struck by the air of space and comfort 
 which pervades every thing. " How much room 3'ou have ! " 
 'they say. Of late years Basil Severn has begun to find that 
 there is almost too much room for a poor man ; the Severns, as 
 a family, being among the number of those who, at the close of 
 the war, found it necessary to take that downward step in the 
 scale of fortune which is agreeable to none of us. 
 
 Root and branch they have always been *' good people," these 
 Severns — by which it is not meant to be implied that they have 
 ever been particularly remarkable for piety, but that they have 
 held an assured financial and social position in their native 
 
A FIGHT WITH FOrvTUXE. 3 
 
 place, that they come of good blood, that they have possessed 
 good-breedhig, and that it has nev^er been possible to question 
 their integrity. With regard to the last point, in especial, they 
 have always held their heads very high. No one could say 
 that they had ever wronged others in little or great, no fraudu- 
 lent transaction was ever laid to their charge, no creditor ever 
 repented having trusted them, no security ever paid their debts. 
 They were none of them — even in the palmy days of their pros- 
 perity — very rich men, but they were all of them, at all times 
 and under all circumstances, unfailingly honest men. 
 
 Better than gold or silver is the inheritance of such a name ; 
 yet, goodly as the tree was, it did not bear an exceeding amount 
 of fruit — and of that fruit not a little perished in the blossom- 
 ing. This happened so often, that people in general spoke of 
 the Severns as being " not a long-lived family; " and when Fran- 
 cis Severn girded on his sword and went to the war, taking his 
 two young sons with him, the men who staid comfortably be- 
 hind shook their heads in foreboding prophecy. " He wdll 
 never come back," they said. " There seems a bad luck about 
 these Severns. None of them ever get beyond middle age ; and 
 they are the last people in the world to come safely out of the 
 army, for they are all so remarkably hot-headed and rash." The 
 value and accuracy of amateur prophecy may as a general rule 
 be rated at a cipher, but this was an instance in which events 
 verified all that was predicted. Too soon for the cause he loved, 
 and for his own fame, came the bullet which ended Francis Sev- 
 ern's life ; yet not too soon for it to be written of him that he 
 had done good service to his country, and that when, at the 
 close of a hard-fought day, he was found with a placid smile on 
 his pale face, in the front ranks of the slain, dead on the field of 
 honor, no man durst say that his death had been less stainless 
 than his life, or that a braver soldier ever 
 
 " Surrendered his fair soul unto his captain — Christ." 
 
 A year later, his youngest son — a boy with the face of a girl, 
 and the soft brown Severn eyes — fell in a cavalry-skirmish ; and 
 
4 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 so, ia the silence and sadness of that terrible spring of Sixty- 
 five, it was Basil, the eldest son, who alone returned to the 
 home from which the proud father and his gallant boys had 
 passed with the May roses four long years before. 
 
 Sitting there in the shadow of grief — as women liav^e no 
 choice but to sit — he found his step-mother, his sister Madeleine, 
 and his half-sister Rosalind. The two latter had been children 
 when the whirlwind of war first broke over the land. They 
 came to meet him now, tall women in their close mourninof 
 garb. His furloughs had been short and far between — for Ba- 
 sil was too good a soldier to ask for many — and so he felt be- 
 wildered as he looked around. "Was that pale woman, in her 
 widow's cap, his father's beautiful second wife, whom the Stans- 
 bury people in a body had admired, envied, and copied five 
 years before, who had led whatever fashion there was in Stans- 
 bury to lead, and had made the house so gay and attractive 
 when the boys came home from college to flirt and dance ? TVas 
 that stately young lady, wdth the sweet smile and the soft eyes 
 — eyes like those of the young soldier who was dead — the Made- 
 leine whom he had left an unformed school-girl ? And — crown- 
 ing miracle of transformations — w^as this Hebe, whose bloom 
 startled him like a burst of sunshine when she entered the room, 
 the little Rosalind who had been his plaything in the old time? 
 It was with something of a pang that the realization of these 
 changes came to the young man. They seemed to imply so 
 much. The}^ seemed to mark almost as clearly as the officer's 
 sword hanging beneath his father's portrait, and crossed with 
 poor Frank's cavalry-sabre, the great gulf which yawned be- 
 tween the life which had been and the life which was. 
 
 But he soon found that many other changes had been 
 wrought, more vital than these. Times had changed, and men 
 had changed with them. Political anarchy engendered social 
 anarchy, and demoralization swept like an epidemic over the 
 land. There came a renunciation of integrity and an absolute 
 denial of honor which appalled all those who were strong 
 enough to withstand the contagion. Men seemed to fling prin- 
 
A FIGHT WITH FORTUNE. 5 
 
 ciples to the winds, and no obligation to tlie living or dead was 
 strong enough to bind them. They were terrible and evil days 
 — days such as always follow in the wake of a revolution — and 
 among the fortunes which went down in the great wreck was 
 that of the Severns. 
 
 With common honesty and fair dealing, there would have 
 been no necessity for this, but many with whom Francis Severn 
 had been intimately connected in business relations — men whom 
 he had trusted and obliged, men for whom he had died while 
 they sat in comfort and security at home — repaid the debt by 
 defrauding his children. It was a mode of paying debts very 
 common in those days. Basil, who had gone straight from the 
 class-room to the field, naturally found himself at a loss when 
 opposed to men who had grown old in the intricacies of busi- 
 ness. His father's estate was large and very complicated. Of 
 claims against it, he found an amoimt that astonished him — cer- 
 tain as he was that many of them were palpably unjust. Of 
 its claims aorainst others he found scarcelv one which his friend 
 and kinsman, Mr. Carlisle — the only man in Stansbury on whom 
 he could rely for a word of honest advice — told him was worth 
 more than waste-paper. 
 
 " Not one man in a thousand stands by his obligations in 
 these days," that gentleman said. " It is the carnival of rogues, 
 and we are able to see how many there are who have hitherto 
 worn the sheep's-clothing of honest men. It almost tempts me 
 to turn cynic in my old age, and think that, after all, opportunity 
 is alone necessary to make a thief, or a swindler." 
 
 " It shall not make either of me," said Basil. " I shall pay 
 my father's debts to the last farthing, if it takes every acre of 
 his land and every dollar of his property to do so." 
 
 "And while 5'ou are making a ruinous sacrifice of 3'our 
 father's property," said the old man, knitting his bushy white 
 eyebrows above his small, piercing gray eyes, " what steps do you 
 mean to take with regard to the men who owe Mm so heavily ? " 
 
 " I shall institute legal proceedings against them," said Ba- 
 sil, in his simplicity. 
 
6 A QUESTION OF nONOR. 
 
 The other raised his eyebrows and his shoulders together. 
 "Legal proceedings — legal fiddlesticks!" he said. "Such swin- 
 dlers laugh at the law. Their property is secured out of reach 
 — you cannot touch it." 
 
 " Well," said the young man, with a brave smile on his lip, 
 though his eyes were sad enough, " I can only say that it is 
 better to be swindled than to swindle, better to be robbed than 
 to rob. I envy none of these men their ill-gotten prosperity, 
 and I am sure that, if my father could speak from his grave, he 
 would bid me think first of his name and last of his property." 
 
 " But you must also think of your step-mother and sisters. 
 What is to become of them ? " 
 
 " It would not be possible for me to hesitate with regard to 
 what is honest if the alternative was that of throwino^ them on 
 the world homeless," said Basil. " But I trust it is not so bad 
 as that. We may be able to save the house in town, and I can 
 work for them. I have my right arm, you know. Many a poor 
 fellow came out of the army without his." 
 
 " Your right arm ! " growled Mr. Carlisle. " And what can 
 your right arm do for 3^ou ? " 
 
 He was pleased by the young man's resolute bravery, how- 
 ever, his straightforward honesty and determination to face the 
 worst, and, though accounted by the world in general a very cold 
 and selfish man, he went out of his way to assist him in the 
 storm of financial trouble which came on his inexperienced shoul- 
 ders. Out of the wreck of a large estate, Basil would not have 
 succeeded in saving any thing but for Mr. Carlisle's advice and 
 assistance. 
 
 *' The plantations must go," the latter said ; " there is no help 
 for it. You know nothing of planting, and, face to face with the 
 labor-question, which is making the most experienced planters 
 tremble, you would find yourself involved in an endless amount 
 of difficulty. The thing to do will be to buy the town-house. 
 It will be a home for your mother and sisters, at least. Of 
 course," he added, abruptly, " I mean that I will assist you to do 
 so." 
 
A FIGHT WITH FORTUNE. 7 
 
 Severn was not expecting such an offer as this, and it sur- 
 prised him ; but he felt that, for the sake of tliose who were 
 more helpless than himself, he could not refuse it — even if his 
 pride had been averse to accepting the obligation. But in truth 
 this was not so. His pride was of finer temper than that, and 
 he accepted, as in other circumstances he would have given — 
 frankly, gratefully, and without awkwardness or servility. Only 
 he said something about disliking to begin his life with a weight 
 of debt. 
 
 " How can you help it?" asked his practical friend. " I know 
 it is bad ; but show me a remedy ? I would not propose such a 
 plan if there was one. But I can easily spare the money; and if you 
 should never rejDay me, I do not think poor Mary w^ould miss it." 
 
 "If I live, I will certainly repay you," said Basil, wringing 
 his hand. " But, all the same, God bless you, sir ! " 
 
 People — to wit, some pious " church-members," w^ho found 
 no difficulty in combining a lively interest in things to come 
 with a keen knowledge of how, when, and w^iom to cheat in 
 things present — often said that Archibald Carlisle acted as if he 
 did not believe in a God ; but it is certain that the above simple 
 benediction remained with the. old man, who, if he had lived 
 like a heathen all the days of his life, had at least the advantage 
 over some of his professedly Christian critics, that he had lived 
 like an upright one. And when, not long afterward, Basil gave 
 him a note for the amount he had advanced — he absolutely re- 
 fused a mortgage on the purchased house — the first thing which 
 he did after taking it home, was to burn it. Then he sat down 
 and addressed a letter to the young man — to be delivered after 
 his death: 
 
 " I have burned your note," he wrote, " because I do not wish 
 any repayment of the money which I have advanced to you. It 
 is a small sum taken from the fortune which I shall leave poor 
 Mary, and she would be heartily glad if she knew the manner in 
 which it has been bestowed. I beg 3'Ou to accept it freely- 
 taking it, if you prefer to do so, in the light of a legacy wdiich 1 
 might have left you in my will if I had not desired to give you 
 
8 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 tlie benefit of it at an earlier date. People do not feel the 
 wei2:lit of obli<2:ations to dead men — indeed, it is but a poor form 
 of generosity to give what we can no longer use — neither do 
 they refuse their bequests. I shall wait, therefore, until j^ou 
 cannot refuse this my bequest, and I sliould be truly sorry if you 
 felt any sense of obligation to me, for I liked your father sin- 
 cerely, and I like yourself. I have been glad, therefore, to serve 
 you." 
 
 The hand which wrote these kmd words was lying in the 
 BtiflF coldness of death — its life-work over and done — when Basil 
 read them ; and it was not strange that they should have brought 
 a choking into his throat and a mist before his eyes. Those who 
 have known only prosperitj^ — and who, therefore, have had the 
 gratification of meeting generous and obliging friends at every 
 step in life — can form little idea of the mighty throb of grateful 
 affection which the young man paid to the memory of the sin- 
 gle friend who had stretched oiit a hand to him in the hour of 
 his extremity. 
 
 But this came afterward. At the time of that extremity, 
 affairs, even despite Mr. Carlisle's generous assistance, looked 
 very dark for the Severns. Two large plantations were sold for 
 a quarter of their real value ; so, also, a great deal of property 
 in Stansbury — Basil contenting himself with buying the house in 
 which they lived. Every thing realized from these sales was swal- 
 lowed wp by the claims of the creditors. Nothing w^hatever was 
 left from which the family of the dead soldier could derive an in- 
 come ; and when every thing w^as at last clear, Basil was con- 
 fronted by the absolute necessity of finding some means of 
 making bread for himself, and the delicately-nurtured women 
 who were dependent on him. 
 
 Again he went to Mr. Carlisle. "What can I do?" he 
 said. " A house and garden will not support us, nor even pay 
 their own taxes. I must do something. The question is — what ? 
 I have no profession, as you are aware, neither have I the time 
 and means to acquire one. The idea of trade is intensely dis- 
 tasteful to me, but I could very easily conquer my distnste if I 
 
A FIGHT WITH FORTUXE. 9 
 
 did not feel sure that I should make an utter failure if I at- 
 tempted any thing of the kind. Besides, I have no capital. 
 Now, do you know any thing short of ditch-digging which a 
 man without money and without talents can do ? " 
 
 " A man does not always know where his talents lie," said 
 Mr. Carlisle. " You have a very good head," he went on, glan- 
 cing with his quick eyes at the head in question. " There 
 must be something in it. Don't you like any thing in particu- 
 lar ? A sensible man can seldom do better than to follow his 
 inclination with regard to his occupation." 
 
 The young man shook the head in which, his friend felt 
 convinced, there was something. " I am not aware that I like 
 any thing at all — that is, any thing in particular," he answered. 
 " I have always been fond of study — especially of the higher 
 branches of philosophy and mathematics — but I do not clearly 
 see how it is possible to evolve bread-and-cheese out of metaphys- 
 ics and calculus." 
 
 '• It is not possible," said Mr. Carlisle, " unless you become — " 
 
 Basil took the words out of his mouth. " A teacher ? " he 
 said, " As a preference, I should take ditch-digging. Don't 
 understand that I mean any reflection on those who are teach- 
 ers. I only mean that I could not willingly endure such a life 
 for an hour." 
 
 "Then the best thing you can do is to turn your attention 
 to business," said the other : and it raav be worth while to ex- 
 plain that this word in the South is rarely, if ever, in its broad 
 application, taken to signify trade, but is used almost exclu- 
 sively with regard to the management of land and money. 
 " The largest fortunes that I have known made in this part 
 of the country," Mr. Carlisle went on, " were made by men 
 without either profession or trade — men who simply knew how 
 to handle capital and make its investments pa3\ I am on?e of 
 those men. If you think my example worth any thing, I advise 
 you to accept a position which I thought yesterday of offering 
 you, in connection with my mills. I need some one to overlook 
 the whole business. If vou don't like the offer, say so frankly. 
 
10 A QUESTION OF IlONOPi. 
 
 It is not what you were reared to expect, certainly ; but if you 
 mean to take the world as it comes — " 
 
 " I mean to take it in just that manner," said Severn, " and 
 I accept the offer — gratefully. At present, I am aware, I can 
 be of very little service to you, but I have lived long enough to 
 know that an intelligent man who is willing to learn and anxious 
 to do his duty, is not long useless." 
 
 " He is never useless," said the other, emphatically. 
 
 And truly Basil was not long, if ever, useless to his old 
 friend. The chief income of the latter was derived from several 
 valuable mills and factories which had been a source of im- 
 mense wealth to him during the war, though he had scrupu- 
 lously held aloof from the reproach of having waxed fat on his 
 country's necessities. He had been wise enough to invest the 
 larger part of the wealth so realized in broad and solid lands 
 which could not fly away when the final collapse of funded prop- 
 ertj^ occurred. So it happened that he had been able to unite 
 the ability with the desire to help his kinsman — for in those 
 days there were some who had the desire to help others, without 
 the ability. 
 
 He planted his good seed in fruitful ground. He under- 
 stood that when he found what a capable right hand the young 
 man made in the management of his large business, what quick 
 •percejDtive faculties, what good judgment, and what thorough 
 integrity, he displayed. For two years the}^ worked harmoni- 
 ously together ; the people of Stansbury looking on suspiciously 
 the while, and waiting for the hour when " the break " which 
 they prophesied would occur. But they waited vainly. The 
 only break which occurred was the one v.'hich must come sooner 
 or later to all human friendships — that of death. Very unex- 
 pectedly Archibald Carlisle died, leaving Basil Severn sole exec- 
 utor of the large estate to which his only surviving child — a 
 daughter — was heir. 
 
 This daughter, of whom Stansbury knew very little, had 
 been blind from her birth. Her health was frail besides, and 
 she rarely left the country-house which her father had built 
 
TWO FACES. i;|^ 
 
 witliin a short distance of tlie town, and a still shorter one of 
 his factories. Her mother had been a cousin of the Severns ; 
 therefore she was related to Basil, and her trust in him seemed 
 as great as that of her father had been. The entire business 
 rested absolutely in his hands, and for another two years he ad- 
 ministered it as if it had been his own, without incurring a sus- 
 picion or a complaint from any one concerned. 
 
 Five years had passed since the young soldier came home to 
 face his ruined fortunes, when the mellow October sunshine al- 
 ready mentioned was pouring its hazy glory on the golden elms 
 and russet oaks of Stansbury. Basil was now approaching thirty ; 
 Madeleine and ' Rosalind \yere women in more than garb and 
 stature. Both had the reputation of more than ordinary beauty ; 
 but reputation is an uncertain thing at best, and any one passing 
 the old house that afternoon might have seen both faces, and so 
 formed his own opinion with regard to them. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 TWO FACES. 
 
 It chanced that some one did see them. A tall, fair man, 
 with that look of cities which makes a man so marked in a coun- 
 try place, was strolling aimlessly along the side-street next the 
 dwelling — thinking, as he strolled, how well the gables of the 
 liouse showed among the wide-spreading oaks which surrounded 
 it — when the sound of an opening casement on the second story 
 attracted his attention, and made him glance carelessly in the 
 direction of the noise. The action was purely involuntary, but 
 so charming a picture met his gaze that he could scarcely restrain 
 the exclamation of admiration which rose to his lips, and he cer- 
 tainly did not remove the ej^es which expressed that admiration 
 almost as plainly as the lips could have done. 
 
 If he had been an artist, Arnold Devereux would have liked 
 
12 A QUESTION OF UONOR. 
 
 to paint tbat picture. As it was, he never forgot it. The sun 
 was shining low and red, the ivy-leaves were twinkling in the 
 wonderful glow, and in the midst of these leaves, framed by 
 their beautiful shajDCS and tendrils, a girl's blooming face looked 
 out toward the sunset glory. She was in the midst of color, for 
 the great oaks arched their depths of foliage over her head. On 
 one side of the casement a golden maple stood ; on the other, a 
 tall crape-myrtle reared its crest like a scarlet flame ; all around 
 the deep-green ivy seemed rustling in the light. A more perfect 
 or more glowing autumn scene could scarcely have been con- 
 ceived ; and the brilliancy of all these tints, with the sun stream- 
 ing full upon them, might have dazzled the man who was look- 
 ing-, if he had not already been dazzled by that fair, unconscious 
 face. A fairer he thought that he had never seen. He abso- 
 lutely paused — forgetful of his rudeness — amazed, incredulous. 
 It could not be that the girl was really so lovely as she appeared. 
 The delicate features, the complexion of indescribable fairness 
 and bloom, the unbound, curling hair of warmest brown, which 
 the sun was kindling into gold, the beautiful mystical eyes, 
 made up a face so remarkable that its presence in this quiet 
 country town astonished him. Men of the world are inclined to 
 think that every thing, beauty included, is only to be found in 
 the world ; and that places like Stansbury form no part of the 
 world we are well aware. 
 
 After a moment, Mr. Devereux remembered himself sufficient- 
 ly to move on, and as he did so his step on the pavement at- 
 tracted the girl's attention. She looked down, and their eyes 
 met. For a second there was only surprise and frank observa- 
 tion in her glance ; then she remembered suddenly what he had 
 not observed — that she wore only a dressing-sacque over her 
 arms and shoulders. It was of soft, blue cashmere, and very 
 becoming ; but she drew back, blushing deeply. As she did so 
 the thought presented itself to her admirer that it is not in any 
 part of the world esteemed a proof of good-breeding to stare a 
 woman out of countenance. He turned his eves back to the 
 earth, therefore — in time to avoid a collision with an absent- 
 
TWO FACES. 13 
 
 minded cow — and walked on, wondering if his siglit had been 
 bewitched, or if such a lovely creature really existed under the 
 mossy old roof, at which he now looked with more active interest. 
 
 Desirino;' to know something: more of the house and its in- 
 habitants, he turned when he reached the end of the square and 
 followed the street which passed in front of it. He saw very 
 clearly now the air of well-preserved antiquity which distin- 
 guished the place, and he was conscious of an increased senti- 
 ment of respect for its possessors. He began to feel sure that 
 they were peojole whom it would be well to know. Now and 
 then a crimson or yellow leaf floated down lazily on the white 
 walk which led up to the house ; the air seemed dissolved into 
 gold, the cedar-hedge was tipped with fire. Devereux took in 
 the whole picture. It was at once full of sweetness and sadness. 
 A large dog of the St.-Bernard species walked down to the gate 
 and sniffed at him. Under pretense of admiring the animal's 
 noble, sagacious head, he paused a minute. In fact, he saw a 
 lady on the portico, and he wanted an excuse to look at her. 
 
 It was not his peri of the window. He recognized that at a 
 glance — even if common-sense had not told him that a half- 
 dressed woman, with her hair about her shoulders, was not likely 
 to become a wholly-dressed woman, with her hair properly coifed, 
 within ten minutes. Besides which, even at the distance of fifty 
 yards, he could see that this was an entirely different-looking 
 jDerson — an attractive-looking person, however, and one at whom 
 he might have glanced twice, independent of her association with 
 the beauty who had fascinated him. A graceful figure ; a fair, 
 harmonious face; eyes the softness of which he felt rather than 
 saw ; the delicate, arched brows to which Lavater gives such ex- 
 quisite significance ; and the gentle, sensitive lips, the signifi- 
 cance of which we need no Lavater to tell us — these things could 
 never, under anv circumstances, have failed to receive their due 
 meed of appreciation from Arnold Devereux, worshiper of beau- 
 ty in all its forms as he had been from his boyhood, and critical 
 judge of beauty as he esteemed himself. He saw and marked 
 them all. " Decidedly, these people are worth knowing ! " he 
 
U A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 though t. Tlicii, feeling that he had paused long enough, he 
 walked slowly away. 
 
 Tiie lady whom he had scrutinized so closely had, meanwhile, 
 paid no attention to him. This was not remarkable, since no- 
 body has two pairs of eyes, and hers were just then gazing 
 anxiously at a man vrho stood before her, leaning his shoulder 
 against one of the pillars of the portico. He was a young man 
 with a slender figure, slightly undersized ; a thoughtful face 
 with a well-shaped forehead, round which the brow^n hair curled 
 crisply ; straight brows with a line or two between them, show- 
 ing habitual contraction ; eyes of a light hazel, rather small, but 
 remarkably piercing ; a delicate, irregular nose ; and a mouth the 
 expression of which could only be a matter of conjecture, since 
 it was altogether covered by a heavy mustache. 
 
 This was Gordon Lacy, the declared lover and betrothed hus- 
 band of Madeleine Severn. He had been in love with her for 
 years, he had been engaged to her for six months, and they were, 
 or at least they hoped, to be married before very long. Only 
 one difficulty stood in the way, but that was the most insur- 
 mountable difficulty knowm to civilization — the want of any thing 
 like an assured income on which two people could afford to be- 
 gin the world. It will be seen that Miss Severn's choice was 
 not as wise as that of a young lady in the nineteenth century 
 should be ; though it may be said, in her justification, that Lacy 
 had been a very devoted lover, one of those who know with how 
 much faithfulness, gallantry, and tenderness, a man should woo 
 the woman whom he hopes to make his wife. Perhaps the in- 
 spiration of this " loyal gravity," as Mrs. Browning calls it, was 
 in Madeleine herself, but, be that as it may, the fact remains, 
 that she was won at last ; and Lacy often told her, with a lover- 
 like enthusiasm, yet with truth too, that she was the anchor 
 which held his life — the one steady thing in a chaos of inde- 
 terminate hopes, fears, desires, intentions, fancies. 
 
 Yet, with all his errors, he was a very charming person — 
 when he chose to be, as his friends always added. His manner 
 was at times singularly winning, though again irritable, and 
 
TWO FACES. 15 
 
 often supercilious. For the irritability, perhaps he was not 
 greatly to blame, since it arose from temperament ; but, for the 
 superciliousness, his historian is not inclined to make any excuse. 
 People in general also said of him that he was conceited, and 
 very likely the charge was in a measure just. It is at least cer- 
 tain that Nature had bestowed on him a more than ordinary 
 share of intellectual cleverness, a refined taste, a poetic fancy, 
 and a remarkable gift of facile expression. It may readily be 
 imagined that, in a not very intellectual country town, these 
 things made their possessor a man of note, and, if Lacy had been 
 inclined, he might have been a provincial lion and oracle of great 
 weight and celebrity. So far from feeling inclined, however, he 
 marked his disdain of such reputation rather too plainl3\ The 
 good people of Stansbury felt that he looked down upon them 
 from the height of superior culture, and his unpopularity conse- 
 quently waxed as great as his popularity in other circumstances 
 might have done. 
 
 In family, he, like the Severns, belonged to the best of the 
 old aristocracy of the South — ^the class which, as a class, have 
 little left now save good blood and fine breeding. Assuredly, 
 Lacy had little else. He was a lawyer, admitted to practise at 
 the bar, but as yet his practice had amounted to very little, nor 
 did it seem likely that it would ever amount to much. His very 
 cleverness stood in the way of his professional advancement. It 
 was known in Stansbury that he had a literary bias, and people 
 were inclined to doubt the legal ability of a novel-and-poem- 
 writing lawyer. Lacy, whose desire was all toward letters, paid 
 scant regard to their opinion. His father admonished him, but 
 the young man turned a deaf ear to these admonitions. He was 
 making money by his pen ; he had begun to taste the sweets 
 of reputation, and no man could have persuaded him to draw 
 back from a labor he loved, to encounter a drudgery which he 
 detested. For a while he had been almost intoxicated with the 
 sense of success ; and it was at this time, with a dazzling glam- 
 our of future wealth and fame before his eyes, that he asked 
 Madeleine to marrv him. 
 
16 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 But, by the present October evening, he had discovered some 
 of the thorns in his new career. He had learned that it takes 
 time to realize the fairest prospects, and that wealth does not 
 follow so immediately in the wake of reputation as the world in 
 general is prone to imagine. Then a wave of terrible despond- 
 ency swept over him. Plis was a temperament peculiarly sub- 
 ject to depression, to doubt, suspicion, distrust. These were his 
 household fiends — his tormentors in the dark hours which come 
 to all of us. They gathered like furies about him now, mak- 
 ing his work seem unutterably paltry, and of little value; taunt- 
 ing him with having sacrificed his professional prospects to a 
 phantasm which he would never realize. In this mood, with 
 a curtain of gloom drawn over the whole vrcrld, he had come to 
 Madeleine ; and Madeleine, with all her heart in her tender eyes, 
 was listening to him when Arnold Devereux paused at the gate. 
 Seen thus, she was certainly very fair to look upon — a woman 
 with a charm deeper and subtiler than the graceful beauty of her 
 face. A caressing smile, a voice of rare sweetness, and the gra- 
 cious courtesy of a young princess — these things made her dif- 
 ferent from other women ; but there was something even more 
 than these in which the essence of what people called " Made- 
 leine Severn's attraction " lay. This was her perfect unselfish- 
 ness — at once the rarest and the noblest groundwork which char- 
 acter can possess — of which was born a charity, consideration, 
 and sympathy, that made her the most invaluable of counselors, 
 the most faithful of friends. 
 
 " I have been almost ready to blow out my brains," Lacy was 
 saying. " You can't imagine how hopeless and miserable I have 
 felt. Every thing has seemed ebbing away from me — life, hope, 
 independence, yoxi,! I have seen myself in the mirror of my 
 own mind as a presumptuous fool. A thousand wild plans and 
 fancies have come to me." 
 
 " Sit down," said Madeleine, putting up a hand as tender as 
 her eves — a slender, delicate hand, with a mao:netic thrill in its 
 clasp. She drew him down to a chair by her side. " Your mind 
 is overwrought," she said. "You see nothing in its true pro- 
 
TWO FACES. 17 
 
 portions. A little while ago jou hoped too much, now you have 
 gone to the other extreme of despondency." 
 
 " Why did you not tell me if you knew I hoped too much ? " 
 demanded Lacy, in an injured tone. " You encouraged me in 
 my folly, my vanity, my — " 
 
 " I encouraged you in your work," she interposed. " In that 
 I encourage you still ; but I told you then — did I not ? — that 
 you expected your hopes to be realized too immediately. Noth- 
 ing comes in a day — at least, nothing worth having. That is a 
 truism, but sometimes truisms are the best things we can hear. 
 You must have patience, Gordon — dear Gordon." 
 
 When Madeleine said " dear Gordon," the tone of her voice, 
 the look in her eyes, was more than another woman's most pas- 
 sionate term of endearment. At least her lover thought so, as 
 he raised the hand which still rested in his with a quick motion 
 to his lips. There was no one to see. Devereux had walked 
 away. Only Lance, the great dog, was in sight, and he looked 
 on benignantl}' — slowly sauntering toward them with his plumy 
 tail drooping. 
 
 " You are an angel, Madeleine," said Lacy ; " but, when you 
 tell me to have patience, you forget that all this is keeping us 
 apart — that I am losing precious time — that we have already 
 been enQ-aD-ed six months, and that I swore lono- aa-o never to ask 
 any woman to waste the bloom of her youth in waiting for me." 
 
 " Foolish oaths are best forsworn," said Madeleine, with her 
 sweet smile. " Suppose a woman whom you loved — you do love 
 her, do you not ? — had no other use for the bloom of her youth 
 bat to give it to you, would you refuse to take it ? " 
 
 " Refuse ! my darling, my own darling ! " 
 
 " Well, that is settled, then. When* I said, ' You must have 
 patience,' I did not dissociate you from rgyself for a moment. I 
 thought, ' We must have patience.' You will conquer fortune in 
 the end; I am sure of that, and, meanwhile — O Gordon, is all lost 
 while we love each other, trust each other, and see each other?" 
 
 " Nothing is lost ! " said Gordon, " nothing ! O Madeleine, 
 what a comforter you are ! You must think me an ungratefu^ 
 
IS A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 coward, but if you could only know how wretched and despair- 
 ing- I have felt — " 
 
 " My poor boy ! " said she, softly, " I fancy I know it all. 
 When one loves very much, one feels a great many things through 
 the sheer magnetism of love. I felt your trouble just that w^a}^ 
 I know every pang you have suflfered." She looked at him with 
 her eyes shining through a mist of tears. " I, too, have suffered 
 them," she said ; " but I am resolved to be brave. I believe in 
 you, Gordon ; will you not believe in yourself ? " 
 
 What could Gordon say ? What could any man have said, 
 adjured to faith in himself by such tones as those? It is not a 
 hard lesson to learn — that of belief in one's self — and it was one 
 which Lacy had never at any time needed to learn. His present 
 self-distrust was only the reaction from the overweening self-con- 
 fidence which had preceded it. He was a man who felt failure 
 and rebuff acutely — felt them in every fibre of his mind and body, 
 and he was writhing under them just now. But, when Made- 
 leine spoke, his eyes lighted, the sun shone over the world again. 
 This was the ideal comforter ! This was one of the women 
 formed by Heaven for the especial aid and encouragement of 
 flagging genius ! Believe in himself! For her sake he would 
 not have hesitated to believe himself an intellectual giant. 
 
 " And now, vrhat is the matter ? " asked Madeleine. " Has any 
 thing occurred ? — any thing new — to dishearten you so much ? " 
 
 " Nothing but the old doubts," he answered ; " doubts 
 whether I am acting wisely to neglect a profession in which I 
 might attain a fair measure of success, for the hope of a career 
 in literature. Sometimes I think my father is right and I am a 
 fool ; again I feel an assured conviction that I shall never do any 
 thing except in the line in which my fancy — and such talent as I 
 have — lies." ^ 
 
 " And you are right when you yield to that conviction," said 
 Madeleine. " Gordon, do you think my judgment is worth any 
 thino'?" 
 
 Gordon's answer was prompt. He had never known any one 
 whose judgment could compare to hers. 
 
TWO FACES. 19 
 
 " Then," she said, " you may trust me when I say that I am 
 sure you are in the right path. I am sure you are a born writer. 
 I do not think you are a great genius — I have never told you 
 that, vou know." 
 
 " No, certainly not," said Lacy, conscious, however, that 
 there was a decided falling off from the ideal comforter in 
 this. 
 
 " But you are very clever," said she, " and there is this differ- 
 ence between cleverness and genius : the former always succeeds, 
 the latter often fails." Then, seeing that the lines between her 
 companion's brows began to deepen a little, she went on, quickly : 
 ' You must not think that I undervalue your talents because I 
 speak like this. I know that they are rare and great. You 
 have an exquisite fancy, you have imagination and discernment, 
 and I am sure that, as a writer of pure and delicate English, you 
 will .some day stand without a rival in our literature. Feeling 
 this, I cannot bear for you to let your pov/ers rust ; I want you 
 to use them so that all the world may know and admire you, as 
 I do." 
 
 Madeleine was not usually enthusiastic, and this little burst 
 amused, even while it touched. Lacy. 
 
 ^^ Mignonne^^ he said, tenderly, " you would spoil anybody ! 
 Soft little hands, sweet, sensitive lips — how true and strong you 
 are ! Ah, Madeleine, what should I do without you ?" 
 
 " Honestly, I think you would do very badly," replied Made- 
 eine, with the caressing smile which those who loved her saw 
 often on her face. 
 
 " What is it that he would do very badly ? " asked a voice 
 behind them. — " Good-evening, Gordon. What a charming day 
 it has been, has it not ? " 
 
 " Good-evening, Rosalind," answered Gordon as he rose, and, 
 turning, faced a girl who stood in the open hall-door. " Yes, it 
 has been very charming — a day of which to dream, or in which 
 to dream, as you please. I confess I have done a great deal of 
 the last. But, are you shod with magic, that you come upon one 
 so noiselessly?" 
 
20 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 "No, lain shod witli silence," answered Rosalind, extending 
 a foot clad in a velvet slipper. She lifted her long lashes and 
 looked at him with her lovely blue-gray eyes as she did so. He 
 was her future brother-in-law, but, all the same, she had no ob- 
 jection to his admiring the perfect lines of her instep and ankle. 
 lie, on his part, thought that she was, if possible, prettier than 
 usual. There was the softest and clearest flush on her rounded 
 cheeks, her e3'es had a dazzled brightness, as if the sunset was 
 lingering in them, her lips had that dewy freshness which we 
 sometimes see on those of a little child when it has just wakened 
 from sleep. A divine aroma of youth seemed breathed over her. 
 Psyche herself could not have been fairer. " What is to become 
 of the girl ? " Lacy thought. " She grows lovelier every day." 
 
 " What have you been doing to yourself that you look so 
 well this evenino; ? " he asked, with the frankness of life-lono- in- 
 timacy. " If you keep on at this rate, I fear we shall have a 
 Trojan War about you, sooner or later." 
 
 " Who would fight ? " Rosalind asked, witli a soft laugh. 
 She had no diseased appetite for compliments, but when she knew 
 that she was looking particularly pretty, she liked well enough 
 to receive that assurance from others. " James Champion and 
 — and — who else ? I am deplorably short of admirers just now." 
 
 " Short of admirers ? " repeated Lacy, arching his brows. 
 " That is the last complaint I should have expected to hear. Are 
 women never satisfied, I wonder ? How many Orlandos would 
 you like, to carve your name on trees and hang their boughs 
 with verses in your honor ? Is not every man in Stansburj- — 
 with a few trifling exceptions — your admirer, more or less ? " 
 
 " That last clause is equivocal," said she. " How do you de- 
 fine * more or less ? ' Not that it matters, for I am tired of 
 Stansbury admirers, and, like Alexander, I sigh for new worlds 
 to conquer. Unlike iVlexander, I know that there are new 
 worlds, which makes my inability to conquer them very — well, 
 very hard to bear." 
 
 " It must be hard," said Lacy, looking with a smile at the 
 winsome fairness of her blooming face. 
 
TWO FACES. 21 
 
 " I should like to be an heiress," pursued Rosalind, with an 
 air of mature deliberation. " I should like to be as rich as Mary 
 Carlisle. There would be no trouble then about finding the new 
 worlds — or conquering them either." 
 
 " I imagine there are few of us who would object to the gift 
 of fortune," said Lacy, a little gloomily. 
 
 " I should be very happy myself," said Rosalind, decidedh', 
 " and I would make everybody else happy. Here is Madeleine 
 — I would settle a fortune on her at once. But if you did not 
 marry her off-hand and take care of it, Gordon, she would give 
 it all away within three weeks." 
 
 " Thanks for your kind intention," said Madeleine. " But 
 when you are wishing for Mary Carlisle's fortune, does it never 
 occur to you to consider " — here she stepped behind the other 
 and laid her hand over the beautiful eyes — " whether you would 
 take it at that price ? " 
 
 " No ! " answered Rosalind, sharply, as she drew down the 
 hand. " Wh}^ should it ? Are rich people alwa3'S blind ? That 
 is absurd, Madeleine ! " 
 
 " I did not mean to be absurd," said Madeleine. " Cer- 
 tainly rich people are not always blind; but when I hear you 
 envying poor Mary, how can I help thinking with what gladness 
 she would give all her wealth for health and sight." 
 
 " Do you think so ? " asked Rosalind, in a tone of strong 
 skepticism. " It always strikes me that Mary is very well sat- 
 isfied as she is." 
 
 Madeleine's lips unclosed for a reply, but closed again with- 
 out uttering it. Plainly Miss Severn had learned the uselessness 
 of combating some opinions. So, for a minute there was si- 
 lence. The sun sank behind the red and yellow foliage into a 
 sea of translucent gold, the glowing colors seemed to die out, 
 the oaks looked dark, the elms melancholy,*the blue haze deep- 
 ened into mist ; all in a minute the scene, lately so brilliant, was 
 sad and autumn-like. Yet it had still its own tender beauty, 
 for the air was soft, and the draping mist and russet tints were 
 lovely even in their sadness. A spell seemed to hold the little 
 
22 A QUESTION OF KOXOR. 
 
 group in stillness. But it \yas only for a minute. A horseman 
 came at a quick canter clown the quiet street. Lance dashed 
 eagerly toward tlie gate. Rosalind moved forward across a 
 flood of golden sunset light. 
 " Basil is coming," she said. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 basil's YEXATTOI^". 
 
 The gate swung open and shut, and Basil's lithe figure^ 
 with its square shoulders and the military step he had never 
 lost, was seen advancing up the walk, with Lance curveting 
 round him. 
 
 " Something is the matter," said Rosalind, glancing back at 
 the others. " I know exactly how Basil walks when he is 
 vexed." 
 
 And, indeed, when Basil drew nearer and lifted his hat from 
 his brow, it was evident that something was the matter. Wheth- 
 er he was vexed, as Rosalind said, or whether he was worried, 
 as Madeleine thought, it was at least certain that he did not 
 look at all like his usual self, for it was not his usual custom to 
 bring an overcast brow home with him. It was not according 
 to his nature to brood over trouble, and business .vexations rare- 
 ly ruffled his manner even in business-hours. Out of business- 
 hours, he left them absolutelv behind him. Those whom he was 
 advancing to meet knew this so well, that their surprise was 
 great and their inquiries immediate. What was the matter ? 
 they asked. Why should they imagine that any thing was the 
 matter ? he answered, sitting down on the steps as he spoke, 
 and pulling Lance's silken ears. 
 
 " If I had a mirror, I would show you why we think so," 
 Madeleine replied. " There is no good in attempting to deceive 
 one, Basil ; your face is too transparent." 
 
BASIL'S VEXATION. 23 
 
 '* Is it ? " said Basil, passing his hand over the face in ques- 
 tion. " I flattered myself that it was rather impassive than 
 otherwise." 
 
 " What accurate opinions we have of ourselves ! " said Rosa- 
 lind. " Bat tell us what is the matter ? Has any thing un- 
 pleasant happened ? Don't you know there is nothing more 
 trying than suspense ? " 
 
 Lacy alone asked no questions, and at him Basil glanced. 
 " Gordon knows what has occurred," he said. Then he frowned 
 slightly. — " You have heard that Devereux is in town, have you 
 not ? " he asked. 
 
 The other nodded. "His appearance has created quite a 
 stir," he said. " People are wondering why he has come. Have 
 you seen him ? " 
 
 " Not I," answered Basil, shortly. 
 
 " Devereux ! " repeated Rosalind, in a tone of great interest. 
 " Do you mean the man of the lawsuit — the man who claims so 
 much of the Carlisle property ? " 
 
 " The same," replied Lacy. " If I had known that j^ou were 
 in ignorance of his arrival, I should have mentioned the inter- 
 estino' fact earlier." 
 
 " I suppose you mean that for sarcasai," said she ; " but it is 
 an interesting fact — any thing is interesting that stirs the stag- 
 nant quiet of Stansbury life. And, pray, when did Mr. Devereux 
 arrive, and how long does he mean to stay, and what has he 
 come for ? Basil, vou must know somethinsi: about him, so tell 
 us at once ! " 
 
 " I know very little," said Basil. " The first I heard of the 
 matter was from Mary Carlisle. She sent a message to the 
 mills this afternoon, asking me to come over to the Lodge. Of 
 course I went at once, and I found her quite nervous and ex- 
 cited. She had received a note from Mr. Devereux announcing 
 his arrival in Stansbury, and begging to see her. She was sur- 
 prised, and so was I. 'Why should he wish to see me?' she 
 asked. That I was unable to tell, but I strongly advised her to 
 refer him to her lawyer. But women " — with a shrug — "are so 
 
24 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 impracticable ! It is a great misfortune that they should ever 
 be connected with business. Some fine j^hrases in Devereux's 
 note had pleased her. I could see that she wanted to grant the 
 interview for which he asked." 
 
 " But why did he ask it ? " inquired Madeleine. " Surely he 
 gave some reason for making such a request." 
 
 Basil frowned again. " He gave no reason that amounted to 
 any thing. He talked of their conflicting interests, and of de- 
 siring, if possible, to find some way of reconciling them — all of 
 which is nonsense, as I told Mary. If it is a compromise at 
 which he is hinting, Champion is the proper person to see him, 
 and tell him that we will not surrender an inch." 
 
 " But it may not be a compromise that he means," said Rosa- 
 lind. " It may be quite a different mode of reconciling their 
 opposing interests. Basil, I am confident that he wants to 
 marry her ! " 
 
 " Good Heavens, Rosalind ! " said her brother, starting. 
 " What do you mean by such a suggestion ? " 
 
 " Is it not reasonable ? " asked the girl. " It seems so to 
 me. — Madeleine, what do you think ? " 
 
 " I think Mary's great affliction ought to shield her from 
 such remarks," answered Madeleine, reproachfully. 
 
 " Really, I cannot see why Mary's affliction should put her out 
 of the pale of women who can marry," said Rosalind, coolly. 
 
 " The Stansbury people decided long ago that Basil will end 
 by marrying her," said Lacy. 
 
 The blood mounted to Basil's brow m a tide. Few women 
 are as sensitive as he was about reports of this kind — especially 
 with regard to Mary Carlisle. He held, like Madeleine, that her 
 great affliction should have exempted her from such shafts of 
 gossip. 
 
 " The Stansbury people are a set of insufferable meddlers ! " 
 said he, curtly. " It is strange that they cannot let Mary Car- 
 lisle and myself alone. Neither of us takes the least interest in 
 their marryings or givings in marriage." 
 
 " You cannot offend people more than by taking no interest 
 
BASIL'S VEXATION. 25 
 
 in their affairs," said Lacy. " They would forgive you sooner if 
 you accused them of every crime in the Decalogue." 
 
 " Yes," said Madeleine, " a gossip is a sociable being at least ; 
 while those who don't gossip are held to be supercilious, and to 
 consider themselves better than their neighbors." 
 
 " Perha^DS I have a depraved taste," said Rosalind; "but it 
 seems to me that a little gossip now and then is relished by the 
 best of us. For example, this Mr. Devereux — don't you feel an 
 interest in knowing something about him ? Hasn't he quite a 
 society reputation ? I think I have heard so." 
 
 " You have heard correctly," said Lacy. " He has quite 
 a society reputation. By all accounts, he is one of the men 
 who are preeminently fitted for society — and for nothing 
 else." 
 
 " I fancy I must have seen him this afternoon," pursued the 
 young lady. " As I opened my window a little before sunset, I 
 noticed a man on the street who was — well, who was staring at 
 me in the most undisguised manner. Is Mr. Devereux tall and 
 blond, does he wear an English hat, and his beard in the fash- 
 ion of the Emperor Maximilian ? " 
 
 " I am sorry that I cannot satisfy you with regard to any of 
 those important particulars," said Basil, dryly ; " but I think 
 you must have been guilty of some undisguised staring to dis- 
 cover so much." 
 
 " I can satisfy you," said Lacy. " That is the man. I saw 
 him this morning. His appearance is calculated to make a sen- 
 sation in a quiet place like Stansbury." 
 
 " He looked interesting," said Rosalind, meditatively. " I was 
 wishing a little while ago that I was in Mary Carlisle's place — 
 as rich as she is, I mean. If I were, I should certainly see Mr. 
 Devereux, and judge of him myself." 
 
 " I supjDose you think that you would be quite capable of 
 judging of him," said Basil, with the nearest approach to a 
 brotherly sneer which he ever permitted himself. 
 
 The girl laughed — an indolent, musical sound, which rang 
 out sweetly on the soft air. " Why not ? " she asked. " Wom- 
 
26 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 en are born readers of character. At all events, I would see 
 liim and — hear hiui 1 I am sure he talks well." 
 
 '' Because he is tall and blond, and wears his beard accord- 
 ing to the fashion of the Emperor Maximilian, I jDresume!" 
 said Basil, who was very much chafed. 
 
 Before Rosalind could reply, a bell suddenly rang in the hall. 
 
 " Tea is ready," said Madeleine, with an air of relief. " Now, 
 suppose we defer any further discussion of Mr. Devereux until 
 it is over ? " 
 
 Five minutes later, they were all gathered round one of the 
 pretty, old-fashioned tea-tables — a table polished until it shone 
 like a mirror, with crotcheted mats, delicate egg-shell china, 
 rich silver, and sparkling glass. At the head of it was a lady 
 in a widow's cap. The resemblance between herself and Rosa- 
 lind was apparent at a glance, though the daughter's face was 
 probably more beautiful than the mother's had ever been. The 
 room in which they were sitting was furnished in the fashion of 
 twenty years back, for the whole house had been refitted when 
 Francis Severn brouo-ht his second bride home. The sideboard 
 and curtains had been new and fresh when that face, now worn 
 with suffering and faded with tears, had been almost as young 
 and fair as Rosalind's. The sideboard and curtains, as Mrs. 
 Severn often remarked with pardonable pride in her good house- 
 keeping, looked as well as ever ; but the face — alas ! for this 
 poor humanity of which we are so proud, for these brief roses 
 of youth and beauty which perish so utterly ! 
 
 Despite Madeleine's recommendation, it was not long before 
 the Devereux subject came on the tajns again. Both Basil and 
 Rosalind were too much interested to let it rest. Scarcely were 
 the}' all served with their respective cups of tea and coffee, when 
 the latter began : 
 
 " Mamma, we have some news for you. Do you not see that 
 Basil is dreadfully vexed ? Why, it is the most evident thing 
 in the world ! Look at him, and you will see it. Now, what 
 do you sujDpose has happened ? " 
 
 " How can I tell ? " said Mrs. Severn, glancing at her step 
 
BASIL'S VEXATION. 
 
 27 
 
 son with an air of anxiety. " There is no bad news, I hope. 
 Basil, what is it ? " 
 
 " Nothing of importance to any one present except myself, 
 mother," answered Basil. " And nothing to me, personallj^ It 
 is only that I aai afraid Mary Carlisle intends to act in a very 
 foolish manner." 
 
 " Is she going to be married ?" asked Mrs. Severn, quickly, 
 and somewhat dismayed — for she had her own secret hopes wdth 
 regard to Mary Carlisle. 
 
 " Heaven and earth — no ! " said Basil. " How women's 
 minds do seem to run on marriage ! " 
 
 " You see that somebody besides myself thinks that Mary 
 Carlisle might marry, if she chose," said Rosalind. 
 
 " What is she going to do, then ? " asked Mrs. Severn. " I 
 thought Mary never was foolish." 
 
 At this, the gentleman in an English hat, who wore his beard 
 according to the fashion of the EmjDeror Maximilian, came forth 
 again, and walked up and dowui the supper-table for the next 
 ten-'minutes, at the end of which time a peal of the door-bell 
 arrested the discussion. 
 
 " That is James Champion," said Rosalind, whose 'quick ear 
 caught the cadence of the voice asking for Basil. "He wants 
 to see yoii^"* she went on, turning to her brother, " so I suppose 
 he has come on business ; but there is no objection to asking him 
 in, and giving him some tea." 
 
 Nobody offering any objection, Mr. Champion was accord- 
 ingly asked in, and, although he had probably risen from his 
 own tea-table not long before, he made no demur about accept- 
 ing the invitation. A minute later Rosalind had the satisfac- 
 tion of seeing his strong, dark face opposite her own. A very 
 strong and very dark face it was, a face looking older than its 
 years on account of the mental and moral force which character- 
 ized it, and which impressed every one so deejily with its intel- 
 ligence and resolution, that few people thought Avhether or not 
 it was handsome. 
 
 If Rosalind had found any enduring attraction in this face, 
 
38 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 V 
 
 nobody knew — herself, perhaps, as little as any. People said 
 that James Champion had been in love with her ever since he 
 came back from the army, and found a blooming maiden in the 
 first flush of her girlliood. If this were so, it is certain that he 
 had never followed the example of her other admirers and " made 
 a fool of himself " about her. He left that amusement to men 
 with less serious business in life, and less stead}^ self-control than 
 he possessed. AA'hen Rosalind tried him too far, he quietly ab- 
 sented himself from her society — if necessary, for months. Bat 
 he had never been known to pay more than the merest attention 
 of civility to any other woman, even at these times. "Women in 
 the abstract seemed to possess no attraction for him — indeed, he 
 freely confessed that, as a general rule, their society wearied him 
 — and those who knew him best said that, if he failed to win the 
 bright prize which he had coveted so long, it was not likely that 
 lie would ever marry at all, or at least not for love. 
 
 It had been several weeks since Rosalind had seen him last, 
 and they had parted then in any thing but an amicable manner. 
 Hence, perhaps, her anxiety that he might be invited in to tea ; 
 hence, certainly, her silence after he came. 
 
 Mr. Champion made no secret of his business with Basil. He 
 had come to know what the arrival of " that Devereux " meant. 
 Having fought the Devereux claim for two years with every 
 weapon which the legal armory could furnish, and with the most 
 unflagging spirit and determination, he was naturally dismayed 
 at the idea of a single advantage being yielded to the adversary 
 whom he felt so confident of overthrowing in the end. 
 
 " Why does not Miss Carlisle refer him at once to you or to 
 me ? " he asked, when Basil had explained all he knew of the 
 matter. " Does she not know that it is the right thing for her — 
 a woman, and an inexperienced one — to do ? " 
 
 " I advised her to do so," Basil answered ; '^ but she is in- 
 clined to see him herself — his note Iras excited her interest and 
 her curiosity." 
 
 Champion's dark brows knitted. " In that case there is no 
 telling what may be the result," he said. " When a woman's 
 
BASIL'S VEXATION. 09 
 
 interest and curiosity are excited, any degree of folly may be 
 looked for. But I expected better things of Miss Carlisle." 
 
 Here Rosalind glanced up and joined in the conversation for 
 the first time since his entrance. Her eyes were dazzling un- 
 der their long lashes, her cheeks aglow like the heart of a pome- 
 granate. Not having had the advantage of seeing her before he 
 came in, Champion, of course, could not know that this access of 
 brightness was in honor of his appearance. 
 
 " You talk as if Mary had not a right to do as she pleases," 
 she said. "Is not her property her own if she has a mind to 
 sacrifice it — by a compromise, or in any other way ? " 
 
 " Her property is undoubtedly her own," Champion answered, 
 with the sternness on his face and in his tone deepening. " But 
 Basil and mj'^self — who have both of us worked hard in her in- 
 terest — are certainly entitled to more consideration than this 
 Devereux." 
 
 " If I was in her place, I should insist upon seeing ' this Dev- 
 ereux,' as you call him," said the young lad}^, decidedly. 
 
 " Nobody doubts it," said Lacy, laughing. " What woman 
 can resist a blond beard and ixje ne sais quoi air of fashion ? " 
 
 Hearing this, Champion's face grew, if possible, darker, and 
 certainly sterner, than before. He turned to Basil and began 
 talking business. Not once again, w^hile they remained at table, 
 did his eyes glance toward Rosalind's lovely face. 
 
 Out of that face the brilliant color began to ebb by slow de- 
 grees. Men often ask why women like so well to torment them 
 — like to torment even those whom they love. It would be 
 wiser to ask — if there were any voice able to answer — why they 
 like so well to torment themselves. In nine cases out of ten, the 
 pang which they inflict returns upon their own hearts with ten- 
 fold bitterness and keenness ; but this only makes the matter 
 more absolutely incomprehensible. 
 
 "Basil is going after tea to see Mr. Devereux," said Madeleine 
 jiresently to Champion. " Do you think of going with him ? " 
 
 "That is as Basil says," the young lawyer answered. "I 
 will go if he thinks it worth while." 
 
30 A. QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 "I don't think so," Basil said. "I am simply going, by 
 Mary's request, to see Mr. Dcveieux and tell him that she will 
 receive him to-morrow. The visit will have no business si^-nifi- 
 canoe — unless he chooses to "ivc it one." 
 
 " Do you think it likely he will choose to do so ? " Lacy 
 asked. 
 
 " I have not the least idea that he will," the other replied. 
 
 This ended the Devereux subject for the time, and soon after 
 the party rose from table. When they reached the hall, there 
 was a slight pause of irresolution. On one side was the drawing- 
 room, from which a glow of shaded gas-light came. In front the 
 hall-door stood open to the autumn night. A moon in her sec- 
 ond quarter w^as shining through the trees, the air was still full 
 of softness, and the blue haze had turned to silver mist. " It is 
 too lovely to stay in the house," said Hosalind, as she walked 
 out on the portico. Basil, on his part, turned to go up-stairs. 
 " I will change my dress and be back in a minute," he said to 
 Champion. " If you are going, wait for me." 
 
 Now, Champion had not said that he was going, as Made- 
 leine reflected, with a comment on masculine stupidity. " Why 
 should you think that Mr. Cham23ion is going to leave us ? " she 
 asked. " He has come so seldom of late, that I hope he means 
 to remain, now that he is here." 
 
 "Thanks, you are very kind," Champion answered for him- 
 self, '' but I have business w^hich calls me away. — I'll wait till 
 you come back, however," he added, nodding to Basil. 
 
 At this, Madeleine, turning, passed into the drawing-room, 
 whither Lacy immediately followed her. Champion hesitated for 
 a moment. He did not usually hesitate even over so slight a 
 thing as entering a room ; his actions, like his tones, were gener- 
 ally decided and resolute to a fault. But just now he paused — 
 inclination drawing him in one direction, pride in another. He 
 glanced into the drawing-room. By a table covered with a lit- 
 ter of books, papers, and work, Madeleine and Lacy sat down, 
 and the pretty, suggestive picture which they made, seemed to 
 decide him. He drew his brows slightly together and his lips 
 
UNCONDITIOXAL SURRENDER. 3X 
 
 braced themselves as he walked out on the portico where Rosa- 
 lind stood in the faint moonlio-ht. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 UNCONDITIOXAL SUEEEXDEK. 
 
 A THEILL, half of pleasure, half of triumpli, shot through her 
 when she heard his step. As she stood, during that brief collo- 
 quy in the hall, looking at the dark, motionless trees, the tender, 
 vaguely-defined shadows, she felt as if she could not bear it if 
 Champion did not come. But when he came, he found the visor 
 closed, the armor tightened, the combatant ready, lance in hand. 
 
 "Is it not a beautiful night?" she said, turning to him as he 
 reached her side. " But I forget — I believe you do not admire 
 Nature very much. Gordon should have come in your place." 
 
 " Shall I go and send him ? " Champion asked in his cold 
 voice — it was a voice which Rosalind knew well, and against 
 which she had often rebelled, yet which possessed a singular 
 fascination for her. 
 
 " He would thank neither of us for calling him just now," 
 she answered, with her soft laugh. " I don't think the moon- 
 light has any great attraction for him ; at least no such attrac- 
 tion as Madeleine, who is afraid of the night air." 
 
 " Do you think that it is prudent for you to be here ? " the 
 gentleman asked, with a recollection of health which lovers do 
 not always display. " Let me get you a wrap. Shall I find one 
 in the hall ? " 
 
 " My shawl is there, I think," answered Rosalind, with more 
 docility than she usually showed. She had an object in view 
 which this docility was intended to secure. That object was to 
 keep Champion from going away with Basil, whom she expected 
 to see every minute. When he brought the shawl — light, white, 
 soft, and very efi"ective as drapery — she made him wrap it round 
 her, then she sat down in the chair which Madeleine had ocou- 
 
32 A QUESTIOX OF HONOR. 
 
 pied in the afternoon, and made a gracious motion of invitation 
 toward the other one standing near. 
 
 This, however. Champion declined. " It is not worth while," 
 he said. " Basil will be down in a minute, and I must go. I only 
 came out to ask how you have been since I saw you last ? " 
 
 " That was so long ago that I have had time to enjoy a great 
 many different states of health in the interval," she answered ; 
 *' to be w^ell, and ill, and well again, to be in good spirits, bad 
 spirits, and indifferent spirits — all without any sign of interest 
 in my condition from you.'''' 
 
 Thus abruptly arraigned — for a woman can generally be 
 trusted to know^ when and how to carry the war into Africa with 
 most advantage to herself and confusion to her adversary — 
 Champion could not forbear a smile. As he looked at the win- 
 some face upturned in the moonlight, he felt that all the fairness 
 and sweetness of life lay for him in it ; but he had no intention 
 of saying so. On the contrary, he answered quite coolly : 
 
 *' I thought you showed me very plainly, when I saw you last, 
 tliat any interest which I might express was more likely to an- 
 noy than to please you." 
 
 *' Did I ? " said Rosalind, naivelv. " But that was so Ion a; 
 asTO — six weeks at least. You ouo^ht to know me better than 
 to fancy that I would be of one mind for such a length of time. 
 Then, you should not bear malice ; and what is it but bearing 
 malice to have staid away for six weeks ? " 
 
 " Perhaps it was prudence," said her companion. " I never 
 had any sympathy with moths — especially with one that, having 
 been singed, deliberately went back to the flame." 
 
 " But you are not a moth, and I am not a flame," said Rosa- 
 lind. " You are only a person w^ho has behaved very badly, and 
 borne malice in the most inexcusable manner." 
 
 " What an excellent character you give me ! " said he, smiling 
 again. But the smile left his face as he went on — surprising her 
 by quoting two lines of verse, for poetry was not much in his way 
 
 " * You throw oflf your friends like a huntsman his pack, 
 For you know when you will you can whistle them back,' " 
 
UNCOXDITIOXAL SURREXDER. 33 
 
 he said, gravely. " But you may throw one of them off once too 
 often. I don't know that you would care if you did so — I don't 
 know that you might not consider it a happy relief — but, all the 
 same, the day may come before long when 3'OU will find that 
 even your whistle can fall on deaf ears." 
 
 " I am stupid, I suppose," said Rosalind, " but I don't under- 
 stand in the least what you mean, probably because your met- 
 aphors are rather mixed." 
 
 " I mean," he answered, " that if I have little of the moth, I 
 have still less of the dog in my disposition. You have whistled 
 me back into your serWce several times already, but I am fully 
 resolved that, if I allow you to do so again, it shall be for the 
 last time." 
 
 " The last time ! " repeated she, and, although there was a 
 tightening at her heart, she smiled with bright defiance. " One 
 hears of so many ' last times,' that the words have come to pos- 
 sess rery little significance. Indeed, I have grown to doubt 
 whether there really is such a thing as an undoubted ' last 
 time.' " 
 
 " Yes, there is such a thing," said Champion, the gravity 
 of his voice making a great contrast to her light, flippant tones. 
 "Have you never stood by the coffin of one who was dead, and, 
 looking at the face before the lid was closed, thought to your- 
 self, ' It is for the last time ? ' Yes " — his voice softening as he 
 saw her lip suddenly quiver — " I know that you have done so. 
 There may be doubt about other partings of earth, but we know 
 that is the last. AYell, if I saw you dead before me, I could not 
 know more certainly than I do that we shall part forever if we 
 need to part again. I have tested my resolution too often not 
 to feel that I can rely upon it." 
 
 " Vf hy do you talk to me like this ? " said she. " What have 
 I done ? " Her voice was low, and trembled slightly ; her 
 weapons of coquetry seemed suddenly stricken from her com- 
 mand. She felt bewildered. Did he mean that this inexorable 
 parting was to take place now ? If so, she knew him too well 
 to hope that he could be moved by any words of hers. An in- 
 
34 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 stinct ciimc to her that she had gone too far. It was not a 
 pleasant realization, for she liked this self-controlled lover of 
 hers, she liked to see resolution deepening on his face, and to 
 hear the thrill of repressed passion in his voice. But it was 
 very much as a child likes to play with fire, or as almost any 
 woman likes the sense of power, in the first instance ; and of pos- 
 sible (not accomplished) subjection, in the second. 
 
 " What have you done ? " repeated Champion. " Nothing 
 for which I blame you ; nothing that it was not the instinct of 
 your nature to do. I am sure you do not blame Mufi" when she 
 plays with a mouse in its death-agony. Neither do I blame you 
 that you should have amused yourself by making a fool of me. 
 The man who fills such a position," said he, with a chord of con- 
 tempt in his voice, "deserves no sympathy from himself or 
 others." 
 
 " You are very unjust, and — and unkind ! " said Eosalind, 
 divided between indignation and an inclination to cry. *' I never 
 knew you so unkind before. One would think that I had done 
 you some great injury, and yet you control yourself so well " — 
 a note of sarcasm came in here — " that it would have been diffi- 
 cult to compass if I had ever so much of a mind that way." 
 
 " Thank God that I can control myself," said he, almost pas- 
 sionately, " else what you would have made of me by this time 
 I cannot tell." 
 
 " What should I have made of you ? " asked she. " You 
 seem in a mood for reproaches ; but I think that, in common 
 justice, you might tell me what they are about." 
 
 " I beg your pardon if I have seemed to reproach you," said 
 he. " I have no right to do so. I did not intend to speak of the 
 matter at all to-night, but since I have begun " — he paused for a 
 moment, then went on abruptly : " I am resolved that my folly 
 shall end, one way or another. This has gone on long enough. 
 No woman shall make a wreck of my life ; nor, if I can help it, 
 of my happiness. You have whistled me back again, Rosalind, 
 but, as I told you a minute ago, it is for the last time. You 
 must decide now what you mean to do with me." 
 
UNCONDITIOXAL SURRENDER. 35 
 
 ** I have no desire to do any thing at all with 3'ou," said 
 Rosalind, thinking that perhaps the best thing would be to yield 
 to her inclination to cry. " Upon my word, I think you are voy 
 unreasonable." 
 
 " I am sorry for it," said he, finding it impossible not to smile 
 at the reproachful face uplifted to him. *' But I fear that I must 
 remain unreasonable, for on this point my decision is taken. I 
 would not force you to marry me, if I could ; but you must tell 
 me, once for all, w'hether or not you intend to do so. You know 
 how I love you. It would be late in the day to assure you of 
 that. No man on God's earth ever loved a woman better. It 
 seems to me that this love is the very essence of my life. But 
 it is not my master," said he, with the resolute look deej^ening 
 on his strong face ; " and if you have no need for it, Rosalind — 
 if you do not intend ever to accept it — I am determined that it 
 shall trouble you no longer." 
 
 The clear, decided tones ceased, and silence followed them. 
 Rosalind turned away from him and looked at the lawn dappled 
 with faint shadows, and the trees darkly drooping over tlie street 
 beyond. Yet it is safe to say that she saw not a feature of the 
 scene. Her mind was distracted, her heart seemed beating in 
 her throat. AYliat was she to do ? what should she sa}"? If her 
 life had depended on it, she could not have told whether or not 
 she loved James Champion, and she was neither old enough nor 
 experienced enough to argue to the contrary from her very doubt. 
 She only felt that just then she did not want to give him up, 
 and the danger was imminent that she might be obliged to do 
 so whether she vrould or not. Nobody who knew Champion ever 
 doubted that, as far as rested with himself, his resolutions were 
 always inflexibly carried into execution ; and the words still 
 rang in her ears : " If I saw you dead before me, I could not 
 know more certainly than I do that we shall part forever if we 
 need to part again." 
 
 The pause lasted for some time. Neither seemed inclined to 
 speak. Champion was too proud to do so, Rosalind's conflicting 
 doubts made her more and more uncertain what to sav. With 
 
36 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 the odd sensation wliicli comes at such times, both were distinctly 
 conscious of all that was going on around, even while they were 
 absorbed in the issue between them. A katydid — the last of 
 the season — w^as chirping a melancholy farewell to summer 
 sweetness and summer warmth in one of the tall oak-trees ; Made- 
 leine's laugh floated out from tlie drawing-room ; Mrs. Severn 
 spoke to a servant in the hall ; Lance walked lazily across the 
 portico, turned round half a dozen times, and finally lay down on 
 his large mat ; Basil's step suddenly sounded on the staircase. 
 
 This last sound cfiectually roused them. They started and 
 looked at each other. 
 
 "Have you no word for me?" Champion asked, quickly. 
 " Basil is coming, I must go." 
 
 " What can I say to you ? " answered Rosalind, in a low voice. 
 " How can you expect one to decide in a moment when it is for 
 one's life ? " 
 
 " Have you not had years in which to know me ? " de- 
 manded Champion, who, being perfectly well acquainted with 
 his own mind, was not able to conceive ho"\v Rosalind could 
 fail to know hers. " If you need to hesitate now, it must be 
 that there is no hope for me. It is fortunate for me that I made 
 up my mind to that fact some time ago." 
 
 " Cham^^iou ! — are you here ? " said Basil, emerging from the 
 house. " I am sorry to have kept you waiting so long. But I 
 thought it might be worth while to pay Mr. Devereux the com- 
 pliment of looking like a gentleman. Are you ready now ? " 
 
 *' Don't go ! " said Rosalind, in a whisper so low that it was 
 remarkable how her listener heard it. The breath scarcely issued 
 from her lips. Basil had no suspicion that she had spoken. 
 
 '' Well, are you coming ? " he said, a little surprised that 
 Champion had not answered him. 
 
 " If you'll excuse me, I believe not," that gentleman replied, 
 quietly, out of the shadow where he stood. " You have waited 
 too lonof. If vou had come ten minutes earlier, I should have 
 
 CD »/ ' 
 
 felt inclined to go with you. Now I feel inclined to stay here." 
 " Just as you please," said Severn, obligingly. " Since you 
 
• UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER. 37 
 
 think of staying, you had better wait till I come back, and I'll 
 be able to tell you what Mr. Devereux has to say for himself." 
 
 " Very well," answered the other, briefly. 
 
 Nothing more was said'. Basil passed down the steps, along 
 the walk, and out of the gate. It was not until the last echo of 
 his footsteps died away, that Champion spoke. No one who 
 had heard him speak ten minutes before would have recognized 
 his voice now, so much had it softened, so entirely had it 
 changed. 
 
 " Rosalind," he said, " do you mean that there is hope for 
 me ? " 
 
 " I don't know," answered Rosalind, who had regained her 
 usual manner. " This is too important a matter to be settled 
 all in a moment. Sit down : let us discuss it." 
 
 She pointed again to the vacant chair beside her, and this 
 time Champion did not refuse to obey the gesture. He sat 
 down, though he had a vague sense of surrendering an advan- 
 tage as he did so, and the yoimg lady went on without giving 
 him time to speak : 
 
 " Do you know that marriage is a very serious tiling ? " 
 
 " I believe nobody doubts it," he answered. " Least of all 
 those who have tried it." 
 
 " Such a very serious thing that it would not be well to be 
 frightened into it," she continued, gravely. " I djo not mean 
 that you have any intention of frightening me," she added, 
 quickly, as even in the moonlight she saw his lips compress 
 themselves in a fashion she knew well, " but that I must be quite 
 sure I do not consent to marry you because I am afraid of you." 
 
 " Are you afraid of me ? " asked he, not angrily, but wistfulh% 
 
 " Yes," answered she, frankly. " Who is not ? Everybody 
 stands more or less in awe of you ; and yet," added she, with 
 a sudden, upward look, " everybody likes you." 
 
 *' Do i/ou f " said he, stung and yet soothed, hurt and yet 
 pleased, in a manner which was not new to him. 
 
 " I ! " answered she, smilino^. " Do vou not know that I 
 do? I like you very much : I have liked you always." 
 
38 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " But that is little," said he, with a strain of sudden passion 
 in liis voice. "In comparison with what I want, indeed, it ia 
 nothing" at all. Do you love me, Kosalind?" 
 
 His tone thrilled her, but still she hesitated. Did she love 
 him ? That was the point ; that was the question Avhicli, try as 
 she would, Rosalind could not answer to herself. How, then, 
 Avas it possible for her to answer it to him ? Again she looked 
 away, undecided, in doubt, yet impatient with herself and her 
 own irresolution. As was natural enough, Cham2')ion misunder- 
 stood her silence. He rose abruptly, pushing back his chair on 
 the stone flags with a grating sound which made her start. 
 
 " I see that I must end this," he said. " It is asking too 
 much to expect you to do so. Muff never yet released a mouse 
 of her own accord, but it sometimes rests with the mouse him- 
 self to escape. Good-night." 
 
 He stood before her with his hand extended, tall, stern, stately. 
 As she looked up at him, her heart gave a bound. Did she love 
 him ? She did not ask the question then. She only felt that 
 this was her last chance ; that if he left her now, he would never 
 come back, and that she could not bear to lose him. Vanit}", lik- 
 ing, the desire of conquest, the subtile thrill of half-awakened sen- 
 timent — who can say in what degree all these were mingled when 
 she spoke, low but quickly : 
 
 " Why are you so impatient ? Do you not see that I hesi- 
 tate only because I want to be sure of myself? That is not as 
 easy as you think ; but if — if you insist upon an answer now, and 
 if you will take me just as I am, with all my faults — " 
 
 The rest of the sentence was not uttered — at least not audi- 
 bly. The next instant Champion had drawn the slender figure 
 to his heart, and kissed passionately the sweet lips. Often dur 
 ing his long wooing, even when hope had most nearly failed 
 him, he had dreamed of this hour, yet, now that it had come, he 
 was scarcely able to realize it. He only felt that she was his at 
 last, and that, let her cost him what she would, he could never 
 be sorry for the victory. 
 
"THE CLAIMANT." 39 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 "the CLAIilAXT." 
 
 As Basil walked down the street, enjoying tbe balmy air, 
 smoking the good cigar, which was one of the few personal lux- 
 uries he allowed himself, and leaving Rosalind and Champion to 
 finish their flirtation at their leisui-e, his mind was busy with 
 thoughts of the man whom he was going to meet, and of the 
 annoyance which for two years that man's name had embodied 
 to every one connected with Mr. Carlisle's estate. 
 
 It was an annoyance which had not seemed decreasing wlien 
 this unexpected visitor arrived in Stansbury. From court to 
 court the suit had been carried, wLich was instituted in Dev- 
 ereux^s name soon after Mr. Carlisle's death ; but, according to 
 the tedious processes of the law, its end did not seem much 
 nearer than it had done in the beginning. Only Champion ap- 
 peared to see daylight ahead ; only he held out firmly against 
 such an idea as compromise, and advised Basil to fight the claim 
 to the last extremity. To this advice Basil was readj- enough 
 to hearken, and Mary Carlisle left the matter entirely to her two 
 advisers — advisers whom she knew to be thoroughly honest, and 
 doggedly faithful to her interests. 
 
 How much her interests were imperiled, these advisers did 
 not like to acknowledge ; but everybody in Stansbury knew that 
 the Devereux claim was a very heavy one. The most valuable 
 property of the Carlisle estate — broad acres and flourishing mills 
 — was involved in the litigation. Mr. Carlisle had bought this 
 property in good faith, and paid its full value ; yet it now ap- 
 peared, or was alleged, that the title made to him was not good, 
 inasmuch as the property had been held, not in fee-simple, but 
 under a lease. This announcement had burst like a bomb shell 
 upon his executor after his death. The lease, however, was old, 
 nad never been registered, and afi"orded every loop-hole for dis^ 
 pute. The result was a lawsuit — James Champion on one side, 
 
40 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 the lawyer who had ferreted out the matter on the other ; Ar- 
 nold Devereux and Mary Carlisle the persons interested. 
 
 Of Arnold Devereux, the Stansbury people knew little. He 
 came from another State, thouii-h his mother had been a Stans- 
 bury belle and beauty in her day. It was through this mother 
 that he laid claim to the property, leased by her father fifty years 
 before. AVhy he had come to Stansbury now, no one could say ; 
 but conjecture w^as rife. Did he think of compromise ? was he 
 simply curious to see the blind young heiress ? or had that idea 
 of uniting their interests occurred to him which Rosalind Severn 
 suggested ? Though he had never been in Stansbury before, 
 the people of that flourishing town occasionally went abroad, 
 and his fame had preceded him — the fame of one who had 
 achieved an unusual social rej^utation, who was a sybarite, a 
 lady-killer, and a thorough man of the world. 
 
 Basil knew all this, and in his own mind added the epithet 
 "fortune-hunter" to those more complimentary ones recorded 
 above. He was not usually guilty of such rash judgment ; but 
 he could not help feeling sorely disturbed by this man's appear- 
 ance. He was scarcely conscious of a greater sense of respon- 
 sibility with regard to his own sisters than he felt for Mary 
 Carlisle. Her blindness, her helplessness, the trust which had 
 been placed in his hands by her father, all conspired to make 
 such a feeling unusually strong. She was to him hedged round 
 with sacredness, and her cause was nearer his heart than if it 
 had been his own. To entertain such an idea as that which 
 Rosalind had hinted, seemed to him monstrous ; yet, despite 
 himself, he found it intruding on his mind. 
 
 Pondering these things, he walked into the ' hotel in a fai 
 from charitable frame of mind, and sent up his card to Mr. Dev- 
 ereux. The messenger returned immediately, charged to show 
 him to that gentleman's presence, and a minute later ushered 
 him into the room where he sat. 
 
 It was a large, comfortable room, filled with an odor of cigai 
 smoke. From the edge of the mantel-piece the red eye of a hali 
 consumed Havana glowed. Basil noted these things, as a fair. 
 
"THE CLAIMAXT." 41 
 
 handsome man, with remarkable distinction of manner and grace 
 of bearing, rose, and, pushing back a table on which lay news- 
 papers and writing-materials, came forward. 
 
 " I am happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Severn," he 
 said, in a frank, musical voice, " and I am obliged to you for giv- 
 ing me the opportunity of making it in this manner. Pray sit 
 down." 
 
 " Thanks," said Basil, with a stiffness of manner in marked 
 contrast to the other's ease, but declining, by a motion of his 
 hand, the proffered civility. " I have called, Mr. Devereu::," he 
 went on, in a tone of cold formality, standing straight and sol- 
 dier-like with his hat in his hand, " merely to deliver a message 
 from Miss Carlisle. In reply to your note of this morning, she 
 requests me to say that she will receive your visit, if she is well 
 enough to do so, to-morrow ; but, her health being very frail, it 
 is always a matter of uncertainty whether she will be able to 
 exert herself at any particular time, and for this reason she can- 
 not make a positive engagement to see you. If she finds her- 
 self strong enough for the exertion to-morrow, she will let you 
 know." 
 
 He bowed as coldly as he had spoken, and turned at once to 
 go, without waiting for a reply ; but Devereux, who had of 
 course remained standing after the example of his guest, made a 
 quick step forward. 
 
 " One moment, Mr. Severn, if you please," he said. " May 
 I beg you to sit down ? I should like, if you have no objection, 
 to discuss the business which interests us both, and I have no 
 doubt we can do so in a friendly spirit." 
 
 " I am imable to perceive any good end which can be gained 
 by such a discussion," said Basil, pausing. Nevertheless, he sat 
 down. The judicial spirit with which he had entered, was not 
 disarmed, but he could not fail to acknowledge the courtesy of 
 the other's manner. It was a manner such as can only be ac- 
 quired by a long and intimate association with the world — easy, 
 graceful, Basil might almost have thought winning, if he had 
 not been too deeply prejudiced to apply such a terra. As lie sat 
 
42 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 down, bo lookod at the face before liim more crilicallj than lie 
 had done yd, A broad white brow, a clear decided nose, indo- 
 lent gray eyes, and an abundance of blond beard and mus- 
 tache — these points principally made up Mr. Devereux's counte- 
 nance. Tlie expression was somewhat defective ; sensible, but 
 not intellectual, with a certain c2ebonnaire carelessness which 
 the grave young critic did not much ai)prove. 
 
 After Basil sat down, Devereux followed his example, and 
 then, glancing again at the card on the table, he said. "Your 
 name is very familiar to me, Mr. Severn ; you are, I believe, the 
 executor of the late Mr. Carlisle." 
 
 " And the business agent of Miss Carlisle," said Basil, quietly, 
 yet more conscious, perhaps, at that moment than he had ever 
 been before of the gentle blood in his veins. 
 
 " I was sure I had not mistaken the name," said Devereux, 
 attaching very little importance to the latter statement. He 
 knew a gentleman when he saw him, and he also knew the 
 social revolution which the war had wrought in the South, the 
 wide-spread ruin that had overtaken the class to which Basil 
 Severn plainly belonged. " My name, no doubt, is familiar to 
 you," he went on. *' I am afraid it must be sj^nonymous with a 
 great deal of trouble and annoyance." 
 
 " A lawsuit is certainly not particularly agreeable," said 
 Basil. " Sometimes, how^ever, it is unavoidable." 
 
 " Do you think that the lawsuit in which we are at present 
 enorao-ed was unavoidable ? " asked Devereux. 
 
 Basil threw his head back. There was a good deal of un- 
 conscious defiance in the action. " It was unavoidable on our 
 side," he replied, with emphasis. 
 
 " You mean that it might have been avoided on mine ? " 
 said the other. 
 
 " That is your own affair altogether," returned the young 
 man, coldly. " Of course it follows that we should not have 
 needed to defend our interests if they had not been as- 
 sailed." 
 
 " And do you believe that they were unjustly assailed ? " 
 
"THE CLAIMANT." 43 
 
 asked Devereux, in a tone wliicli was chiefly remarkable for the 
 entire absence of any thing Hke heat in it. 
 
 Basil looked at him doubtfully — the surprise which he felt 
 evident in his glance. " That is a question which you can 
 scarcely expect me to answer, Mr. Devereux," he said. " That 
 we have contested your claim is sufficient proof that we do not 
 believe in its justice. But I have no doubt that you believe 
 in it." 
 
 " Then you do me the honor to think that I may be an hon- 
 est man ? " said Devereux, with a slight smile. 
 
 The smile was not satirical- — only amused — and Basil an- 
 swered: " I should be very prejudiced if I did not think so. I 
 have no right to pass judgment on your conduct, and an argu- 
 ment with regard to the justice of your claim would be of little 
 benefit to either of us. I have done my best for the interests 
 committed to me. You have probably done your best for your 
 own interest. It would not be fair to blame you for that." 
 
 " Yes, I have done what seemed to me best for my own in- 
 terest," said Devereux, " and I certainly feel sm-e that my claim 
 is just — else it would not have been made. Nevertheless, it 
 has lately occurred to me several times that, if judgment is 
 finally given in my favor, it will be hard on Miss Carlisle." 
 
 It was now Severn's turn to smile — a little grimly. 
 
 " Allow me to suggest," said he, " that it might be wise to 
 reserve your compassion for Miss Carlisle until judgment is 
 given in your favor." 
 
 " You mean that you think it will not be ? " 
 
 " I mean that T am sure it will not be." 
 
 " You are not a lawyer, Mr. Severn," said the other, quietly. 
 " I am — at least, I ought to be. I studied the profession once, 
 and I tell you frankly that my claim will triumph in the end. 
 Believe me or not, as you like. No doubt, you do not believe 
 me. Very likely you think me a scheming intriguer, bent on 
 compromise. That I am bent on compromise, I confess ; but 
 it is not on my own account, but on Miss Carlisle's. Probably "' 
 —with a slight shrug — "I am Quixotic; but the idea of ousting 
 
44 A QUESTIOX OF IIOXOR. 
 
 a woman from an inheritance which she considers rightfully her 
 own, is very distasteful to me." 
 
 " ^liss Carlisle would be indebted to you for 3'our considera- 
 tion, if she was aware of it," said Basil, haughtily. The calm 
 conviction and cool superiority of the other might have irked 
 one who felt the matter less deeply than himself. As it was, 
 he could scarcely tell w^iether he "svas most scornful or indig- 
 nant. That this stranger — this claimant W'ith his trumped-up 
 story of an old lease — should express such condescending con- 
 sideration for Mary Carlisle, who was like a princess in her own 
 right, seemed to Mary's loyal knight an absurdity scarcely short 
 of insolence. 
 
 Devereux caught the inflection of the tone, and understood 
 it thoroughl}'-. He did not resent it, which spoke well for the 
 reasonableness of his disposition. " I hope that when Miss Car- 
 lisle understands my motives, as I trust to make them clear to 
 her, she will at least not be offended," he said, gravely. " It 
 w^as on this account that I took the liberty of asking for a per- 
 sonal interview with her." 
 
 " Do not misunderstand me when I say that I think your 
 having done so was a mistake," said Basil, stifflj^ " Women 
 generally know little of business, and Miss Carlisle knows, if 
 possible, less than most women. Her infirmity and her ill- 
 health have made her unusually dependent on those around 
 her." 
 
 " I hope she will make no effort to see me until she is quite 
 able to do so," said Devereux. " I have no intention of leaving 
 Stansbury soon, and I shall await her convenience with pleasure." 
 
 " Will you pardon me, if I ask what you anticii^ate from 
 seeing her ? " said Basil, feeling that, since this discussion had 
 been thrust upon him, he would try to gain some idea of the 
 motive which influenced the other. 
 
 " I have no objection to tell you," replied Devereux, " that I 
 hope to induce her to agree to a compromise of the claim at 
 issue between us. I have every reasonable certainty of gaining 
 the lawsuit— for, although the memorandum of lease which I 
 
"THE CLAIMANT." 45 
 
 hold is unregistered, I can produce a witness of undoubted ve- 
 racitj, who, besides personal knowledge of the matter, will 
 swear positively to the signatures of both the lessor and lessee ; 
 therefore, she can scarcely think that my motives are not hon- 
 est. Any disinterested lawyer would say that my chance of 
 success is as good as hers. I think it much better." 
 
 " We altogether deny the authenticity of your lease," said 
 Basil, bluntly ; " and, if Miss Carlisle listens to my advice, and 
 the advice of her lawyer, she will not entertain the idea of 
 compromise for a moment." 
 
 " Very likely she will listen to you," said Devereux, " and 
 so I am sorry that I cannot induce you to think of what I 
 propose." 
 
 " You will never induce me to do so," said Basil. " I tell 
 you frankly that your words are wasted." 
 
 " Time sometimes works wonders," replied the other, smiling 
 again — a frank, careless smile which puzzled and irritated Basil. 
 He felt that all this was very useless ; and he rose with a good 
 deal of defiant haughtiness in his manner. 
 
 " Whatever wonders time may work in other respects, it is 
 not likely to change my opinion on this point," he said. " Mean- 
 while, if you should desire to see Mr. Champion or myself while 
 3-0U remain in Stansbury, we are easily to be found." 
 
 " Mr. Champion is your lawyer, I believe ? " 
 
 " Yes," responded Basil. " Now, let me thank you for your 
 courteous reception, Mr. Devereux, and bid you good-night. If 
 I can be of any service to you, I hope you will not hesitate to 
 call upon me." 
 
 " You are very kind," said Devereux. " If there is any need 
 to do so, I shall not hesitate to accept your good offices." 
 
 With this, they shook hands and parted, Basil carrying away 
 with him an uncomfortable sense of having been worsted in. a 
 fair game of skill. 
 
 This sensation bore him company as he passed along the 
 moonlit streets in the direction of his home. What knowledge 
 had he gained by his visit ? Devereux had avowed that it was 
 
 3 
 
46 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 out of coiisidenition for Marj Carlisle, and because lie desired to 
 make a comj^romise, that he was in Stansburj ; but beyond tbis, 
 Basil felt that all was enveloped in doubt. A disagreeable sense 
 of misgiving weighed upon him. " I distrust the man utterly ! " 
 lie said, more than once, half-aloud. Just then, he would have 
 staked his life that Devereux was a schemer and a fortune-hunter. 
 " He think of Mary Carlisle, indeed ! " reflected the young man, 
 scornfully. " It is of himsel f that he is thinking, though he 
 hopes, no doubt, to blind her by an assumption of Quixotic gen- 
 erosity so transparent that a child might see through it. He 
 may succeed — Heaven only knows ! Women are easily influ- 
 enced by a plausible tongue. But there is nothing that I would 
 not do to save Mary. The question is, what to do ? Perhaps 
 Madeleine may be able to tell." 
 
 By the time his thoughts had reached this point, he found 
 himself at his own gate and face to face with Miss Severn, who 
 was standing there alone. 
 
 "Madeleine! — is it you?" said the young man, starting. 
 " What are you doing here, all by yourself ? " 
 
 " I walked down with Gordon, who left a few minutes ago," 
 she answered, " and it seemed a pity to go back and disturb 
 Rosalind and Mr. Champion's ttte-d-tete. I fancy they have set- 
 tled matters at last." 
 
 " Do you think so ? " asked Basil, indifferently. Champi- 
 on's suit had been on the tajns so long, that it had ceased to 
 excite a great deal of interest in the family mind. " There is no 
 telling ; Rosalind is an arrant coquette. But I am glad to find 
 you here, for I have something to say to you of importance." 
 
 " Let us walk toward the garden, then," said she, slipping 
 her hand in his arm. 
 
 Toward the garden they walked, therefore, and, after a min- 
 ute had passed in silence, Madeleine spoke again. " It is about 
 Mr. Devereux, is it not ? " she said. " I am sorry to see you so 
 worried." 
 
 " Yes, it is about Mr. Devereux," he answered, " and if I am 
 worried, it is only because I think of Mar}-, and because I fear 
 
"THE CLAIMANT." 47 
 
 sne may let this man influence her ; that is, if she receives him. 
 But I rely upon you, Madeleine, to keep her from receiving him. 
 Your opinion has more weight with her than that of any one else." 
 
 " I am not sure of that," said Madeleine ; " but, even if it 
 were so, I should scarcely like to urge it upon her in a matter 
 of this kind. Mary has a great deal of sense — so much, that 
 even a clever man of the world might find it difficult to influence 
 her." 
 
 Basil shook his head. " You don't know how easily even 
 the most sensible woman is hoodwinked by a clever man of the 
 world," he said. " I thoroughly distrust this Devereux," he 
 added, feeling reluctant to express more clearly why he dis- 
 trusted him. 
 
 But Madeleine was one of those rare people with whom in- 
 stinct mio'ht almost be said to do a way with all need of Ian- 
 guage, besides which, she knew Basil thoroughly, and she un- 
 derstood at once what he meant. " Take care ! " said she, 
 pressing her hand lightly on his arm, as she looked up at him. 
 " Don't judge rashly. Prejudice is foolish as well as wrong. 
 Mr. Devereux may have no such idea as this which you fear — 
 but, if he has, Mary is not the woman to fall into the snare of a 
 fortune-hunter." 
 
 " Not of an ordinary fortune-hunter, perhaps," said Basil, in 
 a tone which showed how much he chafed against the discus- 
 sion of such a subject. "But this man is not ordinary. In the 
 first place, he is very good-looking — " 
 
 " But if he were an AjdoIIo, his looks could not afi'ect poor 
 Mary," interposed Madeleine, smiling. 
 
 " I am not certain of that," said Basil, with rather an ob- 
 stinate air, " but I was going on to add that he has an exceed- 
 ingly plausible manner — that appearance of frankness and ease 
 which is so attractive and deceptive. Altogether," said the 
 young man, with an accent of disgust, " I find myself thinking 
 more than I like of Rosalind's apparently foolish suggestion." 
 
 " Do you think so badly of the man as to suppose that he 
 has deliberately come here for that f " asked Madeleine. 
 
48 A QUESTION OF UONOR. 
 
 *' I don't want to do liim injustice," answered Basil. " As you 
 say, prejudice is foolish as well as wrong — but his own manner 
 inclined me to think so. Now, Madeleine, thank God, I am not 
 afraid of any misconstruction from you ; that there is no danger 
 of your suspecting for a moment that I have any thought of self- 
 interest in desiring to keep him away from Mary. But you see 
 how the matter stands : her isolated life and her affliction make 
 her peculiarly likely to be attracted by a man of this descrip- 
 tion, a man who professes to be thinking chiefly of her, and I — 
 who can never forget either her own or her father's kindness to 
 me — would rather see her dead than married to an adventurer 
 who thought only of her money." 
 
 " I understand," said Madeleine. " Of course, I cannot pre- 
 tend to decide whether or not your fears are well-grounded — 
 and I am inclined to think we might trust Mary even with the 
 most plausible adventurer in the world — but you cannot fear 
 any misconception from me, Basil. Only I warn you, dear, that 
 if it should be said that you and I made any effort to keep 
 this man from Mary Carlisle, there are many people who would 
 be ready to believe that we did so from self-interest." 
 
 " Let them believe it ! " said Basil. " What is one's sense 
 of duty worth if one does not act up to it in spite of the world's 
 opinion ? I have never yet stopped to consider what men would 
 say of me if it was right to do a thing, and I shall not hesitate 
 now. Neither will you, I am sure." 
 
 "No," said Madeleine. She spoke quietly, but about the 
 delicate lips there was a resolute look, in the soft eyes a light 
 steady enough to face martyrdom. " Only tell me what you 
 want done," she added, " and I will try to help you." 
 
 " I want you to keep Mary from receiving this man," said 
 Basil, with emphasis. " I think she will heed j^our advice, and 
 you must advise her strongly to refer him to Champion or to 
 
 me." 
 
 " And if she does not heed my advice ? " 
 " Then matters must take their course. I am resolved upon 
 one thing, however — if she plays into his hand and makes a 
 
"THE CLAIMANT." 49 
 
 compromise of her interest, iu absolute disregard of my opin- 
 ion and Champion's opinion, I shall give up the business ! " 
 
 " Basil, that is not like you," said Madeleine. " You have 
 cause to be vexed, but you do not mean what you say^ when 
 you talk of giving up the business. What would become of 
 it without you, and what would have become of you but for 
 Mr. Carlisle ? " 
 
 She looked up at him as she spoke, and the young man 
 met her eyes wdth a grateful glance in his own. It w'as charm- 
 ing and — to those who had only known very different fraternal 
 relations — it was remarkable to see the confidence and sympa- 
 thy which existed between these two. Their opinions never by 
 any chance clashed or jarred. Especially on any point where 
 honor or principle was involved, they always seemed to feel 
 alike, and one never failed to receive ready support and encour- 
 agement from the other. Those who like to trace every effect 
 to its cause, might have accounted for this on the ground that 
 they were much alike in what psychologists call the moral quali- 
 ties. With regard to conscientiousness, sincerity, and fortitude, 
 their mental constitutions were exactly similar. All these qual- 
 ities they possessed in more than ordinary degree. Both were 
 sensitive, yet both owned a certain sweet and stately pride 
 which veiled this sensitiveness from others. Both were more 
 tender than passionate where they loved ; both had that gift of 
 constancy in affection which we are sometimes tempted to think 
 one of the most perilous and unfortunate of characteristics; 
 both were singularly courageous, and neither had one drop of 
 that bitterness which can bear malice, even where malice has 
 been deserved. Here the similarity between them ended. In 
 intellectual qualities they differed widely. Basil was thoroughly 
 sensible, his mind was clear and his judgment excellent ; but he 
 had none of that mental brightness which, without dazzling, 
 lends grace to whatever it touches ; that was one of Madeleine's 
 chief charms. 
 
 " You are right," he said, after a minute, with a frankness 
 peculiarly his own. " So long as I can be of service to Mary, 
 
50 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 I shall not give up the business, for I can never forget wLat a 
 friend her father was to me. But I certainly think that I shall 
 have just ground for complaint if — if she acts as I fear she 
 ma}'." 
 
 " But she has not acted so yet," said Madeleine, with a smile. 
 " What has come over 3^ou, that you take the worst so entirely 
 for granted ? I thought you were a better philosopher. Is Mr. 
 Devereux so terrible or so irresistible that you think he has 
 only to see and conquer ? For my part, T have a strong confi- 
 dence in Mary's common-sense." 
 
 " I hope your confidence may be justified," said Basil, a lit- 
 tle gloomily ; " but I can't help fearing the worst. Somehow, 
 I have a presentiment of mischief ahead." 
 
 Madeleine shook her head. " I don't believe in presenti- 
 ments," she said. 
 
 *' Ah ! " returned Basil, " neither do I — when they don't 
 come to pass ! Now, supjoose we go in, and hear what Cham- 
 pion has to say about the matter ? " 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MAKT CARLISLE. 
 
 " Madeleixe," said Rosalind, entering the breakfast-room 
 the next morning, where the family were assembled, and she 
 was, as usual, the last comer, " Mary Carlisle's pony-phaeton* is 
 at the door, and here is a note. I suppose, of course, she has 
 sent for you," the young lady added, as she sat down to table. 
 
 " Yes, she has sent for me," Madeleine answ^ered, reading 
 the line or two which the note contained. " Jessie is ahvays 
 brief," she went on, with a laugh. Then she looked at Basil. 
 " You can drive me out to the Lodge," she said. " It would be 
 a pity^ not to use the carriage since Marj'^ has sent it ; but I 
 should have enjoyed a walk this bright morning." 
 
MARY CARLISLE. 51 
 
 " What a sino'ular taste ! " said Rosalind. " I cannot im- 
 agine how anybody can like to walk. It may be a matter of 
 necessity ; but as for ^^leasure — I really wish Mary would make 
 me a present of her phaeton ! She uses it very little, and Mrs. 
 Ingram always takes the carriage when she goes out." 
 
 " What will you wish for next ? " asked Mrs. Severn. She 
 spoke a little wistfully. Nothing could have been too good or 
 too bright for this young beauty, and it went to the mother's 
 heart to hear her wishing for luxm^ies which she had no power 
 to give — luxuries that she would have thought the most common 
 necessities of life in her own young days. 
 
 *' Champion will be able to afford a phaeton for you, I have 
 no doubt, Rosalind," said Basil. — " Mamma, you have heard, 
 I suppose, that she has put Champion out of his agony at 
 last ? " 
 
 " Yes, I have heard," said Mrs. Severn. She smiled, and yet, 
 as she smiled, she sighed. James Champion was well enough in 
 his way, and she had not uttered a word of objection when 
 Rosalind announced her engagement, but it was impossible not 
 to think what a different match the girl might have made with a 
 few advantages of wealth and social intercourse. 
 
 " If James Champion has ever been in agony," said Rosa- 
 lind, " he has certainly managed to endure it with a great deal 
 of philosophy. But there is no good in keeping him waiting 
 any longer," she ended, with a sigh absurdly like her mother's, 
 which was not remarkable since tliey both proceeded from the 
 same cause. No one was more keenly alive than Rosalind to 
 the de^^lorable manner in which her possible chances were being 
 thrown away. 
 
 " Now that you are safely engaged," said Madeleine, " I 
 hope you will accept my sincere condolences. You have offered 
 me yours so often, that I am glad to be able to return the com- 
 pliment." 
 
 " It is a great bore," said Rosalind, who was quite of her day 
 and generation with regard to forms of expression. " James 
 says he sees no reason why we should not be married at once, 
 
52 A QUESTION OF UONOR. 
 
 and I am ratlicr inclined to agree with liim; engaged people are 
 so exceedingly tiresome. There are Gordon and yourself, for 
 exain]:)le, Madeleine. How very stupid you have been during 
 these last six months ! " 
 
 " Thanks for Gordon and myself," said Madeleine. 
 
 " Now, I don't like rehearsing Darby and Joan beforehand," 
 said Rosalind, whose usual healthy appetite did not seem at all 
 diminished by the fact of her engagement, and who was butter- 
 ing her toast as she spoke. " Besides, Basil, if you honestly 
 think there is a chance of the pony-phaeton, it cannot be a day 
 too soon." 
 
 " What cannot be a day too soon ? " asked Basil ; " the pony- 
 phaeton, or the prospective marriage ? Felicity has mounted to 
 your brain, and, in consequence, you confuse youv meaning and 
 your pronouns." 
 
 *' The phaeton, I meant," said Rosalind. " As for the mar- 
 riage, there is no reason for haste about that, except on the score 
 of engagements being tiresome. But James is not likely to be 
 jealous — especially since there is nobody for him to be jealous of; 
 so, I suppose I shall have leave to amuse myself as well as I can 
 for a year or two yet." 
 
 " That will depend upon yourself," remarked Basil. " Cham- 
 pion is lucky enough to be able to afford to marry whenever he 
 likes, and he is never inclined to delay the accomplishment of 
 any thing upon which he has set his fancy or his head." 
 
 *' That is very true," said Rosalind, devoting herself to her 
 toast with a sober air, for she knew Champion as well as Basil 
 did — too well to indulge in any triumphant flourish about his 
 being obliged to submit to whatever she should set her fancy or 
 head upon. 
 
 But here Mrs. Severn interposed — the color heightening a 
 little in her pale cheeks : " Mr. Champion must submit to what I 
 decide," she said, " and I shall not think of allowing Rosalind to 
 marry for a year at least." 
 
 " A year, mamma ! " said Rosalind, opening her ej^es 
 " What will James say ? " 
 
MARY CARLISLE. 53 
 
 " It does not matter what he says," Mrs. Severn answered, 
 ^vith dignity. " He has no right to say any thing. The lady 
 and her friends always settle this point. You are too young — 
 you do not know your own mind ; I will not have your life irrev- 
 ocably settled without giving you time for consideration. — 
 Basil, am I not right ? " 
 
 " Quite so, mother," responded Basil, cordially. 
 
 "But a vear!"said Rosalind. Then she leaned back and 
 laughed. "I shall enjoy the expression of James's face when I 
 tell him. But what a household of engaged people we shall be ! 
 Basil, if you would only follow our example, it would be really 
 harmonious and delio'htful." 
 
 " Hum ! " said Basil. " You are like the fox in the fable : 
 having been caught in a trap yourself, you are anxious to draw 
 everybody else in, to keep you in countenance. But how about 
 the other party to the engagement ? There is another needed, 
 you know. Where shall I go to find her ? " 
 
 " Would the Champion house do ? " asked Rosalind. " Did 
 I tell you that Helen returned yesterday ? " 
 
 " No," answered he, while the ready color came into his 
 face ; for he had a fair complexion, and blushed like a girl. " I 
 suppose she has had a very gay summer ? " he added, after a 
 minute, with rather too great an assumption of carelessness. 
 
 " I have not seen her," Rosalind answered, " but James said 
 that she did not talk as if she had enjoyed it a great deal. 
 Strange, that, for Helen, isn't it ? " 
 
 " So strange that she must have had a disappointment of 
 some kind," said Madeleine. " Perhaps she was not as much of 
 a belle as she expected to be." 
 
 " Madeleine, I am astonished at you ! " cried Rosalind. 
 " That is very ill-natured." 
 
 " I am not like the fox in the fable," said Madeleine. " Be- 
 cause I have fallen into the trap of engagement m^^self, I am 
 not, therefore, anxious to draw others into it. But the day is 
 wearing on, and I must go," she added, rising. — " Basil, if you 
 will wait for me, I will be ready in a minute." 
 
5i A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 Rosiiliiid looked after her as slie left the room, with a sisr- 
 nificaut smile. Then she turned to Basil. " One needs to be 
 reminded now and then that Madeleine is mortal, like the rest 
 of us," said she, " but I never knew before that she was jealous." 
 
 " Jealous ! " repeated Basil, incredulously. " Of whom ? " 
 
 " Did you not hear what she said of Helen Champion ? 
 She has not forgotten that Gordon Lacy paid her a great deal 
 of attention last winter." 
 
 Basil laughed, half amused, half scornful. 
 
 "Is it possible you know her no better than that?" he 
 asked. " I gave you credit for being a better judge of charac- 
 ter. You are right in thinking she does not fancy Miss Cham- 
 pion ; but you are altogether wrong about the cause. I should 
 think the stars about to fall if I saw Madeleine jealous after any 
 such fashion as that." 
 
 " I believe you think that she is without a fault," said Rosa- 
 lind, half-oiFended. 
 
 " No," said he ; and then he added, with a smile: 
 
 " ' Faults has she, child of Adam's stem, 
 But only Heaven knows of them.' " 
 
 Rosalind thought that she knew of some of them, but, since 
 Madeleine appeared in the door at that moment, she had not 
 time to i^ut her thought into words. 
 
 " I am ready, Basil," the former said. " Good-morning, mam- 
 ma — good-morning, Rosalind. Don't be surprised if I do not 
 come back until this evening. Mary will probably keep me." 
 
 There were several messages to Mary from both ladies. 
 Rosalind said, " Perhaps I may walk out for you this evening ; " 
 and Madeleine answered, " Do ! " 
 
 Then the brother and sister went to the gate, where the 
 pony -phaeton, which Rosalind envied, was standing with a groom 
 in attendance. Basil's horse was also waiting — a beautiful, 
 spirited animal, which he had named Roland after the famous 
 steed who bore the good news from Aix to Ghent. " Can I 
 trust you to ride him out to the Lodge, Joe ? " said his master, 
 
MARY CARLISLE. 55 
 
 a little doubtfully. Joe (tbe groom) grinned, and touched bis 
 cap. " I reckon you kin, Mass Basil," be answered. " On witb 
 you, tben," said Basil, as be stepped into tbe pbaeton after 
 Madeleine and gathered up tbe reins. But, like most borses, 
 Roland knew witb wbom to be foolisb, and it w^as only after 
 curveting across tbe road for some time tbat be graciously al- 
 lowed Joe to mount, after wbicb be carried bim off at a rusb. 
 
 " He will probably reach tbe Lodge some time before us,' 
 said Madeleine. " How dusty it is — and yet what a lovely 
 day ! " 
 
 It was lovely, exceedingly. Tbe air was like an elixir in its 
 buoj'ancy, yet more balmy than that of June ; the sunshine was 
 dazzlino; o-old ; the blue haze was faint and delicate as a bridal 
 veil, softening into tender beauty the rolhng hills and glowing 
 w^oods around Stansbury. A bttle later, tbe day would be mel- 
 low and golden, as if it bad dropped from tbe courts of heaven ; 
 but now it was only supremely joyous, crisp, glowing, exujting. 
 As tbe Severns drove through the town at a sharp pace, color, 
 radiance, an infinite variety of jewel-like tints, and of light flow- 
 ing upon and waking tbe whole to glittering life, seemed to 
 encompass them. But it was when they emerged into tbe open 
 country tbat the splendor was fairly spread before them. Stans- 
 bury was built on a ridge, from wbicb on almost every side the 
 surrounding country sloped away with many a swell and undu- 
 lation, affording, from any point of observation, a widely-ex- 
 tended prospect. In this prospect there was nothing grandly 
 picturesque, but it was very fair to look upon, especially from 
 the road along wbicb Basil and Madeleine were driving — fer- 
 tile breadths of fields, green and level meadows shut in by woods 
 aflame with brilliant colors, purple valleys and hills, which 
 seemed to sparkle in tbe distance. . Houses were dotted here 
 and there, while a little to the right rose tbe tall chimneys of 
 the Carlisle mills, curling forth clouds of trailing smoke. 
 
 " Is liot every thing beautiful ? " said Madeleine. She looked 
 at the fringe of soft blue forest afar off, witb her eyes quicken- 
 ing, her lips parted, a flush like the lining of a sea-shell on her 
 
5G A QUESTION OF UONOR. 
 
 cheeks. At that moment no other words came to her but those 
 supreme ones of the Church's homage : " Pleni sunt coeli et 
 terra, majestatis gloriii} tuos." She uttered them half aloud, and 
 as she did so Basil exchanged a salutation with some one on the 
 side of the road. 
 
 Her glance followed the direction of his bow, and she saw 
 a tall, blond gentleman, who she knew at once could only be 
 that much-discussed person, Mr. Devereux. Their eyes met, but 
 it was only for an instant. Basil touched the ponies, and the 
 phaeton bowled on, leaving the figure of the stranger enveloped 
 in a cloud of yellow dust. Madeleine was the first to speak. 
 
 " So that is ' the claimant ? ' " said she. " Rosalind was 
 right in saying that he has rather a distinguished appearance. 
 A gentleman, Basil, at least." 
 
 '^ Oh, certainly," said Basil. " Nobody ever doubted that ; 
 but gentlemen — or men who ought to be gentlemen, as far as 
 blood and rearing go — are guilty of shabby conduct some- 
 times." 
 
 " I wonder if we should call them gentlemen, then ? " said 
 Madeleine ; " but one is very apt to use the term solely with re- 
 gard to birth and breeding." 
 
 She spoke a little absently. The magical blaze of color about 
 their path, the transparent mist draping the distant hills, inter- 
 ested her more than the question of what should or should not 
 constitute a gentleman. She had an artist's soul, though she 
 never suspected the fact, and just then every fibre was thrilling 
 with the consciousness that earth was fair, and life was sweet, 
 and God, above all, very good. 
 
 Devereux, meanwhile, was walking along the road, think- 
 ing of that face so full of a " light that never was on land or 
 sea," which had shone upon him for a moment. He wondered 
 if it belonged to Basil Severn's wife, and tried vainly to imagine 
 why it seemed familiar to him, until he remembered the house 
 where he had paused the evening before, the beautiful face 
 framed in the ivy-encircled window, the great dog he had patted 
 over the gate, and the little scene so full of significance on the 
 
MARY CARLISLE. 57 
 
 portico, the dark-ejed girl putting up her hand, the man who 
 tenderly took it. " She is scarcely Severn's wife," he said to 
 himself, remembering that bit of expressive pantomime. " Per- 
 haps she is his sister. Now that I think of it, there is some re- 
 semblance in the faces." 
 
 Basil at this moment was flicking the ponies, and saying : " I 
 hope you will remember what I urged on you last night, Made- 
 leine. I hope you will strongly advise Mary not to receive that 
 man. You know the old proverb about an ounce of prevention. 
 I am inclined to think that it is worth many pounds of possible 
 cure." 
 
 " I will do all that I can," said Madeleine ; " but why do not 
 you speak to Mary, and advise her strongly ? " 
 
 " I did advise her yesterday — to no effect ; but I shall speak 
 to her again. I have little hope of influencing her, however ; I 
 trust you to do that." 
 
 " Don't trust too much. I rely princijDally on Marj^'s good 
 sense." 
 
 *' I hope she will show her good sense by referring the fellow 
 to Champion." 
 
 " I hope so," said Madeleine, but again she spoke absently. 
 Champion's name suggested another train of thought. " Basil,'* 
 she said, abruptly, " what do you think of this engagement of 
 Kosalind's ? " 
 
 " I have not decided exactly what to think of it," answered 
 Basil ; " but I suppose Rosalind and Champion know their own 
 minds, and there is no ground for objection on my part. Why 
 do you ask ? Do you dislike it ? " 
 
 " No — I only distrust it," she answered. " I would not say^ 
 so to any one but yourself, but I am afraid it may end badly. 
 You know how arbitrary James Champion is, and, as far as I can 
 judge, I do not think Rosalind knows her own mind very well, 
 or that she has accepted him for any other reason than that she 
 does not want to let him go." 
 
 " That might be as good a reason as any," said Basil, laugh- 
 ing ; *' but," he added, more gravely, " Champion may be as ar- 
 
58 A QUE-oriON OF HONOR. 
 
 bitrary as he likes, he shall not curb Rosalind's liberty of choice. 
 I will see to that." 
 
 " You will see to it ? " repeated Madeleine. She made a 
 slight gesture of amused disdain. "And pray how would you 
 see to it ? There is nothing to be done but to let them w^ork 
 out their problem themselves ; but, if it ends in something un- 
 pleasant, do me the justice to remember that I prophesied it." 
 
 " But 3'ou are not entitled to much gratitude if you prophesy 
 an evil without showing a remedy." 
 
 " I see no remedy," said she, gazing at the distant hills, as if 
 an answer mio-ht come from them. " Even in the strufrerles of 
 those who are nearest and dearest to us, we have often no alter- 
 native but to look on as mere spectators. Nothing is harder, 
 and yet it must be endured. Rosalind's life is in her own hands. 
 We can do little for her." 
 
 " And what of your life ? " asked Basil, with a certain tender 
 softness in liis voice. He seldom used an endearing term, but 
 that cadence expressed more than many endearments, and it 
 often came when he spoke to Madeleine. 
 
 " My life ? " repeated she. " My life belongs to Gordon. 
 You know that." 
 
 " But what does Gordon mean to do with it ? That is a 
 question which has occurred to me more than once lately, when 
 I have noticed how entirely he seems to have lost all interest in 
 his profession, all apparent desire to win the position on which 
 his marriage depends. Madeleine, you must not expect me to 
 stand by and see your j'outh spent in waiting on any man's 
 whims and caprices." 
 
 " Gordon and I have settled that," said Madeleine. " Would 
 not my youth belong to him if I were married to him ? Well, 
 it belongs to him all the same, though we are not married. He 
 feels the waiting — he feels asking me to wait — as much as you 
 can," said she, W' itb a half-appealing tone in her voice ; " but I 
 agree with him that it is better he should attempt to do some- 
 thing in literature than to continue at the law, which he de- 
 tests." 
 
MARY CARLISLE. 59 
 
 " 'My dear," said Basil, geiitlj, " do you think Gordon is a 
 genius ? " 
 
 " No," answered sbe, coloring vividly — for it was one thing 
 to acknowledge this to herself, and quite another thing to have 
 it said to her even by her brother's kind lips — " but you know 
 as well as T do that many people succeed in literature who are 
 not geniuses." 
 
 " Yes," said Basil, " I suppose they do — after a fashion. 
 But would you care very much for your husband to be simply 
 one of the moderately clever men who do the drudgery of the 
 profession ? Fancy him worked to death, as the man who de- 
 pends upon his pen for the means to live must be, oppressed by 
 care, soured by disappointment and that failure to achieve great 
 results which men in such cases always call the non-appreciation 
 of the public. Would this be better than steadfast labor in the 
 profession for which he has been educated, and in which he has 
 the ability requisite for success, if he chose to exert himself? 
 Forgive me, dear, if I wound you," he ended, a little wistfully, 
 " but it has been in my mind to say this for some time." 
 
 " You do not wound me," said Madeleine, in a voice which 
 w-as a trifle unsteady — " at least, I mean that I don't blame you 
 for saying what you think. But you must not blame me if I 
 say that I believe you are wrong. I know as well as you do 
 that Gordon is not a genius ; but I think that you underrate his 
 powers, and we must not ignore the great fact that all his en- 
 thusiasm, all his desire, is toward letters." 
 
 " And how many another man's desire is toward some thing 
 different from the profession whicb he is forced by necessity to 
 adopt ! " said Basil, determined to go through unflinchingly 
 with tne disagreeable task w-hich he had set himself. " Of 
 course, if Gordon bad suflicient fortune, there would be no ob- 
 jection to his amusing himself with writing poems and essa3'^s 
 — or, if he had no connection with you, I should take no inter- 
 est in his affairs. But as it is, Madeleine, I think you ought to 
 insist on his devoting the chief labor of his life to his pro- 
 fession." 
 
60 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 "I cannot do that," said Madeleine. "It is 1 wlio have en- 
 couraged him with regard to the other — I cannot, Basil ! You 
 must not ask it of me." 
 
 " It would be for his good as well as for j^ours," said Basil. 
 
 " I do not think so," answered she, quickly. " You do not 
 know him as well as I do ; you do not know how this ambition 
 has become part of his life. You are perfectly right in saying 
 that many men have to give up ambitions which are equally dear 
 to them ; but what is sadder than such a thwarted career ? 
 You must not ask me, for any thought of myself, to thwart that 
 on which Gordon has set his heart." 
 
 " You must judge for yourself, of course," said her brother, 
 gravely. " I only thought I would discharge my duty by telling 
 you how the matter strikes me. Here we are at the Lodge." 
 
 It was a short drive from the gate to the door of the house, 
 visible through the foliage which made a glory of color all about 
 it. A pleasant, picturesque dwelling, well kept, and meriting 
 its unpretentious name, was what appeared, as the carriage 
 crashed along the gravel-drive to the steps of the piazza, which 
 ran the whole length of the building, and terminated in a large 
 conservatory at one end. 
 
 Joe and Roland were waiting. " Keep him till I come," 
 Basil said to the former, as he assisted Madeleine from the 
 phaeton, and followed her into the house. 
 
 As they entered the hall, the doors of which stood open to 
 the soft air and bright floods of sunshine, a comely-looking 
 woman, with a short, thick-set figure and ruddy face, full of in- 
 telligence, met them. She had a key-basket on her arm, and 
 her whole appearance seemed significant of honesty and shrewd- 
 ness. This was Jessie Holme — the house-keeper, amanuensis, 
 accountant — in fact, as Basil often said, eyes and hands of the 
 blind heiress. Those who think that there is no such thing as 
 gratitude in the lower orders should have known this faith- 
 ful servant of Mary Carlisle. She had been an uncouth, un- 
 educated child, whose parents had died leaving her absolutely 
 friendless, when Mrs. Carlisle, out of charitv, received her into 
 
MARY CARLISLE. (31 
 
 her household. " I shall train her for a house-keeper," she had 
 said, when asked what she expected to make of such an unprom- 
 ising specimen of humanity ; " she seems to possess the virtue 
 of honesty, and an honest servant is w^hat poor Mary will need 
 above all things." Never were truer w^ords spoken ; never was 
 a human soul more incorruptibly honest, more gratefully faith- 
 ful, more warmly attached to the gentle and considerate mistress 
 who had given her a home and an education, than Jessie Holme 
 proved. And, next to this mistress, she loved the blind child 
 ■who had grown up under her wing, and whom the mother's dy- 
 ino- words committed to her care. " Never leave her, Jessie : 
 promise me that you will never leave her ! " she had said ; and 
 Jessie had promised, and passionately begged God to deal with 
 her as she dealt with the trust thus given. She had been Mr. 
 Carlisle's house-keeper as long as he lived, and afterward the en- 
 tire charge and responsibility of the Lodge establishment rested 
 in her hands. Mary Carlisle trusted her implicitly, and people 
 who had never taken the trouble to sow those seeds of kindness 
 w^hich are likely to bring forth such fruits of gratitude often re- 
 marked that it seemed a " providential mercy " that she should 
 have found one so capable and honest to relieve her of all care. 
 
 " Good-morning, Jessie," said Madeleine, as they met. 
 *' How is Mary ? " 
 
 " Good-morning, Miss Madeleine — good-morning, Mr. Basil," 
 said Jessie, with a smile that seemed to broaden her face two 
 inches. " Miss Mary wasn't well last night, but she's better this 
 morning, ma'am." 
 
 " Where is she ? " said ^ladeleine. " In the library ? " 
 
 Without waiting for Jessie's answer — who, indeed, had 
 turned to speak to Basil — she crossed the hall, and opened the 
 door. With the exception of two large, well-filled bookcases, 
 the room she entered had very little claim to the name of li- 
 brary. It was, rather, a luxurious sitting-room, furnished with 
 every thing that could possibly contribute to the comfort of the 
 person inhabiting it. A soft warmth of atmosphere and a fra- 
 grance of roses greeted Miss Severn : the first came from a fire 
 
G2 A QUESTION OF IIOXOR. 
 
 which burned on the hearth, notwithstanding the mildness of the 
 morning ; the second from several large vases full of those rojal 
 flowers which seem to bloom with greater profusion in October 
 than in any other month of the year. There w^ere broad couch- 
 es and deep chairs ; the sunlight w^as lying in bars of gold on the 
 carpet ; a mocking-bird, whose cage hung in the window, was 
 uttering the sweetest of his full-throated notes ; and in the midst 
 of this brightness and grace sat the blind girl who was the 
 mistress. 
 
 She w^is near the fire — leaning back in a chair that was a 
 sort of round, luxurious shell, with her slippered feet extended 
 on the marble hearth. They were dainty, well-shaped feet, and 
 matched the small white hands which lay, with such pathetic 
 idleness, lightly clasped in her lap. The chair in which she sat 
 almost eno'ulfed her frao-ile fio-ure, while on her face the sio^ns 
 of illness were visible to the most careless eye, in the transpar- 
 ence of her colorless skin, and the attenuation of the delicate 
 features. But even with the disadvantage of habitual ill-health, 
 Mary Carlisle was not a plain woman; indeed, she possessed 
 several points of undeniable beauty. Her hair was one of them. 
 It was unusually fine and unusually abundant — two things 
 which are seldom found united — and in color a soft, pale brown. 
 Parted simply, without ripple or wave, it made a Saxon arch 
 over the pure, white brow, beneath which were eyes of that 
 clear, limpid blue which one sees but rarely — the tint of a sum- 
 mer sky, a mountain-lake, or a blossom of the myosotis. Lovely 
 as these eyes were, however, it was only necessary to glance at 
 them in order to recognize that they were sightless. iSIo ray 
 of light, no suggestion of color, had ever come to them, and 
 that introspective expression peculiar to the eyes of the blind 
 lent an interest as well as a sadness to the charming face in 
 which they were set. 
 
 That face turned as Madeleine entered, and a faint, sweet 
 smile broke over it. " So you have come at last ! " she said. 
 "Is it I who have been impatient, or is it you who have been 
 long?" 
 
MARY CARLISLE. 63 
 
 " I fear it is I who liave been long," answered Madeleine, as 
 she came forward. "But you must scold Basil; it was his 
 fault." 
 
 "I thouo^ht I heard Basil's voice. Where is he ? " 
 
 " In the hall with Jessie — here he comes now ! " 
 
 Basil came as she spoke, wdth a quick, firm step, which would 
 have been unmistakable to duller ears than Mary Carlisle's. 
 After he had shaken hands and asked how she felt, he plunged 
 at once into the business which had brought him. 
 
 " According to your request, I saw Mr. Devereux last night, 
 Mary," he said, " but the interview was very unsatisfactory. He 
 allowed me to understand that he has come here for the purpose 
 of compromising his claim, but he still professes himself anxious 
 to see you." 
 
 " \Yhy should he be anxious to see me ? '* asked Mary, a 
 look of interest coming into her face, a slight flush of color into 
 her wan cheeks. 
 
 " I imagine because he thinks that you may be easily worked 
 upon — being a woman," replied Basil, dryly. 
 
 " Are women supposed to have no sense ? " asked she, 
 smiling. " If that is Mr. Devereux's object, he will find himself 
 mistaken. I should take no step whatever without your advice 
 — vou cannot for a moment think that I would ! " 
 
 " I don't know," said Basil, doubtfully. " If you receive him, 
 you will take that step against my advice." 
 
 "But that is a mere matter of courtesy ; nothing of impor- 
 tance is involved." 
 
 Basil looked at Madeleine ; then back at the sightless eyes 
 turned toward him. " I am not sure that it is a matter of no 
 importance," said he. " Frankly, Mary, I distrust the man, and 
 I should exceedingly like you to decline to see him. I do not 
 wish him to come in contact with you. Promise me that you 
 will write and refer him to Champion or to me." 
 
 Mary hesitated. Plainly she was not ready to promise this. 
 " I am afraid you think me obstinate," she said, after a minute, 
 " but I cannot rid myself of a feeling that, since he has applied 
 
54: A QUESTION OF UOXOR. 
 
 so directly to me, it would seem like rudeness — like a repulse of 
 what lie appears to mean with good intention — to refer him to 
 some one else." 
 
 " You must follow your own judgment, of course," said 
 Basil, w^ith a slight chord of irritation in his voice. " I have 
 only offered my advice. Now I must go. You'll excuse my 
 haste, I know. Good-morning." 
 
 " Tell me, will you be vexed wath me if — if I should see 
 him ?" she asked, almost entreatingly, as she detained his sun- 
 burned hand for a moment in the clasp of her small white ones. 
 
 " Vexed with you ! " repeated he, touched and melted all in 
 a moment. " Good Heavens, no ! Do what you think best, by 
 all means. As for being vexed with you — I couldn't be that 
 possibly, if I were to try. God bless you ! — Good-by." 
 
 He wrung her hand hard, dropped it into her lap, and, mo- 
 tioning Madeleine to follow him, left the room. 
 
 " I see that she has made up her mind to receive him," he 
 said, when they paused on the piazza. " Of course, if she in- 
 sists upon doing so, it is impossible to hinder her ; but your in- 
 fluence may do a great deal, even yet." 
 
 " But it is her own affair," said Madeleine, hesitatingly, "and 
 perhaps, after all, Basil, it would be better to let her follow her 
 owm judgment — " 
 
 " Follow her own fiddlesticks ! " said Basil, impatiently. 
 " The plain English of her judgment is her inclination. She is 
 interested in the idea of receiving him simply because he ap- 
 pealed to her feelings ; and if he succeeds in gaining a personal 
 interview and works upon her with that plausible manner of his, 
 there — well, really, there is no telling what may ensue ! " 
 
 *' I think you are mistaken," said Madeleine. " I am confi- 
 dent Mary is not so easily worked upon as you think ; but I will 
 do my best. I cannot promise more than that." 
 
 " Be sure that it is your best ! " said her brother. Then he 
 turned, and motioned Joe to bring up Roland. 
 
MR. DEVEREUX'S INTERVIEW. 65 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ME DEYEKEUX'S INTERVIEW. 
 
 While Basil rode away with rather an overcast brow, Made- 
 leine returned to the library, where Miss Carlisle was waiting for 
 her. 
 
 " Come and sit by me," the blind girl said, eagerly, as soon 
 as she heard the welcome footstep. " I have so much to say to 
 you — so much to ask you. Let me feel your hand. Ah 1 how 
 cool and pleasant it is ! " 
 
 " While yours is dry and feverish," said Madeleine, clasping 
 it. " I am afraid you are not well. You confine yourself too 
 much in these warm rooms. Dr. Arthur told me, the other day, 
 that you ought to spend more time in the open air. What do 
 you say ? — shall we take a drive ? " 
 
 " Not this morning," answered Mary, shrinking deeper into 
 the soft depths of her chair. " I am not strong enough. I was 
 very unwell last night. Did not Jessie tell you so ? " 
 
 " Basil told me yesterday evening that you were not well, 
 and, if you had not sent for me, I meant to come this morning to 
 see how you were." 
 
 " You are always kind ! " said the heiress, as gratefully as if 
 she had been a pensioner on the charitj'- of her visitor ; and she 
 stroked softly the hand that rested between both her own. 
 
 " I am afraid Basil is accountable for your fever," said Made- 
 leine. " Is it not so ? Did he not worry you yesterdaj'' ? " 
 
 " No," replied Mary, quietly. " He did not worry me at all ; 
 but I worried myself trj'ing to decide what I should do. It 
 would seem a small matter, I suppose, to most people," said she, 
 with a slight accent of apology, " but I am so unused to any 
 responsibility that even such as this weighs hesLvily upon me. 
 Therefore I mean to put it on your shoulders," she ended, with 
 a smile. 
 
66 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " On my shoulders ? " repeated Madeleine. " Oh, I hope 
 not. I don't like responsibilities." Then, remembering how 
 strongly Basil had urged her to use her influence, and what a 
 good opening this was for influence, she paused and hesitated. 
 
 " But it is not like you to shrink from them," said Mary, 
 " and it is unkind besides, when j^ou consider how many advan- 
 tages 3'ou have over me for forming a correct judgment." 
 
 " I am not sure of that," said Madeleine. " You should not 
 underrate your own powers." 
 
 " I do not underrate them. I have brains here " — she 
 touched her brow with one slender finger — " but I am isolated 
 by ill-health, and, most of all, I am blind. How, then, can I 
 have the faculty of judgment ? " 
 
 " God gave it to you, dear," said Madeleine, simply. " Be- 
 lieve me, you are as well able to decide for yourself as I am able 
 to decide for you." 
 
 " No," said the other, shaking her head, " I am not able. 
 You must tell me what to do. Shall T, or shall I not, receive 
 Mr. Devereux ? " 
 
 '* On the whole, I think that, if I were in your place, T should 
 decline to do so," answered Madeleine, uttering loyally the senti- 
 ment "with which Basil had prompted her. 
 
 " But why ? " asked Mary. " If you were in my place, you 
 would certainly have a reason for declining." 
 
 " Yes, I think I should have a reason : I think I should 
 feel that such an interview would be quite useless, unless I 
 meant to interfere in business-matters which women rarely com- 
 prehend." 
 
 " I have not the least intention of interfering in business- 
 matters, which Basil understands far better than I do," said 
 Miss Carlisle, " and yet I cannot decide to refuse Mr. Devereux 
 the interview which he asks. I have foro-otten one thing:, how- 
 ever; in order to form an opinion, you must read his note. Go 
 to my writing-desk yonder, and you will find it." 
 
 She pointed as she spoke — pointed as directly as if sight 
 had dwelt in her eyes — to a small table on w^hich stood an in- 
 
MR. DEVEREUX S INTERVIEW. 67 
 
 laid writing-desk. Madeleine rose, crossed the floor, and opened 
 it. The first thing that met her glance within was a white 
 envelope, directed, in black, legible writing, to " Miss Car- 
 lisle." 
 
 She drew forth the in closure, conscious the while of that 
 respect for the writer which a thoroughly well-appointed letter 
 always communicates. It was a thoroughly well-written letter, 
 also, she found — and Madeleine was a fastidious judge of 
 style and expression. Nothing could possibly have been in 
 more admirable taste, respectful, terse, and with a ring of ap- 
 parent sincerity in every word. As Miss Severn's eye traveled 
 down the clearlj^-written page, she found herself going over 
 from Basil's side to Mary's, in a manner which would have 
 disgusted the former. It was impossible not to be prepossessed 
 toward a man who was able to express a difficult request in 
 such graceful and courteous terms ; while far beyond the grace 
 and the courtesy, Madeleine considered the honesty which 
 seemed underlying these things. There was not the smallest 
 trace of presumption or vanity in the quiet simplicity which 
 characterized the epistle, and when she had replaced it in the 
 desk, she came thoughtfully back to her friend. 
 
 " Well," said the latter, after a pause of considerable dura- 
 tion, " what do you think ? Have you nothing to sa}'- ? " 
 
 " Nothing," answered Madeleine, candidly. " You must de- 
 cide for yourself. I cannot advise you." 
 
 " But you must ! " said Mary. " What is the matter ? Do 
 vou not like the note ? " 
 
 " Yes, I like it — that is, it bears criticism very well. It 
 seems frank and sincere ; it is certainly courteous and respectful." 
 
 ''• What is it, then ? Are you afraid of Basil ? " 
 
 " No," answered Madeleine, laughing. " What an inquisitor 
 you are ! I told you that I do not like responsibilities." 
 
 " And I told you that you must accept this one." 
 
 " Why not do as you wash, tlien ? " asked the other, feeling 
 as if she w^ere a traitor to Basil's trust. " After all, it cannot be 
 a matter of very great importance." This was said more to 
 
68 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 herself tlian to lier companion, and was, it may be aclded, a salve 
 to her conscience. 
 
 " I don't know," said Mary. " I feel as if it was a matter 
 of importance — at least, as if it might prove so. But, then, I 
 suppose instincts are not to be relied upon." 
 
 " No, they are not to be relied upon," said Madeleine, sud- 
 denly roused to a sense of duty. " If you will have my advice," 
 she went on, " it is the same which I gave before I read the 
 note. I think it would be best for you to decline to see Mr. Dev- 
 ereux. He can have nothing to say which it is important for 
 you to hear — nothing which could not be said to greater advan- 
 tage to your lawj'er or your agent. There will be no rudeness 
 in declining his visit if you tell him — which is quite true — that 
 you are very unwell." 
 
 " Do you think not ? " asked Mary. Her face fell a little. 
 Evidently this was not the advice she had desired, for when we 
 ask advice, most of us have our preference with regard to the 
 form it shall take. 
 
 " I am sure not," said Madeleine, with decision. 
 
 Then for a short time there was silence. The fire crackled 
 softlj^, the bird sang loudly, the sunshine streamed in with daz- 
 zling brightness, and Madeleine watched her companion's face 
 anxiously. 
 
 " It is strange that I don't agree with you," Mary said at 
 length. " I never failed to agree with you before. But my in- 
 stinct on this point is unconquerable — the instinct that I ought 
 to see him and hear what he has to say." 
 
 " In short," said Madeleine, with a smile, " you have asked 
 my advice in order to follow your own opinion." 
 
 " I am afraid I have. Pray forgive me if I seem ungracious 
 or obstinate — " 
 
 " How can you talk such nonsense ! " interrupted Miss Sev- 
 ern. " Is it not your affair altogether ? I am half glad to be 
 rid of the responsibility of your following my advice ; and 
 now, when do you think of receiving the formidable gentleman 
 who has given rise to so much discussion ? 
 
MR. DEVEREUX'S INTERVIEW. 69 
 
 "I migbt as well receive him to-day: I think I am well 
 enough." 
 
 " There may be two opinions on that point ; but shall I write 
 and tell him so ? " 
 
 " If you will be so kind," said Mary, gratefully. 
 
 So, Madeleine — who possessed the rare art of yielding grace- 
 fully — went to the desk, and having presented Miss Carlisle's 
 compliments to Mr. Devereux, on a sheet of pale-lavender pa- 
 per, paused with suspended pen, and glanced at her companion. 
 
 " You have not told me what hour to name," she suggested. 
 " Shall I say one o'clock ? You are always better in the morn- 
 nig." 
 
 " Not always. I fancy I shall feel better this afternoon. Say 
 four, instead." 
 
 Since it did not occur to Madeleine that there was any ob- 
 jection to this, she went on writing the note, and, while she was 
 so engaged, the door opened and a lady entered. 
 
 A lady made up of negatives, if it be possible to use such an 
 expression — a lady neither young nor old, neither handsome nor 
 plain, neither attractive nor disagreeable, a passive-looking-, neu- 
 tral-colored person, of whom the most positive thing which could 
 be said was that she seemed to be a gentlewoman. This was Mary 
 Carlisle's aunt — a sister of her father — who had not been averse 
 to taking charge of the orphan heiress when propriety and the 
 opinion of the world demanded that some one should do so. 
 Mary herself had been opposed to so useless an appendage as a 
 chaperon ; but finally yielded to the advice of others, and this 
 lady — a widow of independent means and apparently harmless 
 character — was installed in the position. She had filled it for 
 two years with passive ability — in other words, she had placidly 
 existed, walked, talked, driven, crocheted, without troubling any 
 one — except the servants, who one and all voted her " meddle- 
 some." Unhappily, this verdict was a just one. Mrs. Ingram 
 was greatly inclined to meddle in what did not concern her, and 
 her most active and disao-reeable characteristic was excessive 
 
 curiosity. At the Lodge her position was altogether a sinecure 
 
 4 
 
'70 A QUESTION OF llOXOU. 
 
 — for Miss Carlisle made it definitely understood tbat she was 
 mistress of her own establishment — and for this very reason, 
 perhaps, she had the greater temptation to pry into domestic 
 and foreign matters with that inquisitiveness which from much 
 indulgence grows to a positive disease. 
 
 " Good-morning, Mrs. Ingram," said Madeleine, looking up ; 
 " I hope you are feeling well to-da}^ ? — you \vere suffering with 
 neuralgia when I saw 3'ou last." 
 
 " I am suffering with it yet, Miss Severn," answered Mrs. 
 
 Ingram, in a voice of resigned complaint. *' It hardly ever 
 
 ' leaves me, though I am sure Dr. Arthur has given me quinine 
 
 enough to drive it out of any system. I hope you are well, and 
 
 your mother and sister ? " 
 
 " Thanks, yes — quite well," returned Madeleine, sealing and 
 directing her epistle. — " The note is finished, Mary," she added, 
 addressing Miss Carlisle. " Shall I ring for a messenger to take 
 it into Stansbury ? " 
 
 " Let me ring," said Mrs. Ingram, moving to the bell. In 
 doing so, she passed behind Madeleine's chair, and looked over 
 her shoulder at the address on the letter. The result was so 
 unexpected, that she uttered an exclamation. " Mr. Devereux ! " 
 she said. " Are you writing to A^m, Mary ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Mary, " Madeleine has been kind enough 
 to write a line or two telling him that I will receive him this 
 afternoon." 
 
 " You are going to receive him, then ! " said the elder lady, in 
 a tone of strong curiosity, interest, and surprise. " I thought 
 you said yesterday afternoon — " 
 
 " Xo matter what I said 3"esterday afternoon," interrupted 
 Mary. " I have decided that this is best. Aunt Ingram. Please 
 don't say any thing more about it ; I have heard so much al- 
 readv, that I am tired." 
 
 " Not from wze, my dear, I beg you to remember," said Aunt 
 Ingram, with great dignity. " Of course I can't be expected to 
 know what others may have urged on you ; but I have never 
 advised vou to do other than follow vour own inclination. ' You 
 
MR. DEVEREUX'S INTERVIEW. 71 
 
 must do exactly what you think best,' was what T said yesterday 
 as soon as you showed me Mr. Devereux^s note." 
 
 " Yes, I remember," said Mary, with a faint, weary sigh. 
 " But sometimes it is not easy to tell what one does think best. 
 — Is that you, Stella ? " — as the door opened. " Tell Joe to take 
 this note to the Stansbury Hoteh It is for Mr. Dev"ereux." 
 
 "And then," said Madeleine, "bring Miss Carlisle's hat and 
 jacket and shoes. She is going to walk." 
 
 " My dear, do you feel well enough ? " asked Mrs. Ingram, 
 with an air of solicitude. 
 
 " I suppose I do, since Madeleine thinks so," answered Mary, 
 with a smile. 
 
 " Of course what Miss Severn thinks is always right," said 
 Mrs. Ingram, with an accent not quite marked enough to be sar- 
 castic. 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Ingram," said Madeleine, taking the re- 
 mark as if it had been uttered in good faith. " At least I know 
 that I am right now." 
 
 Despite her own reluctance, Miss Carlisle was therefore taken 
 out to walk ; and acknowledged that she felt better when she 
 paced up and down the garden-paths by Madeleine's side. " But 
 then I always feel better when I am with you," she said. " How 
 happy I should be if you could stay with me all the time ! " 
 
 " It would be a cheap way of purchasing happiness," said 
 Madelehie, with her caressing smile. 
 
 Yet, as she spoke, her heart smote her that she could not say, 
 " I will stay with you ! " But to do so would involve a partial 
 separation from Basil, and in a measure from Gordon also, which, 
 unselfish as she was, Madeleine could not face. There had been 
 a question of doing so more than once, and Mary had used every 
 argument and persuasion to induce her to remain permanently 
 at the Lodge — though the strongest argument and most efifective 
 persuasion with Madeleine was the manifest need of her. Not- 
 withstanding this fact, however, she could not decide to go. Be- 
 fore Lacy had been a tie, she had felt unable to leave Basil. It 
 has been already said that they loved each other with more than 
 
73 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 ordinary tenderness, but, apart from this affection, Madeleine 
 felt that her brother needed her. In the midst of his life of toil, 
 it was to her that he always turned for that intelligent sympathy 
 of mind and taste, that encoura2:emcnt when he flao-aed, that 
 advice when he was in doubt, which few men are fortunate 
 enough to find at their own hearthstones. Neither Mrs. Severn 
 nor Rosalind " understood " Basil. The finer shades of his char- 
 acter, the higher thoughts of his mind, would have been incom- 
 prehensible to them ; and so Madeleine could not leave him — 
 not even for the sake of the blind girl who had been so generous 
 a friend to both of them. 
 
 The afternoon was in its full tide of mellow brightness, and 
 the trees were now and then dropping their leaves pensively on 
 the broad gravel-drive, when Mr. Devereux opened the gate of 
 the Lodge and walked in. As he did so, he glanced at his watch. 
 It wanted yet six minutes to four. Then he looked at his boots. 
 They bore plain testimony to the dust of the road over which 
 he had passed, for they had changed their color from black to a 
 fine, light brown. Without being much of a dandy, he wished 
 for a moment that, instead of having indulged himself in the 
 pleasure of the walk, he had followed the advice of the clerk of 
 the hotel and driven out. But the next instant he remembered 
 that Miss Carlisle would not be aware of the dust on his boots — 
 nor indeed whether he wore boots at all or not. This turned 
 his thoughts from himself to the recollection of her blindness, 
 and, as he walked slowly forward, he regarded the pretty spa- 
 ciousness of the place he was approaching wdth that reflection 
 present in his mind. It seemed to lend a sadness to a scene 
 which else possessed great brightness and attraction. The glass 
 sides of the conservatory glittered in the sun, though the sashes 
 were thrown open to the soft, warm air, and man}' of the plants 
 were still scattered over the lawn ; the windows of the house 
 were also open, and a golden repose brooded over every thing. 
 
 Crossing the piazza, Devereux paused for a moment outside 
 the open door — admiring the hall with its arching staircase, and 
 that air of lightness and space which good architecture gives. As 
 
MR. DEVEREUX'S INTERVIEW. 73 
 
 he paused, a voice from the upj^er regions of the house floated 
 to him crooniuo- a sono: of which tlie words were those of a Meth- 
 odist hjmn,the air that of "Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon." 
 A slight smile crossed his face. Jessie, who was singing as she 
 darned a pair of stockings, was quite startled by the peal of the 
 door-bell which the next instant resounded through the house. 
 
 A tall, black servant answered it, and, receiving Devereux's 
 card, ushered him across the hall, and into the drawing-room. 
 This was a large, pleasant apartment, well-toned, and full of 
 graceful modern furniture, with several long mirrors, and a few 
 good paintings on the walls. A glass door, draped with lace, led 
 into the conservatorv. The windows lookino- toward the west 
 were open, giving a glimpse of the garden all glowing and brill- 
 iant in the sloping rays of the sun. At one of these windows, 
 the figure of a lady was outlined against the brightness. She 
 turned as he entered and came forward. Receivino- his card from 
 the servant, she glanced at it, then addressed him with a bow. 
 
 " Miss Carlisle is ready to receive you, JMr. Devereux. This 
 way, if you please." 
 
 She moved across the floor as she spoke, and Devereux — as 
 much impressed as could have been desired by this ceremonious 
 mode of reception — followed her as she led the way toward the 
 end of the room where another lady was sitting whose appear- 
 ance almost startled him, it was so very diflerent from what he 
 had expected. 
 
 Yet, if he had been called upon to define exactly what he 
 had expected, he would jDrobably have found it difficult to do so. 
 Only, with the idea of a blind invalid he had associated some- 
 thing painful which the reality failed utterly to bear out. Tlie 
 slender figure which rose as he approached, wore a soft blue robe 
 — so entirely devoid of the flounces and furbelows of fashion, 
 that it would have delighted a painter — witli transparent frills 
 at throat and wrists, and the fleecy white drapery of a Shetland 
 shawl. There was something very becoming in the simplicity 
 of this attire, something very charming in the fair, pathetic face 
 crowned with pale, silken masses of hair, and something inex- 
 
74 A QUESTION OF IIOXOR. 
 
 pressibly toucliing in the sightless eyes. At that moment he 
 scarcely noticed Madeleine, who introduced him ^Yith the simple 
 words, " Mar}'', here is Mr. Devereux." 
 
 "I am ghid to see Mr. Devereux," Mary said, and the words 
 struck Devereux with a new sense of her great deprivation : he 
 did not know how often those who never saw, talk of seeing. 
 As she spoke, she extended her hand. If another woman had 
 done so, he would have been surprised, and his taste would not 
 have been pleased, but in her it only seemed an act of exquisitely 
 courteous grace. 
 
 As he took it, he murmured something — he scarcely knew 
 what. Never before had he seemed to himself so awkward and 
 so dull. Then Madeleine pointed to a chair, and he sat down. 
 As he did so, she moved away, and he found himself alone with 
 Miss Carlisle. 
 
 For a moment there was silence. Mary had resumed her 
 seat, and sat with her face turned toward him with an air of ex- 
 pectation. She was anxious to hear his voice. It was chiefly 
 b}'^ means of the voice that she judged of character. He, on his 
 part, felt strangely at a loss for words. She was so different 
 from what he had anticipated, that he felt thrown out of his 
 usual self-possession. After a time he spoke. 
 
 " I hope you will pardon me for having ventured to intrude 
 upon you." 
 
 It was exceedingly stupid, as be felt ; but there are times in 
 which, if a man is debarred from uttering stupidities, he must 
 needs be silent altogether, and silence has its disadvantages, 
 since we have not yet attained to the enviable state of those 
 pure intelligences who have no need of language. 
 
 Mary answered with the utmost simplicity, yet with quiet 
 dignity : " There is no need to consider your visit in the light 
 of an intrusion. In the matter which concerns us both, mv in- 
 terest is at stake as well as your own, and I shall be glad to 
 hear w^hat you have to say regarding it." 
 
 " I am much indebted to you for liaving granted my request 
 for a personal interview," said Devereux, interested and attract 
 
MR. DEYEREUX'S INTERVIEW. 75 
 
 ed by her manner. It was singularly free from pretense, yet it 
 was evident that the young heiress had no inconsiderable idea 
 of her own importance. This is common enough with heir- 
 esses, and few of them have so much excuse for it as Mary Car- 
 lisle, since the veriest Liliputian if he lived in solitude might 
 grow to fancy himself a giant. Neither would we esteem him 
 a fool for doing so. It is when a Liliputian lives among giants 
 and thinks himself their equal that we are moved to amused 
 contempt. 
 
 " I hope you will not think that I made the request without 
 a reason for doing so," the young man went on. " I wished to 
 speak to you as I could not speak to your agent or your lawyer. 
 I wished to see you and — and learn how you felt with regard to 
 this matter, which I fear has troubled you very much, and which 
 of late has troubled me scarcely less." 
 
 " To be frank with you," said Mary, " it has troubled me very 
 little indeed. I fear I shifted all the annoyance to Basil Severn's 
 shoulders. Personally I have not felt much interest in the re- 
 sult. Perhaps you can understand that it would not make a 
 great deal of difference to me." 
 
 He understood what she meant. To this blind girl all the 
 wealth in the world would be useless (save for doing good to 
 others), beyond the moderate amount necessary for her own 
 comfort. There are many men who would have found in this 
 fact an excellent excuse for relieving her of a portion of the for- 
 tune which she could not enjoy ; but Arnold Devereux was not 
 one of these men. With all his faults, there was a strain of chiv- 
 alry in his nature — which to himself he scornfully called Quix- 
 otism, and kept as much as possible out of sight — which, not- 
 withstanding his undoubted belief in the justice of his cause, 
 made him feel just then like a robber of helpless woman- 
 hood. 
 
 " It would make more difference than you think, if the mat- 
 ter went against you," he said, with a tone of great gentleness 
 in his voice. " It would cripple your fortune very seriously, and 
 you would of necessity have to endure many deprivations. I 
 
76 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 hope you will believe me when I say that it is thinking of this 
 which has lately disquieted me." 
 
 You are very kind," said Mary ; but she spoke doubtfully. 
 The man surprised and puzzled her. She certainly had not ex- 
 pected any assurance of this kind, and she found herself won- 
 dering what would come next. His voice had a frank ring of 
 truth in it, yet she could not help distrusting this frankness al- 
 most as much as Basil might have done. " If I could only see 
 his face I " she thought. It had not entered into poor Mary's 
 consideration that faces can deceive as well as tones, 
 
 Devereux, meanwhile, saw the distrust which she was feeling, 
 in her face, and as he saw it he smiled. He was a man of the 
 world, and he was not surprised or offended in the least. 
 
 " Say candidly what you think, Miss Carlisle," he remarked, 
 with the gentleness of his voice unchanged. " Say that you 
 cannot imagine why I should think of you in such a manner, 
 and that you are sure I have some interested end to serve." 
 
 " I should be sorry to do you injustice," said Mary, gravely, 
 *' yet it is strange for you to consider me — and I am forced to 
 think so." 
 
 " Strange or not," he said, " I hope you will believe me — 
 not on my account, but on your own. I should like you to 
 trust me sufficiently to listen to a proposal which I desire to 
 make." 
 
 " I have no reason to distrust you," said she. " I only think 
 it singular that you should have troubled ^^ourself about my loss, 
 in case the suit is decided in your favor." 
 
 " Why should you think it singular ? " asked he, quickly. 
 " It is not as if you — or even as if your father — had been in fault 
 in the matter. He was deceived ; but if he were living, I should 
 not feel any great disquiet on his account. A man can generally 
 take care of himself. But you. Miss Carlisle — you, a woman and 
 an invalid — can you not imagine how reluctantly I face the idea 
 of depriving you of what you consider your rightful inherit- 
 ance ? " 
 
 " I am not absolutely without reason, though J am a woman,'' 
 
MR. DEYEREUX'S IMERVIEW. 77 
 
 said Mary, smiling. " I am able to recognize the fact that it 
 is no fault of yours if you are forced to do so. But it is very 
 good of you to think of me, and I am deeplj' obliged. There 
 is nothing to be done, however, but to abide the decision of the 
 law." 
 
 " Perhaps you are wrong," said Devereux, " perhaps there is 
 somethinfr else to be done." Then he hesitated for a moment. 
 He had something to say which he scarcely knew how to express. 
 It would have been an interesting scene at that moment to any 
 one with subtile perceptions looking on — Mary's fair, intelligent 
 face, full of attention, and the doubt, irresolution, almost anxiety 
 on Devereux's countenance as he gazed earnestly at her, meet- 
 ing the lovely eyes so pathetic in their blindness. Finally he 
 spoke, almost desperately: 
 
 " Your friends will tell you that I am thinking only of my own 
 interest when I talk to you of a compromise ; but this is not so. 
 I am thinking of you much more than of myself, and I hope you 
 will trust me. I have come here solely on your account. I wish 
 above all things to be sure that you do not suffer through me — 
 at least, not to the extent which will be inevitable if the suit, as 
 it stands at present, is decided against you. In order to accom- 
 plish this, it is necessary for a compromise of our conflicting in 
 terests to be made. I do not ask you for a definite answer now, 
 but will you take into consideration doing this ? " 
 
 " I do not think I can," said Mary, doubtfully. ''^ The friends 
 of whom you speak would not entertain such a proposal for a 
 moment, and it is imjDOSsible for me to act in a manner opposed 
 to their advice." 
 
 This surprised Devereux, and it flashed through his mind 
 that perhaps she might be engaged to Severn. "I beg pardon," 
 he said. "I thought you had reached your majority, and were 
 entirely independent." 
 
 " I am of age, and legally independent," said Marj^, " but there 
 are ties of gratitude and trust which nothing would induce me 
 to disregard. My business is altogether in the hands of my 
 friend and kinsman, Basil Severn." 
 
78 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " AYill you agree to a compromise, then, if I can succeed in 
 making Mr. Severn hear reason ? " 
 
 " I will agree to any thing which he does, but " — she shook 
 her head — " I warn you that Basil will never consent to compro- 
 mise. I have often heard him say that he w^ould not." 
 
 " He is impetuous, honest, and doggedly faithful to your in- 
 terest," said Devereux ; " I saw that last night." 
 
 " He has been every thing to me," said Mary, with a tender 
 thrill of o-ratitude in her voice. 
 
 Then there was another short pause. Devereux felt that he 
 had said as much as it was expedient to say, yet he could will- 
 ingly have remained for a much longer time in this pleasant 
 drawing-room, wath the golden rays of the sun slanting in, the 
 glowing garden without, a scent of flowers on the atmosphere, 
 and the attractive face before him, over which each wave of feel- 
 ing passed like a reflection across a mirror. Suddenly he spoke, 
 on an impulse : 
 
 " Will you allow me to see you again ? " he asked. " I hope 
 you do not think that I presume on your kindness, but I should 
 like to know more of you, and I think that, perhaps, if you knew 
 more of me, you might — trust me." 
 
 The last words were uttered after a short, scarcely percep- 
 tible hesitation — uttered with a cadence that was very eff"ective. 
 But, for once, Arnold Devereux was not thinking of efi'ect. He 
 would have scorned himself if he had attempted to practise any 
 of his society fascinations on this gentle blind girl. 
 
 A faint flush came into Mary's pale cheeks. " T am inclined 
 to trust you already," she said, " but, if you wish to see me again, 
 I shall be glad to receive you. Do not trouble yourself further, 
 Mr. Devereux, about any loss which may come to me," she added. 
 " Y'ou may need this property. You can see for yourself that I 
 do not. Its loss will no doubt diminish my income very much, 
 but that income already greatly exceeds my wants, w^hich are 
 few." 
 
 " We will talk of this hereafter," said Devereux, touched by 
 the sweetness of her manner. *' You have promised to see me," 
 
A VISIT OF CONGRATULATION. 79 
 
 lie went on; "pray do not be surprised, therefore, if I return. 
 Meanwhile, have 1 your permission to see Mr. Severn, and pro- 
 pose terms of compromise to him ? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered, " I leave every thing entirely in his 
 hands." 
 
 Devereux shrugged his shoulders slightly. " I fear in that 
 case I shall achieve a very small result," he said. 
 
 He was wise enough to know, however, that he had already 
 achieved a very good one, so he rose to take leave, and Mary — 
 whose ears had that quickness usual with the blind — hearing 
 the motion, rose also. 
 
 " Let me thank you again for having received and listened 
 to me so kindly," he said, " and pray remember that you ' are in- 
 clined to trust me ! ' " 
 
 " I will remember," she answered, smiling. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A VISIT OF COXGRATULATIOX. 
 
 After Madeleine left home in the morning, Rosalind finished 
 her breakfast with so much deliberation that it was at least ten 
 o'clock before the " brealvfast-things " were cleared away — a fact 
 which in Stansbury was esteemed the height of domestic deprav- 
 ity. Mrs. Severn herself objected to such late hours, but she 
 was powerless before Rosalind. Not that the latter was unami- 
 able or rudely determined to enjoy her morning sleep at the ex- 
 pense of her mother's convenience ; but she was spoiled in the 
 first instance and self-indulgent in the second. " I will really try 
 and do better to-morrow, mamma," she would say, when she 
 came down late and met her mother's mildly -reproachful glance; 
 but the morrow on which this " better " was to be accomplished 
 never came, and Mrs. Severn, who was far from being a disci- 
 
80 A QUESTION OF HONOR 
 
 pliiiarian with any one, was least of all so with Rosalind. This 
 morning, therefore, like many other mornings, the breakfast- 
 table stood in tlie floor, Rosalind idled over her coffee and toast, 
 Ann gossiped with the cook in the kitchen, and Mrs. Severn 
 consoled herself for this common delay in the household machin- 
 ery by glancing with a distracted mind over the morning paper 
 — taking the news of the armies in France in conjunction with 
 her daughter's rambling conversation. Madeleine had been gone 
 half an hour, and affairs were still in this condition when there 
 came a ring at the door-bell. 
 
 *' There ! " said Mrs. Severn, looking up. " There is a visi- 
 tor, no doubt, and you still at breakfast, Rosalind ! What will 
 people think of your habits ? " 
 
 " Visitors w^lio come at this hour of the morning'^ deserve to 
 find one in bed ! " returned Rosalind, composedly. " As for 
 what they think of my habits, they are welcome to think that I 
 am civilized, if they like." 
 
 "Miss Champion's in the sittin'-room, ma'am," said Ann, 
 opening the door, and thinking that she would now have an op- 
 portunity to clear off the table. 
 
 "Very well," said Rosalind, draining her coffee-cup, and 
 rising. She gave a slight grimace, for her mother's benefit. 
 " Helen's early appearance is to be ascribed to the warmth of 
 a sisterly heart, no doubt ! " she said, mockingly. It was a not 
 uncommon feature of the intimacy which existed between her- 
 self and the young lady in question, that they were prone to 
 make speeches of this amiable kind about each other. 
 
 Nevertheless, it was a very affectionate meeting which took 
 place when she entered the sitting-room where a tall, brunette 
 girl, with a marked profile, an abundance of black hair, a full 
 figure, and that air of style, which go to make up what people 
 in general call " a very fine-looking woman," and a large num- 
 ber of men admire as a beauty, rose to meet her. At night, 
 and in full dress, Helen Champion was very striking in appear- 
 ance, for she had then a brilliant color, and her bearing was al- 
 ways fine ; but in the morning her complexion was pale and 
 
A VISIT OF CONGRATULATION. 81 
 
 sallow, and bv the side of Rosalind's flue features, and delicate 
 brightness of bloom, she looked as if Nature had fashioned her 
 heavily and carelessly, using no exquisite workmanship, but lav- 
 ishing instead strongly>marked tints and large curves of flesh 
 and blood. 
 
 After embracing each other, and exchanging two or three 
 kisses in quick succession, mingled "with " So glad to see you 
 back again ! " and " How do you do ? " the two friends sat down 
 side by side, and critically regarded each other. Rosalind's 
 glance took in the whole stjde and fashion of Helen's dress. 
 Helen's eyes dwelt, with an envy which she would not have ac- 
 knowledged even to herself, on Rosalind's face. Then each 
 asked the other how she was, and having received a coherent 
 answer, they plunged into general conversation, 
 
 " How good it is of you to come ! " said Rosalind. " So ear- 
 ly, too — I feel immensely complimented." 
 
 " I could not stay away ! " said Miss Champion. " Of course 
 it was your place to come to see me, since I reached home only 
 yesterday, and I suppose I should have played propriety and 
 waited for you, if Brother James had not told us his news this 
 morning. Then I felt as if I must come ! And so you are really 
 to be my sister, Rosalind ! " 
 
 "I suppose so," said Rosalind, composedly. "But James 
 might have come this morning and asked me if I had changed 
 my mind — one does sometimes change one's mind after sleeping 
 on a thing — before making his news public, I think ! " 
 
 This speech was uttered with slightly malicious intent, for 
 nobody knew better than Rosalind that the Champions rather 
 disapproved of her as the choice of their nonpareil James, though 
 it is doubtful whether any of them were bold enough to suggest 
 to James that he might display his wisdom to more advantage 
 by another choice. 
 
 "Do you mean that it is not settled, then?" asked Miss 
 Champion, who took things very literally. "Brother James 
 spoke so positively, that we thought of course it was an engage- 
 ment." 
 
82 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " I believe it is an engagement," said Rosalind, who knew 
 James better than to contradict what he asserted, and who, 
 besides, had a slightly more than conventional regard for the 
 truth. " But I have not grown used to the thought of it yet. 
 It seems very strange that I am really, after all, going to marry 
 somebody who lives in Stansbury. You know I always said I 
 never would." 
 
 " But one says a great many things which fortunately one is 
 not obliged to carry out," said Miss Champion, who probably 
 remembered a great many such sayings on her own account. 
 " Though indeed you are quite right about thinking Stansbury 
 a very poor place to marry in," she went on, with an impartial 
 air. " Apart from Brother James, I really do not know anybody 
 whom it is possible to call a good match." 
 
 This was a trifle hard to bear, even to the fortunate person 
 who had the felicity to be Brother James's betrothed, and family 
 pride, as well as the desire to be provoking, made Rosalind re- 
 
 " I am not sure that I agree with you. What is the proverb 
 about every swan thinking its own bird whitest ? Not to speak 
 of Basil — whom I consider a treasure too good for any woman 
 with whom I am acquainted — there is Gordon Lacy, who, every- 
 body says, is going to be famous some day." 
 
 " But one can't live on what everybody says, nor even 
 on the fame when it comes," said the other, with a laugh. 
 " Madeleine has found that out, has she not ? Brother James 
 says it would have been much better if Gordon had kept to the 
 law. Not but that I like him exceedingly," she added, hastily, 
 " and you have no idea how much people are beginning to talk 
 about him — as much, you know, as they talk about any thing 
 literary, in fashionable societj'-, w^hich is very little." 
 
 " What do they talk about ? " asked Rosalind, who had 
 not been out of Stansbur}^ since her childhood, and who, 
 whether she would or not, was therefore obliged to sit at the 
 feet of her more fortunate friend with regard to society expe- 
 rience. 
 
A VISIT OF CONGRATULATION. 83 
 
 " People mostly," was the careless reply. " Conversation 
 may be a little brighter than ours here at Stansbury, but it is 
 very much the same in substance. Wherever one goes, one 
 seems to get into a groove of gossip, and the only difference is 
 the people one gossips about." 
 
 " That must be very stupid," said Rosalind. " I grow tired 
 of gossip here, and to go away and find no change would be very 
 disappointing." 
 
 " Oh, but there is a change," said Miss Champion. " Here 
 one gossips about the same people from one year's end to an- 
 other ; but if you go away, 3'ou find fresb people and fresh inter- 
 est. Occasionally new people come here, however. Have you 
 seen this Mr. Devereux whom everybody is talking about?" 
 
 " I fancy that I caught a glimpse of him yesterday evening. 
 It w^as merely a glimpse, and only for a minute." 
 
 " I sujDpose it was he whom I met a little while ago, as I 
 came up the street — a tall, handsome man, with the air of style 
 which one does not usually see out of a city. Brother James 
 was speaking of him this morning : he says he has come here 
 w^ith all kinds of sinister intentions toward Mary Carlisle ; but 
 he does not look like a sinister person, and since we know that 
 he belongs to nice people, I think some attention ought to be 
 paid to him. It is really very hard to face the idea of coming 
 home and settling down without a single entertaining man to 
 amuse one." 
 
 " How complimentary you are to your old friends ! " said 
 Rosalind, feeling herself grow warm over the implied slight to 
 the old friends in question. 
 
 "But one's old friends are stupid because one knows all 
 about them," said Miss Champion. " No doubt they do not 
 strike you so, because you have not been away and seen scores 
 of entertaining people ; but I assure you I feel the contrast 
 already very sensibly, and I am sure I shall be bored to death 
 within a month. 
 
 " What a pity you had not made up your mind to stay away 
 for good, then, with some one of the entertaining people ! " said 
 
8J: A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 Rosulind, who could not resist the temptation to let fly a small 
 arrow of sarcasm. "But the newest of friends or lovers must 
 grow^ old in time, and the important question is, how will he 
 wear in that case ? After all, there are worse principles of se- 
 lection than that on which the Vicar of Wakefield chose his 
 wife, and she her wedding-gown." 
 
 ' " I suppose that is the principle on which you have chosen 
 Brother James," said Miss Champion, thinking that it would not 
 be possible for James to give the same good reason for his 
 choice. " I am not sure tliat I should be complimented if I were 
 in his place." 
 
 "James and myself understand each other very well," an- 
 swered Ilosalind, nonchalantly. " But tell me about yourself," 
 said she, suddenly dropping her weapons and rushing into the 
 affectionate familiarity which — alternating with such little amen- 
 ities as the above — distinguished their intercourse. " Have you 
 had a delightful time ? Were your admirers all nice, and your 
 dresses all in the fashion ? Did you enjoy your visits to your 
 friends? and is watering-place life as charming as everybody 
 says it is ? " 
 
 In the course of the answers which these questions elicited, 
 Rosalind was shrewd enough to perceive that Madeleine had 
 been right when she said that the cause of Helen's disappoint- 
 ment in her summer campaign w^as probably to be found in the 
 fact that she had not met with that high degree of appreciation 
 w^hich is necessary to the mental equipoise of those young ladies 
 whom society has agreed to call belles. A fish which is very 
 large in a mill-pond, would make but a small appearance in the 
 ocean. Apart from her personal charms. Miss Champion — in a 
 moderate way, and regarded from 2^ post-helium point of view — 
 was an heiress in Stansbury. Miss Champion had found her 
 personal charms outshone, and her heiress-ship quite eclipsed, 
 when she went out into that world of society Avhich is to be 
 found in cities and at fashionable watering-places. Hence her 
 views of society in general were slightly tinged with misan 
 thropy. 
 
A VISIT OF COXGRATULATiOX. 85 
 
 " The men one meets, with a very few exceptions, are all 
 fortune-hunters," she said, " and the women are all bent on out- 
 dressing each other. As for manners, what one reads about the 
 girl of the period is not exaggerated. You would not believe, 
 if I were to tell you, all that I have seen and heard this summer. 
 Still, I have had a pleasant time on the whole, and improved ray 
 knowledge of the world. Rosalind, we must really try to make 
 things a little gayer than they have been in Stansbury. "What 
 do you think of attempting to organize a dramatic and musical 
 clui) ? " 
 
 " I think it would be very pleasant if it could be done. But 
 where is the material?" 
 
 "That may be found. Gordon Lacy would be a treasure in 
 anv thino- of the kind. You must all come to me next week, and 
 we will try to organize a plan. I shall simply die of ennui if 
 this state of aifairs continues." 
 
 To avert such a calamity, Rosalind pledged herself to what- 
 ever was required of her either in a dramatic or musical point 
 of view, and went rather beyond what was prudent in pledging 
 Madeleine, Basil, and Gordon, also. " What an acquisition Mr. 
 Devereux would be, would he not ? " she said meditatively in 
 conclusion, thinking of his blond beard and handsome figure, 
 in connection with a future stage. 
 
 Miss Champion's black eyes gave a flash. " If he stays here 
 for any length of time, I intend to know him," she said, with 
 decision ; and there was a s-reat deal of meanino^ embodied in 
 that resolution. 
 
 After much desultory conversation of this description, and 
 many plans, largely and indefinitely sketched, for the social 
 reformation of as much of Stansbury as the reformers chose to 
 recognize. Miss Champion rose at last and said that she must 
 really go. She did go — as far as the hall. There she encoun- 
 tered Mrs. Severn, who, being at leisure just then, was very glad 
 to see her, and verj' glad to encourage her to further revela- 
 tions with regard to her social experiences and knowledge of 
 the world. Miss Champion being fond of relating things new 
 
86 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 and strange, and perhaps not loath to linger, sat down and 
 talked for a considerably longer time. After a while, however, 
 she was warned by the striking of a clock that the morning was 
 over, and the primitive dinner-hour of Stansbury near at hand ; 
 so slie rose and said again that she must really go. This time 
 she reached the gate. A quarter of an hour later, she was still 
 standing there, exchanging a few last important confidences 
 with Rosalind, when Basil came down the street. 
 
 Miss Champion saw him afar off, as indeed she would have 
 been blind if she had not seen him, since the view was entirely 
 unimpeded. She laughed, and drew down her veil. " What a 
 visitation I have made this morninof ! " she said. " Yonder is 
 Mr. Severn coming home to dinner. You must really try to ex- 
 cuse me, but I have had so much to say. Good-by, dear, and do 
 come to see me very soon — mamma is so anxious to see you, and 
 I think I have earned it of you." 
 
 " Yes, I shall certainly come soon," said Rosalind ; " but 
 when I do, I will not stay and wait for James ! " she added, 
 sotto voce, as her friend moved away. She stood still and rather 
 maliciously watched the meeting of the latter with Basil. When 
 he saw who was advancing toward him, he raised his hat with 
 a flashing smile, then rode up to the pavement, and, springing 
 from his horse, eagerly shook hands. Miss Champion paused, 
 and a conversation of some length ensued. Finally a small bo}'', 
 opportunely passing, was intrusted with the care of Roland, 
 while Mr. Severn, deliberately turning his back on his dinner, 
 sauntered away by the young lady's side, with that air which 
 indicates any thing rather than an intense desire to reach the 
 point of destination. 
 
 " Do you see no signs of Basil, Rosalind ? " asked her mother, 
 anxiously, when she returned to the house. " There is a very 
 fine fish for dinner, which will certainlj^ be spoiled if he does 
 not come soon." 
 
 " I think you had better order it up and let us have the ben- 
 efit of it, then, mamma," said Rosalind ; " for Basil is walking 
 home with Helen, and, to judge by the rate at which they were 
 
A VISIT OF CONGRATULATION. 87 
 
 proceeding when I saw them last, I don't think he is likely to 
 be here in less than an hour — if so soon." 
 
 At that moment, Basil was saying, *' So you have been 
 spending the morning with Rosalind ! That is kind of you, 
 since you reached home only yesterday, and after such a long 
 absence had a right to rest for a week." 
 
 " But though the absence has been long, the journey was not," 
 answered she. " Who is it remarks that one does not travel 
 nowadays, one only arrives at places ? I arrived in Stansbury 
 yesterday, it is true, but I am not tired at all to-day, and I could 
 not refrain from going to see Rosalind and telling her how glad 
 I am that we are to be sisters." 
 
 Basil flushed a little. There was something very suggestive 
 in the last word, as the girl who uttered it knew perfectly well. 
 She looked before her, however, with the most complete uncon- 
 sciousness, and went on with the prettiest propriety : 
 
 " We have always been such friends, you know — such par- 
 ticular and dear friends — that it really seems as if Brother James 
 had consulted my choice as well as his own. And yet I hate to 
 give Rosalind up even to him — that is, I hate to see her marry. 
 People say that marriage ends a great many things." 
 
 " But affection need not be one of them," said Basil, " espe- 
 cially since, as you say, Rosalind is going to be j^our sister. I 
 should think that a real tie would strengthen instead of weaken 
 the attachment between you." Miss Champion shook her head. 
 She was evidently bent upon taking a pensive view of Rosalind's 
 engagement. " Marriage ends friendship," she said. " Husbands 
 are always jealous. Even Brother James is a man like other men." 
 
 " But I thought it was just the other w^ay," laughed Basil, 
 passing over the latter admission — which was really remarkable 
 from one of Brother James's admiring family — "I thought it 
 was wives who are said to be always jealous of their husbands' 
 early friends. You know the old couplet which I suppose has 
 a grain of truth in it : 
 
 * My son is my son till he gets him a wife, 
 My daughter's my daughter all the days of her life.' 
 
\S8 A QUESTION OF 110x\OR. 
 
 ri^ 
 
 That goes to prove that it is the wife, and not the husband, who 
 makes war against early affections." 
 
 ** Or else women are more faithful than men." 
 
 '^Nobodj' doubts that^^'' said chivalric Basil, "at least nobody 
 worth considcrino-." 
 
 " A great many 23eople must be not worth considering, then," 
 said Miss Champion, smiling. 
 
 Now, there was nothing very interesting in this conversa- 
 tion, yet both Basil and his companion felt that it was rather 
 pleasant to idle along the shady side of the street, with the 
 golden boughs arching over them, and fragrant, freshly -fallen 
 leaves rustling imder their feet, while they talked such common- 
 places as these. Helen Champion felt it because she knew that 
 Severn admired her, and she had a most sincere enjoyment of 
 this admiration, united to an absolute necessity for some interest, 
 some excitement, some incense to her vanity, in the dull stag- 
 nation of the life to wbicli she had returned. Severn felt it be- 
 cause, against his better judgment, he was conscious that the sun 
 shone more brightlj^, the air was more soft, and the whole earth 
 fairer to him, when this woman walked by his side. 
 
 " How well vou are lookins: ! " he said, after a while — which 
 was as much of a compliment as he ever allowed himself to utter 
 — " I think you must have enjoyed your summer very much." 
 
 " No — not very much ; only moderately," she answered. 
 " Part of it was very tiresome. I begin to think that I have no 
 very great taste for dissipation, after all." 
 
 " So you have not come back ready to be disgusted by Stans- 
 bury quietness and dullness ? " 
 
 " I certainly have not come back ready to be disgusted with 
 Stansbury, but the quietness and dullness might be improved — 
 don't you think so ? " 
 
 " If you mean that it would be desirable to improve them, I 
 agTce with you; if you mean that it would be possible — I don't 
 know." 
 
 " You have little faith and less energy," said she, shaking hei 
 head at him. " I am like Brother James. If a thing ought to 
 
A VISIT OF COXGPwATULATlOX. 89 
 
 DC done, I say that it onust be done. For two or three years 
 past, we have all been saying that there ought to be something 
 done to stir social life in Stansbury; yet nobody does it. Now 
 I am goiug to do it." 
 
 " Are you ? I shall pledge the success of your undertaking 
 in our best bottle of wine when I go home." 
 
 " But you must do something more than pledge it, or it will 
 never be a success. You must help me to make it one. Will 
 you ? " 
 
 " Of course I will," answered Basil, promptly. What else 
 could he answer when such a direct appeal was made to him, 
 seconded by bright black eyes and full scarlet lips ? " That is, 
 I will do what I can," he added. " But I have very little leisure 
 for social amusements." 
 
 "If everybody said that, there would be no social amuse- 
 ments," remarked Miss Champion, with an air of conclusive logic. 
 
 "Very true; but everybody does not say it. On the con- 
 trarv, there are plenty of people who care for little besides so- 
 ciety." 
 
 " I wish we had a few of that class of people in Stansbury. 
 I think they would improve us amazingly." 
 
 "Do you?" said Severn. They had reached the Champion 
 door by this time, and on tlie steps he paused. " So you have 
 come back demoralized, after all ! " said he, smiling. 
 
 "Do you call it demoralized to have learned that Stansbury 
 is no worse — no more given to gossip, slander, and all unchari- 
 tableness — nor very mucli more stupid, than its neighbors ? " 
 asked she, swinging her parasol to and fro, and looking very 
 handsome just then with the light shadows of the branching 
 elms falling over her. 
 
 " No : but still vou seem to be finding fault with us." 
 
 "Do you fancy yourselves perfect ? Socially I think there 
 is a great deal yet to be done — and I mean to do it ! Come ! " — 
 she held out her hand, a well-shaped hand in a well-fitting glove 
 — " will you pledge your assistance when I need it ? " 
 
 As Basil took the hand thus ofi"ered, an answer rose to his 
 
90 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 lips wliicli for once he did not check: '''Qui m\iit)ie^ me suit!'*'* 
 he said, in a low voice. " Was that call ever unli ceded ? " 
 
 " Then I consider you pledged," said Miss Champion. She 
 blushed a very little, and drew back her hand ; but she was not 
 otYended. Her experiences had taught her that this was very 
 mild flirtation indeed. " But I must say good-morning, unless 
 you will come in. Mamma will be very glad to see you." 
 
 " No, thanks," said he, lifting his hat. "-They are expecting 
 me at home. Good-morning." 
 
 " Helen, was that Basil Severn talking with you ? " asked 
 Mrs. Champion when her daughter entered. " You ought to be 
 very careful how you encourage his attentions. You know there 
 has been some gossip about you already, and this foolish affair 
 of James's will make people talk all the more." 
 
 " I have no idea of encouraoino- his attentions," said Helen ; 
 " but what is the good of being young if one has not some amuse- 
 ment ? — and he is rather pleasant, as men go." 
 
 CHx\PTER IX. 
 
 EOSALIND TAKES A WALK. 
 
 The man who was rather pleasant, as men go, told his femi- 
 nine audience at dinner that he had received a short note from 
 Madeleine, informing him that Mary Carlisle had decided to see 
 Mr. Devereux. 
 
 " I am sorry for it," he said, " but it is one of the things for 
 whicli there is no remedy. She is at liberty to see the man if 
 she chooses — and to make a fool of herself also ! " Basil was 
 very much vexed, or he would not have used the latter expression. 
 
 " But why should you think that there is any danger of her 
 making a fool of herself?" asked Rosalind. " Mary has a great 
 deal of sense, and she believes in you to such an extent, that she 
 certainly will not agree to any thing which you oppose." 
 
ROSALIND TAKES A WALK. 91 
 
 " I am not sure of that," said Basil, a little grimly. " She 
 has taken a fancy to act for herself, and, when a woman has that 
 idea, Heaven only knows where it will end." 
 
 " Some women understand business almost as well as men 
 do," said Mrs. Severn; "perhaps Mary may be of that kind. 
 One never knows what one can do till one tries. There is Mrs. 
 Anderson, Basil — ^you know how well she has managed two 
 large plantations ever since her husband's death." 
 
 " Yes," said Basil, who was always respectful to his step- 
 mother's commonplaces ; " but Mrs. Anderson is an energetic, 
 middle-aged woman, with the strength of a grenadier, while 
 Mary is a blind girl, who has spent her life in a sick-chamber." 
 
 " There is a difference, certainly," said Mrs. Severn, candidly. 
 " But this Mr. Devereux may be a better sort of person than 
 you think." 
 
 " The devil is never so black as he is painted," said Rosalind, 
 flijipantly. " Helen Champion has quite made up her mind to 
 cultivate Mr. Devereux. — Did she tell you so, Basil ? " 
 
 " No," replied Basil, shortly, and his face darkened over. " It 
 strikes me that women seem to care very little whether a man is 
 honorable or not, so that he is good-looking, gentlemanly, and 
 promises them amusement," he said, after a while, in a voice 
 which sounded almost stern. 
 
 " It strikes one that the world in general cares very little 
 about anybody's principles — or conduct either — so that he is 
 agreeable and has money to spend," said Rosalind. 
 
 " Fortunately, the opinion of the world in general is no cri- 
 terion at all," said Basil. " The world will cease to be the world 
 when it does not applaud charlatans, and honor rogues." 
 
 And if the 3'oung man spoke a little bitterly, it may be for- 
 given him in consideration of the school in which he had learned 
 his philosophy. Never was man less fitted by Nature for the 
 part of misanthrope than Basil Severn ; never was man to whom 
 the impulse came more warmly to regard with eyes of charity all 
 his fellow-men ; but some stings sink deep and remain forever in 
 the soul ; some wounds do not pass into scars, but remain for- 
 
92 A QUESTION OF UONOR. 
 
 ever open and bleeding. It is doubtful ^vlletller a lifetime of 
 success, and that eager deference ■\vliicli the world is always ready 
 to pay to the risen or the rising sun, could have effaced from 
 that gentle and kindly heart the record branded on it during the 
 impressionable years of youth — the record of that stern strug- 
 gle in which he had seen his birthright wrested from him by 
 fraud and chicanery, in which the honor of men had been taken 
 from his father's stainless memory to be paid to those who had 
 robbed and betrayed him, and in which he had met only distrust 
 and coldness in his own effort to win his bread and keep his 
 name untarnished. 
 
 After dinner Rosalind followed him out to the portico where 
 he was lighting a cigar, and, with a careless air, sjDoke ag-ain of 
 Mr. Devereux. 
 
 " Did Madeleine mention when Mary intended to see him ? " 
 she inquired. 
 
 " At four o'clock this afternoon, I believe," Severn answered, 
 pufGng out a cloud of smoke. " VThj do you ask ? " 
 
 " Only because I promised Madeleine to walk out to the 
 Lodge for her, and I did not care to chance upon the important 
 
 interview." 
 
 "Has not Champion been on duty to-day? I am surprised 
 at that ? " 
 
 " He told me not to expect him. Next week is court some- 
 M'here, and it seems he is very busy getting his cases ready. 
 You know he never defers business to pleasure." 
 
 " I know he is a remarkable fellow in more respects than 
 one," said Basil, laughing ; but he glanced criticalh'- at the beau- 
 tiful, calm face as he spoke. Was Rosalind really so well satis- 
 fied with this deferring pleasure to business as she appeared ? — 
 or was satisfaction another name for indifference ? 
 
 Rosalind was unusually restless that afternoon; even her 
 mother noticed that. She wandered up-stairs and down-stairs, 
 out into the garden, and back into the house ; she sat down to 
 the piano and sang half of a song; she read two or three pages 
 of a new novel and then threw it down. Finally she vanished 
 
ROSALIND TAKES A WALK. 93 
 
 into her own room, and was neither seen nor heard from again 
 until she emerged just as the clock was striking four, arrayed 
 for walking. 
 
 " How pretty you look, my dear ! " said Mrs. Severn — whom 
 most people would have considered a very injudicious mother be- 
 cause she occasionally expressed in words the agreeable fact of 
 which Rosalind's mirror had already assured her — " but surely 
 you have not put on that dress to walk out to the Lodge ? " 
 
 That dress was a pearl-colored walking-suit, which was one 
 of Rosalind's prettiest costumes, though made of inexpensive 
 material. Every thing about it was charmingly becoming — the 
 short, kilt-plaited skirt, the puffed and paniered overskirt (one 
 of those Second Empire styles which the feminine world was 
 wearing in the summer of 1870), the dainty white ruffle and 
 blue scarf at the throat, and a gold locket on a blue ribbon. 
 Add to this a leghorn hat trimmed with blue, of one of those 
 quaint and becoming shapes which remind one of a Watteau 
 shepherdess, and it will be perceived that Mrs. Severn's surprise 
 was not without reason. 
 
 " Yes," said Rosalind, with a laugh, " I had nothing else to 
 do, so I thought I would make myself look pretty. James will 
 take it as a compliment to himself when he comes tliis evening — 
 such is the vanity and short-sightedness of man ! 1 don't think 
 I shall harm my dress by walking out to the Lodge, mamma. 
 It is not very dusty." 
 
 She passed from the hall as she spoke, and Mrs. Severn 
 watched her graceful figure down the walk and out of the gate. 
 In her light, picturesque attire, she seemed in keeping with the 
 glory of the afternoon, her mother thought, and she could 
 not refrain from sighing again at the reflection that all this 
 beauty and grace was to be bestowed on James Champion. If 
 James Champion's mother had been present, she would probably 
 have sighed at the thought of her matchless son tlu-owing him- 
 self away on a frivolous girl, who had never appeared properly 
 grateful for the distinguished honor of his preference, and who 
 had " only her beauty to recommend her," as Mrs. Champion 
 
94 A QUESTION OF nOXOR. 
 
 often rcinarkcd. There is certaiiil}' no such thing as pleasing 
 everybody, in this world, especially with regard to the delicate 
 and difficult business of matrimony ; though it can be said for 
 James Champion that he had never for a moment thought of 
 pleasing anybody but himself. 
 
 Rosalind took her wav out of town with meditative slowness. 
 To do her justice, she had not made her toilet or selected her 
 hoiu" with any view to the possible contingency of meeting Dev- 
 ereux at the Lodge: her idea only extended to the probability 
 of meeting him on the road, and observing if he were really as 
 handsome as he had appeared to her the evening before. See- 
 ing, however, implies being seen ; and she had been mindful of 
 this fact in the pains which she had bestowed upon her toilet. 
 It was needful to imjDress this traveled gentleman with the fact 
 that Stansbury had one attraction, at least, of which to boast, 
 and it was with this high and impersonal view that Rosalind set 
 forth in her pearl-colored dress and blue ribbons. 
 
 The afternoon was so lovelv — so aboundino; in brio;htness, so 
 brilliant with color — that it tempted her to dalliance, little as 
 she cared usually for the sunniest smile which Nature could 
 wear, the gayest robe with which she could adorn herself. But, 
 then, Rosalind had a reason for dalliance apart from the beauty 
 of earth and sky. She was on the direct road to the Lodge, so 
 that if Devereux left before she reached there, she must certain- 
 ly meet him, while, if her arrival antedated his departure, she 
 would probably only obtain an unsatisfactory glimpse of his 
 back, from the library, in which she was able to fancy herself with 
 Madeleine and Mrs. Ingram, w^hile all the delicate and becoming 
 effect of her costume was wasted. Therefore, she loitered along 
 the sunny foot-path by the side of the road, meeting now and 
 then a man, woman, or child, most of whom spoke to her, and 
 all of whom stared at her admiringly. Rosalind did not object 
 to the stares. She had a comfortable conviction that even the 
 cows which she met, leisurely returning home, looked at her 
 with something of appreciation in their large, full eyes. 
 
 The path which she was following kept close to a zigzag 
 
ROSALIXD TAKES A WALK. 95 
 
 rail-fence, with blackberry-bushes growing thickly within its 
 corners. It inclosed a cotton-field, in which the hands were at 
 work picking, the sunlight resting like a mantle of gold over the 
 broad acres " white with the snow of Southern summers," over 
 other fields beyond, and blue woods in the distance. Some of 
 the negroes were singing as they worked — one of the old plan- 
 tation songs familiar to every Southern ear — a wagon loaded 
 with wood came by, and two negroes who were perched on top 
 caught up the refrain and filled the air with it as they passed 
 slowlv alono;. It brouo-ht the recollections of her childhood 
 back to Rosalind, with a sense of startling reality. Just such 
 barbaric melodies she had heard when, as a child, on her father's 
 plantation, she had stood a fascinated spectator of " corn-shuck- 
 ings," or gone out on the river in a flat-boat and listened to the 
 boatmen's songs as they poled. Perhaps it was the song and 
 the memories which it awakened, or perhaps it was the sun shin- 
 ing directly in her eyes, that made her inattentive to any thing 
 except the path along which she was slowly walking — a path 
 leading just then down the sloj^e of a hill, at the foot of which 
 a broad, shallow stream crossed the road. It is at least certain 
 that she did not perceive a figure advancing to meet her on the 
 opposite side of the stream. 
 
 That is, she did not perceive it until she had already taken 
 several steps on the log which was thrown over the water for 
 the accommodation of foot-pasengers. Then, looking up, she saw 
 a man standing on the other side, evidently waiting for her to 
 cross. A glance was enough to show her that it was the stranger 
 of distinguished appearance whom she had seen the evening 
 before. The unexpected sight startled and confused her, just 
 when she had most need of her presence of mind, for the log 
 was small and ofi"ered footing by no means secure. If she had 
 caught a glimpse of him beforehand, it would have been enough 
 to prepare her, and there is no doubt but that she w^ould have 
 been collected and graceful even in this trying and tilting posi- 
 tion, but she had not obtained that glimpse, for the road made 
 a sharp bend immediately after crossing the stream, and around 
 
96 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 this bend Mr. Devereux had come while she was doubtfully hesi- 
 tating over the passage of the log. He had started when he 
 saw her, but then his start had the advantage of being on dry 
 ground. It was the last thing which he was expecting to see, 
 this daintily-dressed lady, standing on the dusty foot-path, w^ith 
 a flood of sunshine streamino: over the beautiful face, wdth its 
 wild-rose tints and hair of rich bronze-brown, which he recos:- 
 nized at once. He was gazing at her steadily when Rosalind 
 looked up, and, as she met his eyes, she gave a start — tottered — 
 and extended her hand to grasp the rail-fence which spanned the 
 stream a little farther up. But, unluckily, human arms are not 
 elastic. The fence w'as quite beyond her reach. The next in- 
 stant, she had lost her balance — slipped — fallen — and found her- 
 self, with all her pearl-and-azure glories, in the water ! 
 
 It is not too much to say that this was an instant of as keen 
 humiliation to Rosalind as any she had ever known in her life. 
 Thought, as we are aware, is quick as lightning, and she felt, in 
 the second during which she tottered and fell, all the awkward- 
 ness, the mortification, the undignified nature of her position, as 
 clearly as she realized it afterward. She was one of the people 
 to whom, of all the evils of earth, ridicule is the most terrible, 
 and she could almost have prayed the earth to swallow her as 
 she found herself on her knees and hands in the mud and water. 
 But the earth, out of the Arabian Nights, is never so obliging 
 as to do this, and, since her hat had fallen over her face and her 
 skirts encumbered her, she had no alternative but to remain in her 
 ungraceful and uncomfortable attitude during the long, horrible 
 seconds which it took Devereux to stride forward and lift her up. 
 
 As he did so, her hat fell off into the water, but neither of 
 them noticed it. Rosalind gasped as she looked at him ; and, 
 but for a timely fear of adding to the ridicule of the situation, 
 she would have burst into tears. As for Devereux, he was seri- 
 ously concerned. 
 
 " I am afraid you are hurt," he said, with the deepest regret 
 in his voice, as he assisted her to the bank. " It was a dreadful 
 fall. I would have saved you if I could." 
 
ROSALIXD TAKES A WALK. 97 
 
 "No, I am not hurt," she answered, tremulously, after a short 
 pause. Then she flushed scarlet, and drew away from him with 
 a little, hysterical attempt at a laugh. " It was very awkward 
 of me, and I — I am very sorry to have troubled you," she said. 
 " I shall do very well now, thanks." 
 
 As she spoke, she was intensely conscious of the pitiable 
 figure which she presented — her dress wet, muddy, ruined ; her 
 hat gone, her hair disordered, her boots soaked, her gloves fit 
 only to fling away. If she had detected a single flicker of amuse- 
 ment in Devereux's face, it is impossible to say what she would 
 have done. But the sharpest eyes in the world could not have 
 detected any thing of the kind. He was honestly sorry for her 
 — sorry for her distress, her mortification, her uncomfortable 
 plight — and his face expressed this sorrow in a manner which 
 could not be mistaken. 
 
 " You will certainly take cold," he said, anxiousl}'. " Can I 
 do nothino^ ? Is there no house near at hand ? " 
 
 " There is none nearer than the Lodge," answ^ered Rosalind. 
 " I was going there. I must walk a little faster now^, that is 
 all." 
 
 " The Lodge ! " he repeated. " Do you mean Miss Carlisle's 
 place ? I am just from there. My name is Devereux. Pray, 
 let me assist you in some way." 
 
 " There is no way in which you can assist me," said Rosalind, 
 pettishly. Just then she felt that she detested him. Was not 
 he at once the cause and the witness of her humiliation ? " It is 
 your fault ! " she added, impatiently. " Why need you have 
 come so suddenly around the corner and startled me ? If you 
 had not done so, I should not have lost ray balance." 
 
 " I am exceedingly sorry," he said — and, indeed, he looked 
 overcome with self-reproach — " I had no idea that it was my 
 fault. I never was more sorry for any thing. But I could not 
 know that you had not seen me until you were on the log," he 
 added, with a faint attempt at self-justification. " I had been in 
 sight for two or three minutes at least." 
 
 " I had not seen you at all," said Rosalind, decidedly. " It 
 
98 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 was because I saw you at last, so unexpectedly, that I started 
 and — and lell. There is no good in discussing it," she added, 
 brusquely. " I am sorry that j'^ou were obliged to get your feet 
 wet, and I advise you to go on to town as quickly as possible. 
 Good-eveninc:." 
 
 She turned shortly and walked away, for hot tears of mortifi- 
 cation were, despite all her efforts, gathering in her eyes, and 
 she was afraid that, if she delayed another minute, they would 
 fall. Never in her life had such a misfortune befallen her before, 
 so she scarcely knew how to bear it. She had alwaj'S been one 
 of the people who are peculiarly intolerant of any thing like 
 awkwardness, and who guard against disagreeable accidents with 
 particular care. To be seen in an ungraceful or an undignified 
 position, was something so terrible to her that those who are 
 humorous enough, or philosophical enough, or careless enough 
 to think lightly of such things, could not possibly appreciate the 
 keenness of her distress. She clinched her muddy hands to- 
 gether and swallowed the salt tears which chased each other 
 down her cheeks, as she hastened along, so intent upon reaching 
 the Lodge before any one came by to see her woful plight, that 
 she would not pause for an instant, nor glance back to see 
 whether or not that " detestable man " was laughing at her, now 
 that he could do so with impunity. A small negro urchin in tat- 
 tered raiment, whom she met, opened his eyes and mouth both 
 to stare at her, and, although she had a strong inclination to box 
 his ears, she felt that she could not spare the time necessary 
 for doing so. Even the cows had, to her excited fancy, changed 
 their aspect of serene, contemplative admiration for a glance of 
 wondering derision. 
 
 The detestable man whom she left behind had, meanwhile, 
 applied himself seriously to the task of fishing her hat out of the 
 water in which it lay with all its pretty bravery of blue ribbons 
 and forget-me-nots. It was a sorry sight when he drew it to 
 land at last, by the aid of a crooked stick. He regarded it hesi- 
 tatingly for a minute, as if uncertain what to do next ; then, with 
 an apparently sudden impulse, turned and followed the young 
 
ROSALIND TAKES A WALK. 99 
 
 lady. Fast as she was walking, he soon overtook her — since, 
 naturally enough, his legs were able to accomplish much longer 
 strides than hers— but he was not prepared for the haughtiness 
 with which she turned on him as he did so. 
 
 "Excuse me," she said, "but I thought I told you that there 
 was nothing which I needed." 
 
 " Excuse ??2e," he said, humbly, touched and made willing to 
 pardon her hrusquerie by the sight of the tears glittering on her 
 lashes ; " I should not have followed you only I thought it best 
 to brino- you this." 
 
 CD M/ 
 
 He extended the hat as he spoke. It had been Rosalind's 
 favorite (because most becoming) head-gear, and the sight of its 
 utter ruin did not tend to restore her amiability. 
 
 " It was useless to have taken so much trouble," she said, un- 
 graciously. " Why did you not leave it in the stream ? It will 
 never be fit for any thing again." 
 
 " I was afraid not," said he, looking at it compassionately. 
 " But still I am sure you would not have liked it left in the 
 stream, if only because every one who passed would have rec- 
 oirnized it, and wondered how it came there." 
 
 There was so much of thoughtful consideration in this that 
 Rosalind felt suddenly ashamed of her bad temper. After all, the 
 misadventure was her own fault, and there was no need to make 
 the enormity greater in Mr. Devereux's eyes by pettish unamia- 
 bility. Therefore she smiled — an April-like gleam which bright- 
 ened her face as she turned toward him, conscious that, despite 
 mud and water, she was still an excedingly pretty woman. 
 
 " Tliey would have thought, perhaps, that I had been drowned 
 and swept away like Ophelia," she said. " That would have 
 been tragic at least, and better than falling off a log — which is 
 simply ridiculous." 
 
 " But people are never drowned in five or six inches of wa- 
 ter," said Devereux, smihng in turn. " I am afraid that, with 
 the suspicious conjunction of the log, they could only have ar- 
 rived at an idea of the truth. But you must allow me to apolo- 
 gize again for my unfortunate appearance," he went on, seri- 
 
100 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 ouslj. " You cannot tell bow I regret it. If it bad Deen only 
 possible for me to imagine — " 
 
 But bere Rosalind interposed penitently. 
 
 " Of course it was n«t possible, and it is I wbo must apolo- 
 gize for baving been rude enougli to say tbat my awkwardness 
 was in any respect 3'our fault. Pray excuse me. It is tbe old 
 impulse of buman nature to blame some one else for one's mis- 
 fortunes." 
 
 " But you were rigbt in this instance," be said. "I saw tbat 
 you started wben you perceived me, and tbat immediately you 
 lost your balance. Tbat makes it my fault, and it is impossible 
 for m.e to say bow sorry I am. Do you tbink tbat 5^ou will suf- 
 fer seriously ? Do you easily take cold ? " 
 
 " I don't know," she answered. " I never fell into water 
 before. This is my first experience, and tbe consequences are 
 yet to be seen." 
 
 " I am really afraid you may be ill." 
 
 '' I have no such fear. I may take a sore-throat from my 
 wet feet, but that will be all, I am sure. You may take the 
 same," she added, glancing at bis boots, which were quite as 
 muddy now as they had been dusty before. " I have not thanked 
 you yet for coming to my rescue," sbe went on, with a blush 
 which Devereux thought as exquisite as any thing he had ever 
 seen. " You must think me very ungrateful." 
 
 " Not in the least," he answered, sincerely. " I am so much 
 oppressed by a sense of. my responsibility tbat I cannot for a 
 moment think that I deserve any thanks. Besides, I did notb- 
 mg.' 
 
 " You placed me on my feet again. I don't know bow I 
 should have gained them without your assistance." 
 
 " I would say that I am very glad to have been at hand to 
 render such a service, but for the dreadful fact that, if I had not 
 been at hand, there would probably have been no accident." 
 
 " I am not sure of that," said Rosalind, showing one or two 
 charming dimples about her mouth. " The log was very inse- 
 cure. 
 
ROSALIND TAKES A WALK. |01 
 
 She began to think that he bore the difficult test of an 
 awkward introduction very well. He had that polish and ease 
 of manner which she had always admired as the first and most 
 desirable of social gifts, and although it is not j^ossible to say 
 that she was reconciled to the accident which had made them 
 acquainted — for the undignified nature of it was not less hard to 
 endure than the loss of her dress and hat — she was at least able 
 to acknowledge that Mr. Devereux had borne his share of the 
 awkwardness with tact and courtesy. 
 
 They were walldng so rapidly that they reached the gate of 
 the Lodge before very long. There Rosalind paused and held 
 out her hand for the hat which Devereux still carried by its wet 
 ribbons. 
 
 " I am exceedingly grateful to you," she said, more gracious- 
 ly than she had spoken yet, " and I am very sorry that you have 
 had so much trouble. Thank you again, and pray try to forget 
 my unreasonable impatience. I hope you will sufi"er no ill con- 
 6ec[uences from getting your feet wet." 
 
 He took his dismissal at once — stepping back a little and 
 raising his hat. " There is no danger of my suffering any thing," 
 he said. " A pair of wet feet are of no consequence whatever. 
 But I am really uneasy about your condition. AYill you suffer 
 me to inquire to-morrow whether or not you have taken cold ? " 
 
 " There is really no necessity for your taking that trouble," 
 said Rosalind, blushing vividly. She would have liked to say 
 yes ; but she was not sure about the propriety of doing so, and 
 she was quite sure that Basil and James Champion would both 
 object. " I shall do very \\ ell," she went on quickly ; " thank 
 you again, and good-evening." 
 
 She bowed hastily and flitted away, the shrubs and ever- 
 greens which grew about the entrance of the Lodge soon hiding 
 her figure from sight. As it disappeared, Devereux turned and 
 walked again — rather slowly — toward the town. His first 
 thought was that she was not less beautiful than he had imag- 
 ined the evening before — a fact which surprised him, since he 
 knew the illusive power of distance, and the effect of pictiu-esque 
 
102 A QUESTION OF nONOll. 
 
 surroundings, and liad calculated tliat half at least of her re- 
 markable loveliness was due to those. His second thought was 
 to wonder whether she was a sister of Basil Severn, mingled 
 with a reflection that, if so, Basil Severn was fortunate in his 
 sisters — a short-sighted reasoning from personal beauty to moral 
 attraction, which probably arose from the fact that Mr. Devereux 
 had no sisters of his own, and had, therefore, never had the ad- 
 vantage of regarding lovely woman, either generally or particu- 
 larly, from the impartial fraternal point of view. His third 
 thought was that Fate seemed capriciously bent upon multiply- 
 ing remarkable impressions upon him since his arrival in Stans- 
 bury ; and his fourth — which was another instance of very illogi- 
 cal leaping to a general conclusion — was, that Stansbury, with 
 regard to its inhabitants, must be a remarkable town. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 EOSES AND THOKNS. 
 
 Despite her confident assurances to Devereux that no harm 
 to her health would ensue from the wetting which she had re- 
 ceived, Rosalind was confined to her room the next d^y with a 
 cold which required a little domestic doctoring. As for the 
 pearl-colored dress, it was beyond all hope of ever making pre- 
 sentable again, and, after regarding it ruefully in the light of 
 morning, the patient, with that fine and lavish generosity which 
 is at the bottom of much of the charity of the world (especially 
 in the testamentary order), presented it to Ann. " Take it out 
 of my sight, and never let me see it again," she said ; and 
 Ann was ready enough to obey. The ill-wind of Rosalind's mis- 
 hap blew a very substantial benefit to her, since, as she re- 
 marked to the cook, the dress was quite as good as ever — if you 
 looked at it behind ; and she already saw herself arrayed in it, 
 and occupying a conspicuous seat in the African Methodist 
 church on Sunday. 
 
ROSES AND THORXS. 103 
 
 While Rosalind was confined to her room, and boring licrself 
 with a novel — she had no great taste for reading, and often de- 
 clared that she never honestly enjoyed any work of fiction ex- 
 cept " The Count of Monte Christo " — the gentleman w^ho had 
 the misfortune of havino; been the cause of her accident made 
 his appearance in Basil Severn's counting-house with the un- 
 pleasant yet scarcely unexpected intelligence that he had Miss 
 Carlisle's permission to see him with a view to discovering if 
 some arrangement could not be made by which the law'suit 
 pending between them might be ended. 
 
 " I suppose you mean a compromise," said Basil, a little 
 haughtily. " There is no other arrangement of which I know. 
 Am I to understand that Miss Carlisle has consented to that ? " 
 
 " Miss Carlisle has not consented to any thing," Devereux 
 answered, quietly. " She referred me to yourself, placing her 
 interest entirely in your hands." 
 
 " In that case," said the 3''0ung man, "there is no need to 
 discuss the matter. I shall not yield an inch, or compromise a 
 farthing. The law must decide between us, Mr. Devereux, and 
 the law alone." 
 
 " I am sorry that you are so determined," said Devereux. 
 " I am sorry that you will not listen to reason. Above all, I am 
 sorry that you. distrust my sincerity when I declare that I am 
 thinking of Miss Carlisle's interest rather than of my own." 
 
 " If you will pardon me for saying so, I am unable to imagine 
 why you should think of Miss Carlisle's interest rather than of 
 your own," answered Basil, coldly. " Disinterestedness is a very 
 fine thing, but it is a thing one meets so seldom in the world — " , 
 
 " That you are inclined to doubt its existence," said Deve- 
 reux, as he paused. " Very well, Mr. Severn, I have done my 
 best — I hope you -^vill do me the justice to remember that — and 
 the subject ends, therefore. I shall not trouble you with it again ; 
 but, before we part, I should like to ask if it is entirely out of 
 your experience or beyond your conception that a man could 
 prefer self-respect to interest." 
 
 The blood came into Basil's face with a quick rush. It was 
 
1.04 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 not so mucli the tone which vibrated through this question as 
 the answer which his own conscience gave to it that, for a sec- 
 ond, rendered him almost incapable of reply. Was he, indeed, 
 doing another the injustice which in his own person he had more 
 tlian once felt to be the keenest in the world ? It would have 
 been a trilling question to most men, but Basil never forgot the 
 moment ill which he seemed to stand accused and convicted of 
 rash judgment, 
 
 " No," he answered ; " it is not beyond my conception to 
 imagine such a thing. I should give poor testimony against 
 myself if it were. If I have done you injustice in any respect, 
 Mr. Devereux, I beg your pardon ; but I cannot alter my deci- 
 sion. The interests committed to my charge are not my own, 
 therefore I am doubly bound to do my best for them. There is 
 nothing I would not sacrifice sooner than compromise in the 
 least degree the trust w^hich has been placed in my hands." 
 
 " I appreciate your fidelity," said Devereux. " Time alone 
 can show whether I am right or wrong in thinking that you are 
 making a great mistake. Meanwhile, is there any reason why 
 we should consider each other in the light of antagonists ? " 
 
 *' I suppose not," answered Basil, won despite himself by 
 the other's frankness. It was impossible to avoid being prepos- 
 sessed toward Devereux. Even those who were most preju- 
 diced against him acknowledged the charm of his manner, the 
 cordial sweetness of his smile. He was not a particularly re- 
 makable man, except for the gift of attraction — an inscrutable 
 gift at best, and exceedingly hard to define — which better men 
 often lack. It was impossible to deny that he possessed this 
 in superlative degree, and, though many people at many times 
 had said hard things of him, no one had ever been known to 
 say that he was disagreeable. 
 
 After this, a little ordinary conversation took place, and Ba- 
 sil conquered his distrust far enough to yield to a hospitable 
 impulse, and ask Devereux if he would not spend the evening 
 with him. " We have very few attractions to ofifer," he said, 
 " but you must find Stansbury dull." 
 
ROSES axd thorns. 105 
 
 " I do," said tlie other, candidly. Then he paused — hesi- 
 tated an instant — finally went on with a smile ; " Excuse me," 
 he said, " if I ask whether your sister did not meet with an 
 accident yesterday afternoon ? " 
 
 " My sister ! " repeated Basil, opening his eyes a little ; for 
 Devereux's connection with Rosalind's misadventnre had not 
 transpired in that young lady's domestic circle. " Yes, one of 
 my sisters was unlucky enough to fall into the water in crossing 
 a stream. I did not imagine that it was a sufficiently important 
 occurrence to have become an item of news even in such a 
 stagnant and gossiping place as Stansbury." 
 . " I scarcely think that it has become so," said Devereux, 
 " since I was the only witness of the accident, and this is the 
 first time that I have spoken of it." 
 
 " Oh ! you were a witness, then ? Rosalind did not men- 
 tion that — perhaps" (with a laugh), "she was not aware of 
 it." 
 
 " Yes, she was aware of it," said Devereux, beginning to 
 fancy that he had been deficient in tact in not imitating the 
 3-oung lady's reticence. But such reflections, like many of our 
 brightest thoughts, generally come too late. " I onl}^ wished to 
 inquire," he added, apologetically, " if she has suffered any ill 
 consequences from her wetting." 
 
 " She has a cold," answered Basil — " nothing more, I be- 
 lieve ; but it confines her to her chamber." 
 
 " I was afraid of that," said Devereux. " I am extremely 
 sorry," he added; for he could not help feeling as if the SLdci- 
 dent and its consequences were in a measure his fault. 
 
 Some one else was concerned by Rosalind's indisposition — 
 some one with a much better right than Mr. Devereux to feel 
 concern. Champion, to whom she had given a very light ac- 
 count of her accident the evening before, was surprised, and a 
 little inclined to be incredulous, when he called in the afternoon 
 to ask her to ride and heard that she was confined to her room 
 with a sore-throat and fever. " Is it possible her accident was 
 so serious as that ? " he said to Mrs. Severn. " She scarcely 
 
lOG A QUESTION CF IIONCR. 
 
 alhulcd to it yesterday evening, and merely spoke of having 
 spoiled her dress." 
 
 " She did not tell us very much about it," Mrs. Severn an- 
 swered, " but Madeleine says that she was very wet indeed 
 when she reached the Lodge ; Mary sent her home in the car- 
 riage, you know." 
 
 " Do you think she will be able to see me if I call this even- 
 ing ? " Champion asked, after a short pause, as he drew on his 
 gloves. 
 
 Mrs. Severn hesitated. There was no counting on Rosalind. 
 She was an intractable patient, as well as a capricious person. 
 She might make an effort and come down-stairs, but more likely 
 she would prefer the solitude of her chamber, with a wrapper 
 and a novel. " If you will wait,'Mr. Champion, I will send and 
 ask her," she said, at last ; unable to arrive at a decision, and 
 afraid of vexing Rosalind by doing wrong. 
 
 Mr. Champion consented to wait ; Mrs. Severn rang the bell, 
 and in a few minutes he was rewarded by hearing that Rosalind 
 was very sorry, but her throat was sore and her head ached, and 
 iAie did not think she would be able to see him that evening. 
 
 Receiving this decision with only tolerable grace, he made 
 his adieux to Mrs. Severn, mounted his horse, and rode away, 
 ordering his groom to take the other horse back to the stable. 
 
 Ten minutes later another step entered the hall. This time 
 it was Gordon Lacy, who, sauntering into the sitting-room — he 
 was as much at home in the house as a tame cat, Rosalind often 
 said — asked for Madeleine. " She is in the garden, I think," 
 said Mrs. Severn. " At least, she spoke a little while ago of 
 filling the vases." 
 
 To the garden, therefore. Lacy took his way. It was a 
 charming place always — being Madeleine's own particular king- 
 dom — but just now it seemed specially attractive, specially full 
 of the fragrance of roses, the varying tints of many changing 
 shrubs. In the depths of a perfect rose wilderness, he found 
 Madeleine. She had her hands full of flowers, which she held 
 out to him, smiling brightly. 
 
ROSES AND THORNS. 107 
 
 " Are they not lovely ? " she said. " Except May, there is 
 no month like October for roses." 
 
 " I am jealous of these flowers," said Lacy. " I believe you 
 care more for them than for any thing else in the world." 
 
 " I care for them exactly as you do for your poems and 
 your stories," said she. " Do you care for them more than for 
 any thing else in the world ? " 
 
 " That is a fine question for you to ask, when you know that 
 I would make a bonfire of the whole of them, and swear off 
 from pen, ink, and paper forever, if it were a question of spar- 
 ing you, I will not saj^ one pang, but one vexation or annoy- 
 ance." 
 
 "Would you?" she said. Her face softened. into grateful 
 tenderness, even though there was something wistful in the 
 steady regard of her eyes. Perhaps she knew him better than 
 he knew himself. " You think more of me than I deserve," 
 she added, simply, " but I shall never ask such a sacrifice of 
 you." 
 
 " I am sure you will never ask a sacrifice of anybody," said 
 he, truthfully. " You were born to make, not to require, sacri- 
 fices." 
 
 He looked at her with eyes of honest love as he spoke, the 
 smishine, the warmth, the odor, were all about her — seeming 
 to t\^ify the brighter light, the rarer fragrance of true devotion 
 which would encompass her life — yet Madeleine shrank a little. 
 It seemed as if a cold hand grasped her heart — as if the very 
 lips of love uttered words which had been uttered in her soul 
 long before, and from which she had shrunk, as what child of 
 earth does not shrink ? Only the saints of God can stretch out 
 their hands with the impassioned prayer, " Give me more suffer- 
 ing. Lord, or else I die ! " 
 
 *' Don't say that," she answered, in a low tone. " Sacrifices 
 are terrible thinofs. Who of us can know whether we should 
 be strong enough to make them if they were demanded ? " 
 
 " They never shall be demanded of you," said Lacy, confi- 
 dently. " I only spoke of what is in your nature. But leave your 
 
108 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 roses alone now, and come with me to the suramcr-liouse. I 
 have a manuscript in my joockct with which I want to bore 
 you." 
 
 " You know that you never bore me," said she, quicklj', and 
 no one could have doubted her sincerity who looked at her face. 
 Her lover never thought of doubting it ; partly because he 
 knew her uncompromising truthfulness, and partly because he 
 could not, as a serious matter, entertain the idea that his manu- 
 scripts could bore anybody. They were interesting to him ; why, 
 then, should they not be interesting to everybody else ? Save 
 in his moments of depression, he had a profound conviction that 
 they were, and with regard to Madeleine, at least, he had good 
 reason to know that every thing which concerned him inter- 
 ested her. 
 
 They went to the summer-house — one of those curious old- 
 fashioned ones of cedar, with the dark, quaint appearance out- 
 side, the pleasant aromatic odor within, which only exist in a 
 few old gardens now — and there, while some birds twittered 
 and sang in the green roof over their heads, and a church-bell 
 was softly pealing out on the still air, Gordon read his manu- 
 script. It w^as a poem — one of the most elaborate, and in some 
 respects one of the best, he had ever written. Yet, in listening 
 to it, Madeleine missed a certain simplicity w^hich had been in 
 her eyes one of the chief charms of his writing. It was more 
 artistically finished and polished than much which had gone be- 
 fore, but it was also more pretentious, and for the first time she 
 caught a decided echo of the strains of one or two of those poets 
 who have most strongly impressed their manner and spirit upon 
 the minor singers of the day. As she noticed this, a doubt and 
 hesitation, with regard to what she should say, came over her. 
 To many, sufficiently sincere people, it would never have oc- 
 curred; for there was much in the poem deserving the most 
 honest praise — there was all the graceful fancy, the delicate 
 feeling, and the perfect knowledge of versification, which she 
 had often praised before ; but there was a strain after something 
 higher than the writer's powers were able to attain, there was 
 
ROSES AND THORNS. 109 
 
 a mj'stical obscurity of thought and an echo of mystical forms 
 of expression which are familiar to all of us. 
 
 When the last smooth cadence fell from his lips, Lacy looked 
 up, expecting the quick, sympathetic admiration which had al- 
 ways met him before. Instead, he surprised the half-troubled 
 look in her eyes, the hesitating quiver of her lips. In such a 
 position, Rosalind would have been at no loss : she would have 
 told that part of the truth which was expedient, and gracefully 
 suppressed the rest. But a compromise with veracity was a 
 thing which never occurred to Madeleine. " You are absurdly 
 and unnecessarily sincere," Rosalind often said ; but even Rosa- 
 lind acknowledged that this unwavering truth was a rock on 
 which others could always depend. That it was an inconvenient 
 rock, however, sometimes dawned on the comprehension of 
 those about her, if not on that of Madeleine herself. Just now 
 she almost felt it, as Gordon's eager glance met her own — and 
 then his face suddenly changed. 
 
 " You do not like it ! " he said, quickly. " Don't be afraid 
 to say so. I see that you do not." 
 
 "I am not afraid," said Madeleine, with her most tender 
 smile. " I know you too well to fancy for a moment that you 
 would be offended by the truth. Besides, a critic is worth noth- 
 ing, if he or she is not honest ; and you say I am your critic. 
 Shall I tell you then sincerely why I do not like it? " 
 
 " Of course," said he — but, although he tried to speak as 
 usual, there came a tone of slight constraint into his voice — 
 "you know I always want you to tell me exactly what you 
 think." 
 
 " What I think, then," said she, laying her hand gently on 
 his, " is, that you have been betrayed into a little too much imi- 
 tation of the style and manner of Swinburne." 
 
 Lacy started back indignantly — the blood rushing in a tide 
 to his face. Hardest of aU charges for an author to bear pa- 
 tiently, whether just or unjust, is that of plagiarism. 
 
 " I certainly did not expect tliat^'* he said — his voice trem- 
 bling a little — " at least, not from you, who ought to know that 
 
no A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 I would not imitate anybody. The versification may, to the or- 
 dinary ear, be slightly suggestive of Swinburne, but in realitj'^ 
 the subject and treatment are altogether different from any thing 
 Nvhich he has ever produced." 
 
 " Yes," said Madeleine, eagerly, " and it is for that very rea- 
 son — because, in many of the most important points, it is alto- 
 gether different — that I object to the slight resemblance which 
 it bears to — to some of his poems." 
 
 "But I maintain that it does not bear any resemblance," 
 said Lacy, emphatically. " Point out an instance of what you 
 mean." 
 
 Madeleine drew the manuscript toward her and pointed to a 
 verse. 
 
 " It strikes me that this sounds like an echo of certain strains 
 in ' Atalanta in Calj'don,' " she said. " Perhaps j'ou may not 
 have thou^-ht of it, but read it over and see if I am not rio-ht." 
 
 " I don't need to read it over to know that you are wrong," 
 said Lacy, positively. " There is absolutely nothing like Swin- 
 burne in the poem. If the measure suggests ' Atalanta in Caly- 
 don,' I can't help that. I should have to give up writing alto- 
 gether, if I endeavored to find measures which had never been 
 used before." 
 
 " It is not the measure only," said Madeleine. " You must 
 acknowledge that there are forms of expression which certain 
 poets have made so distinctively their own that they are imme- 
 diately suggestive of them." 
 
 "The plain English of what you mean, then," said Lacy, 
 pushing the loose sheets of manuscript impatiently away, *' is, 
 that you consider this a plagiarism on Swinburne." 
 
 " No, no," said Madeleine, quickly. " You misunderstand 
 me entirely. I only mean that there is something in it which 
 suggests his style ; but there is also much in it which is original 
 — so much that is graceful and charming — that I should like to 
 see this suggestion of resemblance removed." 
 
 " Oh, the thing is not worth recasting altogether, as I should 
 have to do," said Gordon, drawing the sheets toward him and 
 
EOSES AND THORNS. HI 
 
 beg-'.aniog to fold tlieai together. " Probably it is not worth 
 any thing at all," he added, with a short, unmirthful laugh. " It 
 is OD.y a pity that I have wasted so much time over it." 
 
 " I am so sorry ! " said Madeleine, in a grieved tone. She 
 did not add for what. If she had spoken what was in her mind, 
 she would have said, " that I have vexed and depressed you." 
 But, even to do away with this vexation and depression, she could 
 not unsay her just criticism. 
 
 " It does not matter at all," said her companion, shuffling the 
 papers into his pocket, and rising with a nonchalant air. "There 
 is nothing to be sorry about. Of course, you couldn't say any 
 thing but what you thought. — But this summer-house is rather 
 damp, I am afraid. Suppose we go back to the roses ? They 
 are more interesting, after all." 
 
 *' Nothing is better or more interesting to me than what con- 
 cerns you," said Madeleine, laying her hand on his arm, and lift- 
 ing her face to his, full of affection and contrition. " Gordon, 
 don't — don't talk in that manner ! How shall I be able to for- 
 give myself if I have discouraged you, or made you doubt the 
 excellence of your work ? " 
 
 " It is a good thing for me to be discouraged, perhaps," said 
 Gordon. " Likely enough, I am a conceited fool to dream for a 
 moment that I can be any thing more than an echo of other men's 
 strains." 
 
 " You know I did not mean that — you know I never thought 
 that ! " cried Madeleine. Tears sjDrang to her eyes. What could 
 she say ? Gordon was vexed and petulant, and not averse to 
 making her feel uncomfortable ; but it was also true that his ever- 
 ready doubt and depression had fallen like a cloud upon him. 
 Even to himself he said, in the soreness of his wounded self-love, 
 that Madeleine was right to make him understand that his work 
 was utterl}'' worthless, and himself a presumptuous plagiarist. 
 As for Madeleine, she saw that to say any thing else would only 
 make matters worse. And so they went back to the roses, with 
 a constraint between them which took all the brightness and fra- 
 gTance out of the evening, for one, at least. 
 
112 A QUESTION OF UONOR. 
 
 While tills little scene was in progress in the cedar summer- 
 house, wbile James Champion was riding alone out of the town 
 into the lovely, color-decked countrj^, and Rosalind was thinking 
 that her throat was better and that she was almost sorrj" she had 
 not gone with him, since her room looked narrow and confined 
 with the sunlight shining on the twinkling ivy-leaves around 
 the window, Basil's quick step sounded on the gravel- walk, and 
 Basil's cheerful presence entered the room where Mrs. Severn 
 was sitting. 
 
 " You are such a famous house-keeper, mother, that I'm not 
 afraid to tell you what I've done," he said, with a laugh. " Since 
 I saw you, I have invited Mr. Devereux to tea. I hope you 
 won't tell me that I have made a great mistake — that there's no 
 butter in the house, or something of that kind." 
 
 " Invited Mr. Devereux to tea ! " said Mrs. Severn, dro]pping 
 her work into her lap. " Dear me, Basil, how much you are 
 like your father ! That was his way invariably. In the most 
 off-hand manner he would ask half a dozen gentlemen to dinner, 
 and give me, perhaps, half an hour's notice of it. I often told 
 him what some women would have said of such things 1 " 
 
 " Then I have made a mistake ! " said Basil. " I am very 
 sorry, but it really never occurred to me that the tea we have 
 every evening was not quite good enough for Mr. Devereux." 
 
 *'• I did not say that you had made a mistake," answered 
 Mrs. Severn, beginning to fold her work ; " only that it was so 
 exactly like your father. Of course, the tea is good enough, 
 though I could have had a better one if you had let me know in 
 time. As it is, I'll see what Becky can do, and get out the old 
 china."- 
 
 So it came to pass that, w^hen Madeleine came in from the 
 garden with her hands full of roses, she found Basil lounging in 
 the hall with a newspaper, and heard that Mr. Devereux was 
 expected to tea. She looked amazed at this intelligence, and 
 Lacy, who was with her, uttered a low whistle. " You must 
 have altered your opinion of that gentleman," he said. 
 
 " Well, yes," replied Severn, candidly. *' I have altered mj 
 
ROSES AXD THORNS. II3 
 
 02:)inion a little. I don't clearly know \yliat to make of him ; but 
 there's no harm in asking him to tea." 
 
 " None at all," said Madeleine," since Arabian hospitality has 
 fortunately gone out of fashion. As soon as I have put my 
 flowers in water, I must tell Rosalind. What a pity she is sick ! 
 I have an idea that she would enjoy meeting Mr. Devereux." 
 
 Putting the flowers in water was not much of a task to such 
 practised fingers as hers. She filled every vase and hanging 
 basket ; then, leaving the drawing-room full of perfume and soft 
 evening light, ran up to Rosalind*^ chamber. To her surprise, she 
 found that young lady standing before her mirror, evidently en- 
 gaged in making a toilet. Her hair was coiffed, and she was 
 putting the finishing touches to some light curls about her fore- 
 head w^hen her sister entered. 
 
 " What are you doing ? " the latter asked. " Is it possible 
 you are thinking of coming down this evening ? " 
 
 " I am not only thinking of it, but I am preparing for it," 
 Rosalind answered, looking closely and critically at herself in 
 the mirror. " You would not wonder, if you were as tired of 
 this room as I am ! " 
 
 " But how is your throat ? and are you sure that you are not 
 feverish now ? Let me feel your pulse." 
 
 " My throat is better, and my fever is all gone," said Rosa- 
 lind, extending a pretty white wrist for examination. " I am 
 almost sorry I did not go to ride with James. But I felt lazy, 
 and my head ached just then." 
 
 " Has Mr. Champion been here this afternoon ? " asked Made- 
 line. Instantly her mind flashed to a possible contingency. 
 "In that case, Rosalind — since you did not see him — I do not 
 think you ought to come down," she said. " It will seem 
 strange." 
 
 " Whv should it seem strano-e ? " demanded Rosalind. " Can- 
 not one's feelings change ? James is not so absurdly unreason- 
 able as to think any thing of my enjoying the lively pleasure of 
 my domestic circle because I was not able to see him." 
 
 " But it will not be your domestic circle — at least not exclu- 
 
114 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 sivel}''," said Madeleine. Basil has just told us that he has asked 
 Mr. Devereux to tea." 
 
 " Mr. Devereux ! " repeated Rosalind. She turned round 
 with the liveliest surprise imprinted on her face. "Are you in 
 earnest, Madeleine? How very singular! Why, it was only 
 yesterday Basil was angry with Helen Champion because she 
 wanted to know Mr. Devereux ! " 
 
 " I don't exactly understand Basil's change of sentiment," 
 'said Madeleine. " But the fact remains — Mr. Devereux has been 
 asked to tea ; and, therefore, since you declined to see James 
 Champion, I think you had better not come down." 
 
 *' James ought to be much obliged to you for j^our considera- 
 tion of his feelings," said Rosalind ; " but as for me, I shall cer- 
 tainly come down now that I hear Mr. Devereux is expected. I 
 would not miss the opportunity of seeing him " (" and being 
 seen," she might have added), " for any thing. Besides, James is 
 not likely to hear about it." 
 
 " People always hear about such things ; and you must con- 
 fess that it will seem — " 
 
 " I shall confess nothing," interrupted Rosalind, pettishly. 
 " It is against my principles, and the matter does not appear to 
 me of sufficient importance to have any seeming at all. I am 
 coming down, and that is the end of it." 
 
 She turned back to her toilet with an air of decision, and 
 Madeleine said no more. Perhaps she might have uttered a 
 stronger remonstrance if she had been aware that, besides de- 
 clining to go to ride, Rosalind had excused herself from seeing 
 Champion that evening. But Rosalind kept the latter fact to 
 herself. It did not disquiet her at all. James would not hear 
 of her being down, or, if he did, she could easily smoothe the 
 matter over to him. She had a firm belief in her power of smooth 
 ing matters over whenever she chose to do so. 
 
MR. DEVEREUX ENTERS SOCIETY. 115 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 MR. DEVEKEUX ENTEES SOCIETY. 
 
 An hour later Mr. Devereux arrived, and was sliown into the 
 drawing-room where the family were assembled. The windows 
 were open, for the weather had softened to almost summer 
 warmth, and the gas was burning low in the large chandelier. A 
 fragrance of roses filled the room, day was dying away in purple 
 softness outside, in all nooks and corners shadows hung. Made- 
 leine rose from the piano, the ivory key-board of which gleamed 
 behind her, as he entered. Rosalind was sitting in a deep, lux- 
 urious chair just where the light from the chandelier fell most 
 broadly. Basil came forward to meet and present him to Mrs. 
 Severn, wdio extended her hand with a great deal of kindly 
 grace. 
 
 " I knew your mother very well when she was the beautiful 
 Miss Mansfield, Mr. Devereux," she said, " and I am happy to 
 make the acquaintance of her son. Will you let me claim the 
 privilege of my years and say that j^ou look very much like 
 her ? " 
 
 "You overpower me madam," said Devereux, bowing. "I 
 fear that your memory is kinder than I deserve." 
 
 As he spoke his eye took in the whole picture of the room, 
 and he even recognized Lacy as the hero of the little scene on 
 the portico, which still dwelt in his memor3\ When he was pre- 
 sented to Rosalind, she looked up smiling and blushing. 
 
 " You must let me thank you again for pulling me out of the 
 water," she said. " I have been tormented all day with the 
 recollection of my ungrateful conduct yesterday afternoon." 
 
 " You were not ungrateful," he answered. " But I feared 
 that you would suffer for your wetting, and I am relieved to see 
 you so well." 
 
 " She is not so well as she looks," Mrs. Severn said. " She 
 
116 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 lias been confined to her room all day, and I am not sure that it 
 is prudent for her to be out of it now." 
 
 "My throat is sore," said Rosalind, clasping that round 
 white column in her delicate fingers as she met Devereux's 
 glance. "But that is not of much consequence." 
 
 " I should think that it was of a great deal of consequence," 
 answered he, with a very warm tone of interest in his voice. 
 Then he turned to Madeleine : " I suppose you have heard that I 
 was so unfortunate as to be the cause of this sore throat?" he 
 said. 
 
 " On the contrar}^, I thought that you played the part of 
 rescuer," she replied, with a smile. 
 
 " It was generous of you to tell no more than that," he said, 
 turning again to Rosalind. Then he related the story of his 
 share in the incident — coloring it according to the fashion of 
 raconteurs — and by the time he had finished, and they had all 
 laughed over it, the stiffness of new acquaintance seemed to 
 have vanished. 
 
 As has been said before, however, it was almost imjoossible to 
 be stiff with Devereux very long. The ease of his manner in- 
 spired ease in others, and Rosalind in especial was delighted 
 with him. Seldom, in the course of her short and uneventful 
 experience, had she seen a man so entirely according to the fash- 
 ion of her own taste. She regarded him with approval from the 
 crown of his blond head to the tip of his unexcejotionable boot, 
 and exerted herself for him — exerted herself to attract, to please, 
 to impress him with the unusual nature of lier gifts — as she nev- 
 er exerted herself for any man of Stansbury, not even for James 
 Champion, whom she had promised to marry. It would have 
 been strange if she had not succeeded in her object. It would 
 have been strange if Devereux had not been inpressed with her 
 brightness and her cleverness — for Rosalind was abundantly 
 gifted with that adaptive quickness which is quite apart from 
 intellectual power, or any great degree of intellectual culture. 
 Then her beauty grew upon him. The more he studied her 
 face, the more certain he felt that he had never before seen such 
 
MR. DEVEREUX ENTERS SOCIETY. 117 
 
 perfection of coloring united to such delicate regularity of feat- 
 ure. Her manner, too, was singularly good for a village-bred 
 maiden. It was true that lie detected at once the dash of co- 
 quetrj^ in it, and this coquetry had not the chic which a beauty 
 of the world would have given, but it was subordinate to good 
 taste — which is more than can always be said for the cliic in ques- 
 tion. Of vivacity she had just enough to please without offending. 
 Devereux was fastidious, and a woman who laughed too much, 
 or who pitched her voice in too loud a key, would have jarred 
 on his taste if she had been a Hebe. But Rosalind, though she 
 smiled often, laughed seldom, and no man could have found 
 fault with the low, sweet peal of that laughter when it came. 
 
 It need not be supposed that these observations, on either 
 side, were made at once. They were extended over a consider- 
 able length of time, for Devereux could not monopolize Rosa- 
 lind's, nor Rosalind Devereux's attention. The Severns were 
 well-bred people, and they understood the rare art of sustaining 
 general conversation. 
 
 If the little group had been sociable in the drawing-room, 
 they became still more so when gathered round the tea-table. 
 It was true that something of a cloud still hung over Gordon ; but 
 only Madeleine's eyes perceived this, and Rosalind was in bright 
 enough spirits to have atoned for half a dozen misjudged poets. 
 When they returned to the di^awing-room, Devereux walked 
 to the piano, and taking up a sheet of music asked if she 
 sang. 
 
 " What shall I say ? " she laughed in reply. " You will 
 think me hopelessly commonplace if I answer ' a little,' and I 
 cannot in conscience answer ' a o-reat deal.' " 
 
 " Do not answer at all, then," he said, " but let me hear vou 
 and judge for myself whether it is a little or a great deal." 
 
 " I would do so with pleasure if it were not for my throat, 
 but, before I had sung three bars, mamma would interfere, and 
 send me away to gargle with red pepper and sage-tea." 
 
 " In view of such a penalty it is impossible to press the 
 point," he said, smiling ; " but you seem to have an excellent 
 
118 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 collection of music here. We can look over the songs, can we 
 not ? Then you can tell me what you like best, and I can hope 
 to hear them another time." 
 
 Rosalind willingly agreed to this, and contracted her dra- 
 pery in the most obliging manner to make room for him and the 
 music portfolio which he brought, on the sofa by her side. It 
 is unnecessary to describe how they looked when they were 
 seated with their heads bent together over the open pages, 
 which tliey shared between them. We have all witnessed such 
 scenes, and we all know that, however innocent they may be in 
 fact or intent, they have but one significance to the general eye, 
 and that significance is — flirtation. To add to this appearance, 
 the pair in question were quite apart from the rest of the com- 
 pany, w^ho were grouped around a table immediately under the 
 chandelier. Mrs. Severn's crochet-needles were at work ; Made- 
 leine, Lacy, and Basil were discussing the siege of Paris. " That 
 is a thing which is hackneyed past endurance ! " said Devereux, 
 turning over the pages of a well-known serenade, and Rosalind 
 lauo-hed. 
 
 " If 3'ou are critical and classical," she said, " I certainly 
 shall not sing for you. But here is something good ! — don't 
 you like this ? " 
 
 " Yes, but it is a tenor song — 3'ou don't sing it, surely ? " 
 
 " Oh no, but Gordon yonder does. He has a charming 
 voice." 
 
 " Gordon ! Do you mean Mr. Lacy ? " asked Devereux, 
 glancing across the room. " He looks like a tenor. Is he " 
 — hesitation for a moment — " is he related to you ? " 
 
 " Not at all ; but I have known him all my life, and he is 
 engaged to Madeleine." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Devereux. He glanced at Lacy again — 
 more critically this time. -As he did so, a sharp peal of the 
 door-bell echoed through the house, and Rosalind started. 
 " Who can that be ? " she said, and, as her companion's eyes 
 returned to her, he noticed that the flush on her face had deej^- 
 ened. 
 
MR. DEYEREUX ENTERS SOCIETY. 119 
 
 " Is she expecting somebody, or dreading somebody ? " he 
 thought — and just then there was a sound of voices, a rustle 
 of silk, and two ladies swept into the room. Rosalind recog- 
 nized them in a moment : they were the Champions, mother and 
 daughter. 
 
 " Pity me ! " she said, with a little trill of laughter — under 
 which, however, a cadence of perturbation might have been 
 heard — " yonder are two people who have come expecting to 
 find me in bed, with gargles and foot-baths. Listen ! " 
 
 " Good-evening, Mrs. Severn," Mrs. Champion was saying, 
 in a deep bass voice w^hich suited her remarkably imposing and 
 masculine appearance. " How do you do ? Here I am at last, 
 you see. I have been intending to come for a long time, but 
 my intentions don't bear fruit very well, and I should not be 
 here now if James had not returned this evening full of concern 
 about Rosalind's illness ; so I told Helen we w^ould walk over 
 and see how she is. I hope her sickness is not serious." 
 
 " Oh, not at all ! I am glad to say that she is a great deal 
 better," Mrs. Severn began, with some embarrassment, when 
 Miss Chamj^ion, whose eyes were sharper than her mother's, 
 arrested her by an exclamation. 
 
 " Dear me ! " she said. " ^^bj, yonder is Rosalind, now — 
 and looking quite as well as ever ! I think we have had our 
 walk for our pains, mamma, if we came to see an invalid.'''' 
 
 " Rosalind is better this evening, but she has been very un- 
 well during the day," said Madeleine, as Mrs. Champion turned 
 sharply round, and brought her eye-glass to bear on the ttte-d- 
 tete of the sofa, for Rosalind had not disembarrassed herself suf- 
 ficiently from the litter of loose music to rise. She did so, the 
 next moment, however, and came forward with a smile which 
 might have propitiated the sternest of prospective mothers-in- 
 law. 
 
 " How good of you to come to see me, dear Mrs. Cham- 
 pion ! " she said. " You must not lose sympathy with my sick- 
 ness because you see me down here. I really have not been 
 shamming — though I won't say that I might not have been 
 
120 A QUESTION OF UONOK. 
 
 tempted to do so if I had thought tliut it vrould bring you 1 I 
 have had a very bad cold and fever all day — liave I not, mam- 
 ma ? — and my throat is very sore yet." 
 
 " You certainly do not look as if you had been sick," said 
 Mrs. Champion, coldly. She gave a comprehensive glance as 
 she spoke, which took in every thing — every tasteful detail of 
 Rosalind's toilet, the handsome stranger in the background, 
 the open piano, and the scattered music. " I am sorry we in- 
 terrupted you," she added, stiffly. " Probably you were sing- 
 ing for that gentleman. Don't let me interrupt you — I will 
 talk to your mother." 
 
 " Singing ! " repeated Rosalind. " How could I sing when 
 I can scarcely talk ? It is only by chance that I am down. I 
 felt a little better after James left, and I was so tired of my 
 room. That gentleman is Basil's guest — not mine. — Mamma, 
 had you not better introduce him to Mrs. Champion ? " 
 
 " He is Mr. Devereux," said Mrs. Severn, in a low and rather 
 deprecating tone. Basil had crossed the room and was speak- 
 ing to Devereux, so she was secure of not being overheard. 
 " Basil thought it would be only civil to pay him some atten- 
 tion. If you have no objection, I should like to introduce him 
 to you. He is very pleasing, and I suppose you remember his 
 mother — the great beauty. Miss Mansfield." 
 
 " I am really surprised at Mr. Severn," said Mrs. Champion, 
 almost indignantl3\ " James has no opinion whatever of Mr. 
 Devereux, and thinks it is quite wrong to countenance him. 
 Since he is in your house, Mrs. Severn, I can't refuse to allow 
 him to be introduced." 
 
 " So you have the distinguished stranger ! " Miss Champion 
 was, meanwhile, saying to Madeleine. " Now, I call this lib- 
 eral conduct in Mr, Severn — better than glowering, as Brother 
 James does when one says that one should like to know 
 him." 
 
 " Is it possible the king can do wrong, in your eyes. Miss 
 Helen ? " Lacy asked. " Is not Champion's frown your law? " 
 
 " Oh, no — only Rosalind's," answered that 3^oung lady, ami- 
 
MR. ^EYEREUX ENTERS SOCIETY. 121 
 
 ably. " I wonder what he will say, by-the-by, when he hears 
 that, although she was too sick to see him^ she could come down 
 to flirt with Mr. Devereux 1 " 
 
 This was a sotto voce remark, which Lacy, in the same tone, 
 answered : 
 
 " You are mistaken about the flirting. We had only come 
 in from tea a few minutes before you arrived. Don't judge too 
 hastily from appearances. They are sometimes deceptive, you 
 know." 
 
 Miss Champion elevated her black eyebrows significantly. 
 " They don't deceive me 1 " was what that expressive gesture 
 said. Like her mother, she noted every adorning ribbon which 
 Rosalind wore, as she had already noted the scene by the piano. 
 There is an old and very sensible adage about setting a thief to 
 catch a thief, and the same rule holds good about many other 
 things — flirting, among the rest. 
 
 After Devereux had been presented to the two ladies, a little 
 conversation ensued, but it was not in the nature of things that 
 this should last very long. Mrs. Champion put Rosalind through 
 a severe cross-examination with regard to her indisposition, and 
 then, turning to Mrs. Severn, she began discussing the difl'erent 
 modes of treating colds and the maladies which under given cir- 
 cumstances might arise from them. Rosalind, as in duty bound, 
 sat in attendance on this instructive conversation, bearing her 
 martyrdom with outward decorum, and only casting a slight, en- 
 vious glance now and then at the group on the other side of the 
 table. 
 
 To say that Miss Qiampion was the most brilliant spirit of 
 this group would express very little of the conversational po^vtr 
 which that j^oung lady was pleased to exert, inspired by the con- 
 sciousness of three masculine listeners, each of whom she felt 
 that it would be pleasant to convert into an admirer. Although 
 it may be supposed that she was already certain of Basil's ad- 
 miration, it may be added that few women of her class do not 
 iike to rivet fresh fetters even on an assured slave ; and of Ba- 
 sil's slavery Miss Champion had never vet received anv satisfac- 
 
122 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 tory assurance. With regard to Lacj, she had once considered 
 him an admirer, and he had deserted her standard. This had 
 piqued her a little at the time ; but, since she had been from home 
 and* had heard of him as something of a celebrity, j3ique had 
 changed into a resolution to win him back again, if such winning 
 were at all possible. As for Devereux, it was not to be expected 
 that a young lady fresli from fashionable society would be more 
 blind to his attractions, or look on him with less favor, than Kos- 
 alind had displayed. In the effusive language of her class. Miss 
 Champion w^as "charmed" with him, and she arched her eye- 
 brows and showed her white teeth, and gesticulated with her 
 ringed and braceleted hands, more for his benefit than that of 
 any one else. 
 
 Instead of having their due effect, however, these efi'orts were 
 more wasted on him than on either of the others. His taste was 
 fastidious, and Miss Champion was not according to the standard 
 of that taste. She was a commonplace specimen of the genus 
 " young lad}"," he thought ; passably fine-looking, and exceed- 
 ingly talkative, but not at ail attractive. If civility had sanc- 
 tioned such a proceeding, he would have looked as he felt, very 
 muoh bored, under the steady flow of her animated conversation. 
 As it was, he took advantage of the first opportunity — when she 
 was addressing herself especially to Lacy — and turned to Made- 
 leine. A small photograph in a standing frame on the table near 
 which they were sitting at once furnished a convenient subject 
 of conversation, for, drawing it toward him, he saw that it was 
 a likeness of Mary Carlisle. 
 
 " How excellent ! " he said — for the sun had indeed caught 
 with singular fidelity the pathetic charm of that sw^eet counte- 
 nance — "I have never seen a better likeness produced by me- 
 chanical art." 
 
 " Yes, it is very good," said Madeleine, " but scarcely does 
 Mary justice, I think." 
 
 " Justice is so hard a thing to obtain," he answ^ered, "that it 
 is not strange that photography should fail in rendering it to 
 Buck a face as Miss Carlisle's. Her features are none of them 
 
MR. DEYEREUX ENTERS SOCIETY. 123 
 
 very distinctly marked, nor are there any striking contrasts in 
 her coloring". The charm of the face is in its exquisite expres- 
 sion — and that is here." 
 
 "Yes," said Madeleine, " it is there — though expression is 
 usually the last thing which photography is able to reproduce. 
 I have often thought that it is to the face what the soul is to the 
 body." 
 
 " You are quite right," said Devereux, looking at her with a 
 smile, " and it is a verv candid and beautiful soul which shines 
 in Miss Carlisle's face. May I venture to say how much I was 
 attracted by her?" he went on, after a short pause. "I have 
 rarely in my life been more surprised, and never, I am sure, more 
 charmed, than by her appearance and manner." 
 
 " She is very charming," said Madeleine. The frankness with 
 which he spoke disarmed suspicion, and yet at that moment the 
 fears on which Basil had dwelt, the day before, suddenly oc- 
 curred to her. They seemed absurd, however, as she regarded the 
 face before her. Though people might differ very widely about 
 every other point in Devereux's personal appearance, it was not 
 possible for any one to say that he looked like a " scheming ad- 
 venturer." So, after a moment, she added : " I am sure there is 
 not in the world a nobler nature or a more tender heart than 
 that of Mary; and it saddens me to think what she might have 
 been but for the great misfortune which has shut her off from 
 active life." 
 
 " But without that she would have been just like other wom- 
 en," said Devereux. " Now, she seems to stand apart, marked 
 off, as it were, by the sacredness of great afSiction. 
 
 " If you are regarding her poetically, that is true. But, apart 
 from poetry, her life is a very sad one." 
 
 " I hope I have not spoken too lightly," said he, gravely. 
 " I hope you do not think that I fail to realize the greatness of 
 her misfortune. I was inexpressibly touched by the mere sight 
 of her eyes. And there was something of the same feeling in 
 the gracious sweetness of her manner. One felt as if 
 ' Saint by her face she should be, with such looks.' " 
 
124 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 Madeleine smiled. " I am glad tliat you appreciate Mary," 
 she said. " It is not every one who does. You are very kind 
 to overlook the distrust Avith which she met you," she added, 
 thinking that she would sound a little in the unknown waters 
 of his intentions and desires. 
 
 " There was nothing to overlook," he answered. " The 
 courtesy of Miss Carlisle's reception was exquisite, and as for 
 the distrust — it would have been very unjust to blame her for 
 that." 
 
 " You seem to have conquered it altogether." 
 
 " Did I ? I am glad to hear you say so. Miss Carlisle is an 
 uncommon woman, or I should not have conquered it so soon. 
 Forgive me if I say that women are generally more prejudiced, 
 and more tenacious in maintaining prejudice, than men." 
 
 " Because they are less reasonable ? " asked Madeleine, with 
 her arch, sweet smile. 
 
 " I am sure yon are reasonable enough to forgive me again 
 if I answer yes," said Devereux, attracted by her manner, her 
 face, her voice, as he had been attracted from the first. It was 
 a different attraction altogether from that of Rosalind's grace- 
 ful beauty, and yet not half so easy to analyze. He felt un- 
 consciously that there was something magnetic about this wom- 
 an, but let no one suppose that it was a magnetism akin to the 
 tender passion. There are more things in heaven and earth 
 than are dreamed of in our narrow philosophy. Sometimes we 
 walk with angels unawares, but again the soul rises up as if to 
 greet the presence which is to work it great ill or greater good. 
 
 " You must not expect me to turn State's evidence," said 
 Madeleine, shaking her head. " Men are very unreasonable 
 sometimes — and very prejudiced, too." 
 
 " Granted with all my heart," responded Devereux. Rosa- 
 lind, who was watching him closely without appearing to do so 
 (a faculty some women possess), wondered what he was talking 
 about that interested him so much, and decided to question her 
 sister as soon as practicable. Just then Miss Champion rose, 
 with a rustle of her silken skirts. 
 
MR. DEVEREUX ENTERS SOCIETY. 125 
 
 " Mr. Lacy iusists on my singiDg," she said to Madeleine. 
 *' It is true I am rather out of practice, and I have not my notes, 
 but still one likes to be obliging. — Mr. Devereux, do you sing ? 
 If so, I give you warning that I am beating my drum for re- 
 cruits for a musical and dramatic club I am endeavoring to 
 organize, and that I should be happy to enlist you." 
 
 " Unfortunately, I have no claim to enter such a service," 
 said Devereux, bowing. " I am so entirely destitute of musical 
 or dramatic ability, that T am only able to appreciate the ex- 
 cellence of others in either respect." 
 
 " You are too modest," said she. " I always suspect such 
 extreme modesty. Have you really no musical knowledge ? — 
 have you never acted ? " 
 
 A short catechism on his accomplishments ensued — for the 
 organization of her club was very near, indeed, to Miss Cham- 
 pion's heart — which revealed a most startling degree of igno- 
 rance on Mr. Devereux's part, though it was plain that his cat- 
 echist regarded this ignorance with suspicion. " He knows a 
 great deal more than he pretends," she said, indignantly, when 
 she went at last to the piano with Lacy. *' He is conceited, 
 and thinks the amusements of a country town beneath his dig- 
 nity. I shall let him alone. He is disagreeable and supercili- 
 ous." 
 
 The gentleman thus described fell under the odium of still 
 further disgrace by taking leave immediately after her first song. 
 As he parted with Basil on the portico, the latter hospitably 
 gave him a general invitation. " We shall always be glad to 
 see you," he said ; and Devereux replied with more sincerity 
 than the trite words usually contain : '* I shall be very happy 
 to come, for already I am indebted to you for a very pleasant 
 evening." 
 
 It had been a pleasant evening, he said to himself, as 
 he walked slowly along under the balmy October moon ; not 
 remarkably enlivening, but simply pleasant. It was an inter- 
 esting family group, that of the Severns, and the two sisters 
 were both studies in their different ways. On the other people 
 
126 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 whom he had met he scarcely bestowed a thought. Rosalind's 
 lovely face, Madeleine's soft cj'es, seemed floating about him in 
 the faint wreaths of his cigar-smoke. It was an hour of reve- 
 rie, lightly tinged with agreeable fancies, such as we have most 
 of us known. Nothing warned him that an exceptional time — 
 a transitional era of his life — had come. Nothing suggested the 
 idea that, out of the lives of these people whom he had so casu- 
 ally met, many complications to his own life would result. He 
 walked on, enjoying the soft beauty of the autumn night, until 
 his cigar was smoked out, and his idle reverie ended. Then 
 he turned his steps in the direction of his hotel, and dismissed 
 the claims of Stansbury society very summarily from his mind. 
 Fortunately, he did not know with what quiet but irresistible 
 force Stansbury society had laid its hand on him. 
 
BOOK II. 
 
 m WHICH THE SHUTTLE IS THROWN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 BY THE WAYSIDE. 
 
 How Rosalind made her peace with Champion did not trans- 
 pire ; but that she succeeded in making it, all those interested 
 had satisfactory evidence when she went to ride with him a 
 day or two after Mr. Devereux's introduction to Stansbury so- 
 ciety. It is doubtful if there was any serious breach to heal. 
 Champion was not a jealous lover, nor, it may be added, an un- 
 reasonable one. He was also a very proud man, too proud to 
 suspect duplicity, especially in the woman he loved. He was 
 hurt to think that Rosalind cared so little to see him that she had 
 not felt inclined to make on his behalf the effort which she 
 afterward made without any inducement ; but he did not for a 
 moment question her assertion that this effort had no connec- 
 tion whatever with Mr. Devereux's visit. " I was tired to death 
 of my room, and dressing to go down when Madeleine came to 
 tell me that Basil had invited Mr. Devereux," she said, with the 
 strictest regard to veracity ; and Champion gave her implicit 
 faith. It was an accident, a mere coincidence ; yet a disagreea- 
 ble impression is not always to be banished at will, and the 
 most reasonable of lovers may retain a slight sense of wounded 
 feeling. 
 
 Rosalind, on her part, was glad that James was so placable. 
 
128 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 It emboldened her to think that perliaps the sameness of a rec- 
 ognized engagement might be varied by a spice of flirtation 
 with the handsome stranger whom Fate had thrown in her path. 
 She did not think of more than flirtation, for Rosalind had suf- 
 fered too keenly from the thorns of poverty not to appreciate 
 the luxury of ease ; and she honestly meant to many Cham- 
 pion. She liked him — with a sense of conscious virtue she told, 
 her mother that nothing would induce her to make a purely 
 mercenary marriage — and she doubted exceedingly if it would 
 ever be possible for her to do better. If it icere possible — well, 
 that was a contingency which she wisely refrained from taking 
 into consideration, leaving her conduct to be swayed by future 
 events. 
 
 " Have you really any idea," she said to her lover, while 
 they were riding, " that Mr. Devereux may obtain the Carlisle 
 property ? I don't want you to answer as the lawyer on the 
 other side, but as a dispassionate judge of the matter." 
 
 " It is rather hard to be dispassionate," said Champion, 
 bending his brows a little. The subject was distasteful to him, 
 and, when subjects were distasteful, he generally put them away. 
 It was impossible to put this away, however, with Rosalind's 
 eyes demanding an answer. " Of course, there is doubt about 
 these things," he went on. " It is impossible for me to say 
 positively that he will not obtain it. If the lease is proved, the 
 jjroperty must revert to him." 
 
 " Can the lease be proved ? " 
 
 " I think not ; but I am not infallible." 
 
 " And if the suit is decided in his favor, he gains all this ! " 
 said the girl, meditatively. She pointed with her whip as she 
 spoke, at the Carlisle mills and factories ; for the road along 
 which they were riding overlooked the lands in litigation. " It 
 is worth a struggle," she added, as if to herself. 
 
 " It is certainly worth a struggle," echoed Champion, dry- 
 ly, "and I shall leave no stone unturned in its defense. I 
 have been very much encouraged by Devereux's ofi"er to com- 
 promise," he added, after a short pause. *' It shows conclu- 
 
BY THE WAYSIDE. 129 
 
 sively that lie feels — or that his lawyer feels — the weakness of 
 his cause." 
 
 Rosalind said no more, but her glance swept over the scene 
 before her — the tall buildings with their chimneys curling forth 
 clouds of white smoke, and the neat rows of brown cottages 
 w^iich Basil had taken so much pleasure in building for the op- 
 eratives. It was a small village full of thrift and energy, show^- 
 iug what capital and labor guided by mind and liberality can 
 achieve. The fame of the Carlisle factories was well known, 
 and more than once peojole interested in such business had come 
 from afar, in order to see their excellent management. Rosalind 
 had often regarded the j^icture before, and sighed to think how 
 useless all this rich inheritance was to the sick girl who could 
 never look on it — sighed not from sympathy, but from longing. 
 " If it were only mine ! " she had thought, trying to fancy what 
 a grand young princess she would be under such blissful cir- 
 cumstances. This castle-building might have seemed harmless 
 enough to all save a very rigorous moralist, but the seed of envy 
 which had been the germ of it expanded now and put forth a 
 shoot. " If it could be mine ! " she thought, while, like a flash, 
 a series of possible events unrolled before her — events which 
 almost dazzled her with their brightness. Her cheek flushed, 
 her eye sparkled. Champion, who was looking at her, thought, 
 with a thrill of pride, how beautiful she was ! She said to her- 
 self that it was only a day-dream, a castle in the air, but if it 
 could be — her thought went no farther than this. She turned 
 to Champion. 
 
 " Let us have a canter," she said. " Here is an excellent 
 stretch of road." 
 
 She touched her horse as she spoke, and they swept rapidly 
 forward at that pleasantest of all pleasant paces. The road, as 
 she said, was excellent — a white level turnpike, with purple 
 autumn fields stretching on each side, broken by belts of glow- 
 ing autumn woods. In one of these fields not far from the road 
 they noticed a sportsman and his dogs. A covey of partridges 
 suddenly flew into the air. Simultaneously the report of a gun 
 
130 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 rang out. Rosalind's horse started violently — a start that would 
 have unseated an awkward" rider — then dashed into a run. Cham- 
 pion followed fast, but there was no need of him. In less than 
 a minute the young lady had brought the would-be runaway to 
 order, and turned a flushed, smiling face round to greet her es- 
 cort, as he rode up. 
 
 " It was only a little foolishness and fright," she said, excus- 
 ing the culprit. " One cannot expect perfection in horses any 
 more than in people ; and that shot was xiery near ! " 
 
 " It was unpardonably careless in the man to discharge his 
 gun just as you were passing ! " said Champion. " He might 
 have caused a very serious accident — would have done so cer- 
 tainly if you were not such an excellent rider." 
 
 " It was careless, but you see there is no harm done," said 
 she. " I wonder who it was ? He ought to give me that par- 
 tridge. I like partridges. Hold my rein for a moment, please, 
 while I put up my hair." 
 
 Champion held the rein, and watched with a pleasant sense 
 of proprietary admiration the pretty hands that looped the 
 bronze-brown curls back to their place, " I have lost nearly all 
 my hair-pins," she said in an aggrieved tone, as she finally set- 
 tled her hat and drew on her gloves again. " I shall give you a 
 box of them to put in your pocket the next time we come out. 
 It is always well to be provided for emergencies. Now let us 
 move on — look ! is not that Mary Carlisle's pony-carriage yon- 
 der ? And Mary herself is in it, I think." 
 
 " Yes, it is the carriage — and Miss Carlisle is in it," answered 
 Champion, following the direction of her eyes with his own. 
 Around a bend of the road the carriage had appeared, and was 
 now advancing rapidly toward them — the sun shining brightly 
 on the sleek coats of the ponies, the glancing wdieels of the 
 phaeton and the gayly-striped wrap which covered the dresses of 
 the tw^o figures seated within. 
 
 One of them was Miss Carlisle, as Rosalind had perceived. 
 The other was Jessie Holme, sitting bolt upright and driving with 
 the utmost skill and care. She recognized the equestrians at once. 
 
BY THE WAYSIDE. 131 
 
 "Here's Miss Rosalind Severn and Mr. Champion coming to 
 meet us, Miss Mary," she said. "Do you want to stop and 
 speak to them ? " 
 
 " Fes," answered Mary, " you can stop for a minute." 
 
 So, as the two parties came abreast, there was a pause, and 
 an exchange of salutations and inquiries. Mary asked if Rosa- 
 lind had recovered from her cold. "I w^as afraid you would be 
 quite sick after such a wetting," she said. 
 
 " It was not much of a wetting," said Rosalind, who did not 
 like allusions to her accident. " The affair was more ridiculous 
 than serious. I have quite recovered, except for a little sore- 
 throat. You are looking well, Mary," she went on. " What a 
 lovely color you have ! has she not, James ? " 
 
 "Very good indeed," said Champion, who never paid com- 
 pliments — " You are looking exceedingly well," he added, ad- 
 dressing directly the blind girl, for whom even he had a peculiar 
 regard. " I am very glad to see it. You must not let yourself 
 be worried by business-matters. They Avill all come right in the 
 end." 
 
 " I am not worrying at all," said Mary — into whose usually 
 pale cheeks the warm air and rapid motion had indeed brought 
 a delicate carmine tinge — " I am quite content to rely on Basil 
 and yourself. You must let me congratulate you," she went on, 
 with a smile. " You are both very happy, are you not ? I can- 
 not see your faces to tell whether you look so ; but I am sure 
 you ought to be." 
 
 " Oh, we are very happy, no doubt," said Rosalind, with a 
 light, careless laugh ; " but please don't congratulate us — it is 
 entirely too soon for that ceremony. Marriage is time enough 
 for it — engagements are so uncertain." 
 
 " I cannot see w^hy engagements should be more uncertain 
 than marriage, when those concerned are in earnest," said 
 Champion, in a tone of slight rebuke. There was no disguising 
 the fact that Rosalind's words jarred on him. They sounded 
 frivolous, he thought — and in his eyes frivolity was a cajDital 
 fault. 
 
133 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 "I only meant to express the trite commonplace tliat all 
 things mundane are uncertain," said Rosalind, who knew to a 
 nicety how far to venture. " Mary must pardon me if my re- 
 mark sounded ungracious, and she must accept our thanks for 
 her congratulations. We are happy — though we try not to be 
 foolish." 
 
 " I cannot imagine that Mr. Champion ever was foolish in 
 his life," said Mary, with her rare, soft laugh. 
 
 " Thanks for the distinction," said Rosalind, gayly. 
 
 At this point in the conversation, the whole party except 
 IMiss Carlisle were suddenly startled by the unexpected appear- 
 ance of two dogs which sprang over the fence into the road, 
 followed closely by a tall man with a gun, and a small boy with 
 a game-bag. Rosalind recognized the former im.mediately, and 
 uttered an exclamation. 
 
 " Mr. Devereux ! " she said. " Is it possible this is you ? " 
 
 " It is quite possible," answered Devereux, lifting his hat. 
 He was in sporting-dress, and looked so handsome, that Rosa- 
 lind's heart was conscious of a thrill. " I have come to apolo- 
 gize," he went on, addressing her. " It was my careless shot a 
 little while ago that startled your horse. I was never more 
 fi'ightened than when I saw him dash off. I had not observed 
 you before. You can scarcely imagine how much relieved I was 
 when I saw what an excellent rider you were, and that no acci- 
 dent occurred." 
 
 " I was to blame as well as yourself," said Rosalind. " I 
 should have had my horse better in hand, knowing that he is 
 inclined to be foolish. But you see I am not alioays awkward ! " 
 she added, with a subtile play of humorous expression about her 
 lips and in her eyes. 
 
 "Did you imagine that I thought so?" asked Devereux, 
 smiling. " But you will accept the spoils, will you not ? " he 
 added, pointing to the game-bag — evidentlj^ a full one — which 
 his attendant carried. 
 
 " I shall be most happy," answered Rosalind, graciously ; 
 then a laugh brought %Mt all the charming dimples of her face. 
 
BY THE WAYSIDE. 133 
 
 ' How did you know that I said that partridge ought to be 
 mine ? " she asked. 
 
 "I did not know it, but I felt the same conviction," an- 
 swered he, regarding her with an expression of admiration 
 which Champion saw and resented. 
 
 " It was worth while being frightened to be so pleasantly 
 rewarded," said she. " But pray excuse me ; I am very forget- 
 ful. You know Miss Carlisle, I believe ; but you do not know 
 Mr. Champion. Let me introduce you — Mr. Devereux, Mr. 
 Champion." 
 
 The gentlemen bowed— Champion a little stiffly, Devereux 
 with his usual easy grace. " I am glad to make Mr. Champi- 
 on's acquaintance," he said, with the pleasant ring in his voice 
 which always went so far to propitiate liking. Then he turned 
 and walked up to the carriage. He had not noticed its occu- 
 pants before Rosalind spoke. Now he saw Marj Carlisle's 
 pure, sweet face, and blue, sightless eyes. 
 
 " Pardon me," he said, as he reached her side. " I did not 
 know that you were here. I was intent on apologizing for hav- 
 ing startled Miss Severn's horse a short time ago. I am glad to 
 meet 3'ou." 
 
 " I did not suppose that you observed me," said Mary, ex- 
 tending her hand with a smile. " But I knew your voice. 
 Voices are like faces to me. I never forget them." 
 
 " How good your memorj^ must be, then ! Better than mine 
 for faces. I forget many of those ; but there is great individu- 
 alitv in a voice." 
 
 " You do not know how much unless you have listened, as I 
 do, without seeing," she answered. " But what have you been 
 doing to frighten Rosalind's horse ? — shooting ? " 
 
 " Yes, to kill time as well as birds. Afid my evil genius 
 made me discharge my gun just as Miss Severn was passing. 
 It might have proved worse — at least more dangerous — than 
 the plunge-bath I was unlucky enough to cause her the other 
 day." 
 
 " You have blamed yourself more than enough for that, Mr. 
 
i:U A QUESTION OF UOXOR. 
 
 Devereux," said Rosalind. "Pray believe that I absolve you." 
 Then slie added, seeing that Champion looked a little impatient, 
 " Are you going into town, Mary ? " 
 
 ^' Yes," answered Mary ; " Jessie wants to do a little shop- 
 ping, and I want to see Madeleine. Don't let me detain you 
 any longer — I know this is the best part of the afternoon for 
 riding." 
 
 " And for driving, too, so we will not detain you. Good- 
 evening. I am almost sure you will find Madeleine at home." 
 
 Champion made his adieux also, and the equestrians rode 
 away. This was a step which irked Rosalind no little, but which 
 she felt the necessity of facing cheerfully. It would never do to 
 suffer any seeds of suspicion or jealousy to take root in Cham- 
 pion's mind. Observing that he looked grave, she spoke with a 
 lauoh : 
 
 " Basil thouD-ht it absurd when I suo-o-ested that Mr. Deve- 
 reux had come here to marry Mary. I wonder what he thinks 
 now? It seems to me as plain as possible that he intends to do 
 so." 
 
 " I am afraid he does," answered Champion, " but T hope 
 Miss Carlisle has too much sense to fall into the trap of a for- 
 tune-hunter. I distrust the man altogether," he said, as Basil 
 had said before him. " He professes too much disinterestedness. 
 When a man does that, it is safe to suspect him of a desire to 
 serve his own interests particularly well." 
 
 The man thus condemned was at this time saying to Mary, 
 as he stood by the carriage, with his gun in his hand, unconscious 
 how intently Jessie Holme's keen eyes were reading his face : 
 
 "I will not detain you, either, further than to ask if I may 
 come to see you. I remember that you gave me a kind permis- 
 sion to do so the otker day, but I have hesitated to avail myself 
 of it, fearing that you might consider me presumj^tuous." 
 
 " Why should you have feared such a thing ? " she asked, 
 with gentle graciousness of manner. It was not Rosalind alone 
 who felt Devereux's charm. Though his handsome face and 
 graceful bearing were veiled from poor Mary, she could appreci- 
 
BY THE WAYSIDE. I35 
 
 ate none the less — rather, more — tlie deference of liis manner, 
 the music of his voice. " I am not in the habit of saying one 
 thing and meaning another," she went on. " Come when you 
 feel inclined to do so." 
 
 " I shall feel inclined very soon, then," said he. " May I 
 come to-morrow ? Shall I find you disengaged ? " 
 
 " I am always disengaged ? " she answered. " Yes, you may 
 come to-morrow." Then some instinct made her add : " You will 
 find my dear friend Madeleine Severn with me. I am going for 
 her now." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Devereux. He would have liked to say 
 more, but seeing that the ponies were restless, he drew back. 
 " I must not detain you longer," he added. " Good-evening." ^ 
 
 Mary bowed, Jessie touched the impatient horses, and the 
 carriage bowled rapidly away, leaving him standing by the road- 
 side gazing after it. 
 
 He stood so long, and gazed so steadil}^, that the bearer of 
 the game-bag grew quite restless, and finally suggested that the 
 dogs were " clean out o' sight." He was rewarded for this in- 
 telligence by being told to call them back, and when they reap- 
 peared, Mr. Devereux returned to his shooting. He shot quite 
 as well as he had done before, and many a pretty, brown bird, 
 with its dainty plumage all bloody and rufHed, was crammed 
 into the game-bag with its murdered comrades, before the sun 
 went down. But throuo-h all this wholesale slauo-hter the 
 sportman's face still wore the preoccupied expression which 
 came over it as he looked at Miss Carlisle's carriao;e drivins: 
 away, and more than once he said to himself, " After all, why 
 not ? " 
 
 Mary, meanwhile, had turned to her companion, and said, a 
 little wistfull}^, " Jessie, what do you think of him ? " 
 
 " He's good enough looking. Miss Mar\^, if looks was all a 
 body had to go by," responded Jessie, cautiously. 
 
 " Do you mean handsome ? " asked Mary. " Every one says 
 so. T did not mean that — I meant, what do you think of him ? 
 Does he look to you like a man you would trust ? " 
 
136 A QUESTION OF HONOR 
 
 " I have never yet found — speaking of men — many of them 
 I would trust," answered Jessie, who regarded the dominant 
 half of the world with profound suspicion, largely seasoned with 
 contempt. " I've found that they'll generally take a wom.an in 
 — if the}'- can. It is not very likely this Mr. Devereux is differ- 
 ent from the rest." 
 
 " But does he look deceitful^ or — or — as if he were capable 
 of double-dealing ? " asked Mary. " Jessie, y.ou have sight, and 
 I have not — can you not tell me how his appearance strikes 
 you ? " 
 
 The earnestness of this appeal seemed to take Jessie by 
 surprise. She turned her eyes quickly to the blind girl's face 
 ^Yhat she saw there made her change her tone. There was 
 nothing short of perjury she would not have said to gratify the 
 least desire of her gentle mistress. 
 
 " My eyes are no better than your ears, Miss Mary, and so 
 I've told you time and again," she said. But if you want to 
 know how Mr. Devereux strikes me, I can honestly say that I'd 
 trust him as soon as I would any other man. He has a kind of 
 don't-care look on his face, and a lazy expression in his eyes, but 
 I shouldn't think he'd say one thing and mean another — at least 
 not more'n men in general do." 
 
 " What a man-hater you are ! " said Mary, smiling. " Don't 
 you trust any of that sex ? " 
 
 " I trust Mr. Basil -Severn," replied Jessie. "If I had a mint 
 of money — which the Lord knows I don't want — I should give it 
 all to him to keep, and not take any receipt, either ! " 
 
 " I shall tell Basil that," said Mary, " and since he knows 
 your business character, and how inflexibly you always demand 
 a receipt for every thing, he will appreciate the compliment." 
 
 Soon after this they reached Stansbury, and found Miss Sev 
 ern at home. " I have come for you to go back with, me," said 
 Mary, and Madeleine could not refuse. She often went to the 
 Lodge and spent several days — sometimes even a week or two — 
 and just now she had no excuse to refuse returning with her 
 friend. Yet she felt very reluctant to go — a reluctance which 
 
BY THE WAYSIDE. 13^ 
 
 Bhe could scarcely analyze, but which she remembered afterward, 
 and asked herself, as people will do, if it had been a presentiment. 
 It was a date to which she looked back, this visit — a gap, as it 
 were, between her old life and the new events which were com- 
 ing to meet her. It is impossible to suppose that she felt any 
 IDrophetical sense of this when she hesitated over Mary's request ; 
 but it is certain that she did hesitate, and when at last she agreed 
 to go, it was with the proviso, " I cannot stay long — not more 
 than a day or two." 
 
 " You shall come back exactly w-lien you choose," said Mary, 
 pleased to win consent at any price. — " Jessie, you may go and 
 attend to your shopping. Miss Severn will drive me home. — 
 Madeleine, don't be long in making your preparations, or we 
 shall miss the pleasant part of the afternoon." 
 
 Madeleine's preparations did not detain her long, but, after 
 having put together a few articles of dress, she sat down and 
 wrote a note to Lacy — in thoughts of whom her reluctance to 
 leave Stansbury principally took root. She had seen him only 
 once since the evening she had played impartial critic with such 
 disagreeable results ; and then there had been a subtile reserve 
 and constraint like a curtain between them. She had felt this — 
 felt it keenly — and tried by every means in her power to put it 
 aside, but she had failed ; and the failure made her uneasy and 
 miserable. She was not a woman to indulge in those piquant 
 amusements know^n as " lovers' quarrels " — there was a sweet pa- 
 tience, a breadth of tender harmony, in her nature, which made 
 dissension in any form impossible to her — so her engagement had 
 altogether lacked this seasoning, and she had no experience of 
 the past to fortify her in the vague shadows of the present. She 
 only felt, as all truly generous natures invariably feel, that she 
 must be in the wrong, and, so feeling, she stretched out hei 
 hand with a great impulse of love and repentance. Despite 
 herself, the conviction forced itself upon her that her lover was 
 not so strong as she had fancied him — that there must be some- 
 thing of weakness and self-love, mingled with the poet's sensi- 
 tiveness ; but all the more for this realization she blamed her- 
 
138 A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 self for the pang she had inflicted, the harsh judgment which 
 she had passed. She wrote now an affectionate note, telling 
 him that she was going out to the Lodge for a few days, but 
 she made no special request that he would come there to see 
 her. " If he wants to come, he will not need an invitation," 
 she thouii'lit. 
 
 The afternoon was still soft and pleasant when Mary and 
 herself drove out of Stansbury. They met Basil, and stopped 
 to exchange a few words. He looked a little surprised when he 
 saw Madeleine. " You have surely forgotten," he said, " that 
 Miss Champion begged us to come to her house to-night in 
 order to arrange some dramatic or musical entertainment ? " 
 
 " I did forget it altogether," answered Madeleine. " You 
 must make my excuses. My attendance is not of any importance, 
 fortunately, since I have neither dramatic nor musical ability." 
 
 " I doubt if any of us are much endowed with talent in 
 either line," said Severn, with a laugh, " but Miss Champion is 
 determined to put us to the test. — Mary, I am very glad to sea 
 you out, and more glad to see you looking particularly well." 
 
 " I must be looking well," said Mary, " since you are the 
 third person who has told me so." 
 
 After a few more words, they bade each other good-day 
 and passed on. Then Madeleine said : " Helen Champion has 
 made Basil promise to take Mr. Devereux to her gathering to- 
 night. I fancy he will be very much bored." 
 
 " He can amuse himself by making apologies to Rosalind," 
 said Miss Carlisle. " He seems destined to cause mishaps to 
 her. This afternoon he frightened her horse." 
 
 " Was there any accident ? " asked Madeleine, slightly star- 
 tled. 
 
 "None at all. I should not have heard of it, only he came 
 up to apologize while I was talking to her. Then she rode on, 
 and he lingered a few minutes to speak to me, and say that he 
 would like to call to-morrow. Madeleine " — a slight pause — 
 " he is really very pleasant." 
 
 " Very," replied Madeleine, rather dryly. 
 
THEATRICALS— AND OTHER MATTERS. 139 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THEATEICALS — A^D OTHER MATTERS. 
 
 " Mamma," said Miss Champion, with an air of severe gravi- 
 ty, " how do you think I look ? " 
 
 *' Bless me, Helen ! " replied her mother. " What is the 
 use of such a question ? You know you are looking as hand- 
 some as possible. That dress is elegant — and so becoming." 
 
 The dress in question was certainly elegant, and very be- 
 coming — a gold-colored silk made demi-toilette and softened by 
 black lace. Crimson roses were in the young lady's raven hair 
 and on her breast ; crimson roses also shone on her cheeks, and 
 her dark eyes had that starry look which we often see in eyes 
 that have no other beauty. A splendid-looking-woman, cer- 
 tainly, by gas-light, was Miss Ciiampion, eminently " a woman 
 with a presence," and if just now a woman slightly overdressed, 
 considering that this was provincial society, that she was in her 
 own house, and that the occasion was informal, what else could 
 be expected of an heiress with lustrous silks and costly laces in 
 her possession ? 
 
 She swept down the draw4ng-room W'itli her rich dress trail- 
 ing half a yard behind, and regarded herself intently in a full- 
 length mirror. " I don't think Rosalind Severn will look better 
 than I do to-night ! " she said at length, half audibly. 
 
 Low though the words were, her mother caught them, and 
 answered from the arm-chair where she sat fanning herself — for 
 the night was warm, and Mrs. Champion's size was large : " It 
 is quite beyond me to imagine how you can think that Rosalind 
 Severn ever looks better than you do, Helen ! She is pretty 
 enough in an insignificant kind of way, but as for looking like 
 yoic — " 
 
 " She certainly does not look like me," said Helen, wdth a 
 laugh, " but some people prefer her looks to mine. There is 
 Brother James, for instance." 
 
140 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mrs. Champion, with a sigh. She always sighed 
 ■when James's unaccountable infatuation was alluded to. It was 
 a safe and terse way of expressing her feelings. Just now, 
 however, being alone with Helen, she went on to express them 
 in words : " On that point," she said, " James's opinion counts 
 for nothing. His fancy for that girl is something I can't under- 
 stand ! — something I never expect to understand ! It would be 
 impossible to find any one more entirely unsuited to him. If I 
 am any judge of character," pursued the lady, with dignity, 
 "Rosalind Severn will never make a good wife for any man; 
 but for James to throw himself away on her, is — is horrible ! " 
 
 " It is his own affair — he will not be warned, he has always 
 been foolish about her," said Miss Champion, philosophically, 
 giving a touch to the braids and curls of her elaborate coiffure. 
 " I would not trouble about it if I were you, mamma. Some- 
 thing may happen. Rosalind is a born flirt — I don't think she 
 could help flirting if her life depended on it — and, if she goes 
 to that again, Brother James w^ill certainly break off the engage- 
 ment." 
 
 " I wish to Heaven she would go to it ! " remarked Mrs. 
 Champion, devoutly. 
 
 " I think she will — if she has an opportunity^," said Helen. 
 " There is Mr. Devereux — you may be sure that she will flirt 
 with him if she can ! You remember the scene when w-e went 
 there the other night." 
 
 " But James would not believe that she meant any harm by 
 it," said Mrs. Champion, despondently. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " returned Helen, with a strong accent of incre- 
 dulity. " He would not own that he believed it, but I know that 
 he did. — Is that the door-bell ? Are you sure I look my very best, 
 mamma ? I have half a mind to flirt with Mr. Devereux myself." 
 
 " I would rather you let Rosalind do so," said Mrs. Cham- 
 pion, with a solicitude that was touching. 
 
 Her daughter's laugh — not a very musical one — rang through 
 the room. " How much Rosalind would be obliged to you ! " 
 she said. " But you see it does not depend on we. Mr. Deve 
 
THEATRICALS— AND OTHER MATTERS. 141 
 
 reux is like the sultan — he must throw his handkerchief where 
 he pleases." 
 
 As she uttered the last words, a gentleman entered the room, 
 and advanced down its leno-th to where the ladies were sittino; 
 — Helen having thrown herself carelessly into a deep chair, and 
 making, as she knew well, a very striking picture, with the folds 
 of her amber silk sweeping the floor, her draperies of black lace 
 and her crimson roses enhancing the rich brunette tints of her 
 face. It was a picture that Gordon Lacy was specially fitted to 
 appreciate — and it was Gordon Lacy who approached. 
 
 " Is it possible I am the first-comer ? " he asked, after he had 
 said good-evening to Mrs. Champion. " I would ask you to 
 pardon me, only somebody must be first, and you can set my 
 early appearance down to my eagerness to see you. Now that 
 I do see you," he went on, with an expressive glance and a. slight 
 bow, " I am well repaid." 
 
 " It is not you who are early, but the rest who are late," Miss 
 Champion answered, her glowing color deepening a little under 
 the admiration of his gaze. " It is provoking of them, too, for I 
 meant that we should transact a great deal of business. But 
 where is Madeleine ? Does she not intend to come ? " 
 
 " I have not seen her," Lacy answered, carelessly, " but I 
 scarcely think she will be here, since she went out to the Lodge 
 this afternoon with Miss Carlisle." 
 
 " How sorry I am ! I wanted eve?ybodi/ to come. My heart 
 is quite set on doing something that will make a sensation in 
 Stansbur3\ You must tell me what it shall be, Mr. Lacy." 
 
 " On the contrary, I am the humblest of your servants, and 
 waiting for you to tell me." 
 
 " Ah, how modest you are ! It is very good of you — such an 
 exalted person as you have become — to put yourself at the com- 
 mand of such an insignificant person as myself." 
 
 " Have I become an exalted person ? " Lacy asked, arching 
 his brows. " It is very kind of you to be the first to tell me 
 such an astonishing piece of news. And have you become an 
 insignificant person ? That is more remarkable still." 
 7 
 
142 A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 " You know perfectly what I meant," said she, laughing. " I 
 must tell you, b^'-the-way " — here she looked down and unfurled 
 her fan — " that I admire your writings so veri/ much that I have 
 grown absolutely afraid of you. I cannot realize that we were 
 such good friends as — as we used to be." 
 
 "You honor me too much," said he. "I hope you are in 
 earnest, I hope you do like my writings — I shall like them bet- 
 ter myself if they have your approval. But as for not realizing 
 what good friends we used to be — I assure you that I realize 
 fully and shall never forget it." 
 
 His voice had a tender cadence ; he spoke as if the friendship 
 to which she alluded was a source of mingled consolation and 
 regret to him. Why should he not amuse himself by talking in 
 this manner ? There could be nothing reprehensible in a harm- 
 less flirtation with this star- eyed admirer of his writings, while 
 Madeleine, their unsparing critic, was playing backgammon with 
 Mrs. Ingram at the Lodge, and talking to Mary Carlisle. 
 
 It was a pity that a conversation so productive of entertain- 
 ment on both sides should have been interrupted just here by 
 another peal of the door-bell. A moment later, two young ladies 
 and their attendant cavaliers entered. They belonged to the 
 extremely talkative order, and their gay, empty chatter soon 
 filled the room. Lacy listened for five minutes, looking intense- 
 ly bored the while — then he sauntered away to the piano, and 
 occupied himself turning over the music, scarcely heeding the 
 people who now arrived in detachments. Miss Champion having 
 beaten her drum to such good purpose for recruits that she had 
 enlisted nearly every one of her acquaintance. Finally, among 
 the very last, Rosalind appeared, on the arm of her adoring 
 James. 
 
 She was not outshone ; that was positive as soon as she en- i 
 tered the room. Whether some instinct had warned her to look 
 her best, or whether — as was most probable — she did not stand 
 in need of such an instinct, the fact remained undeniable that 
 she did look her best, even though she wore no silk, or lace, or 
 jewels. Fine feathers often make fine birds, but sometimes the 
 
TEEATRICALS— AXD OTHER MATTERS. 143 
 
 birds tliemselres are fine, and then they do not need the feath- 
 ers. Rosalind was one of these. Her delicate, graceful beauty 
 stood in no need of rich adornment. She never looked lovelier 
 than when she appeared as now, dressed in filmy white muslin, 
 with her sash-ribbons and flowers all a clear, delicate rose-color. 
 
 Miss Champion met her effusively. " I am so glad to see 
 you ! " she said. " I have been longing for vom to come and help 
 me brinof order out of chaos. I am half frio-htened at the tumult 
 I have evoked. ^Yhere is Mr. Severn ? I count on him for so 
 much assistance." 
 
 " Has he not come yet ? " asked Rosalind. " He went to the 
 hotel some time ago to meet Mr. Devereux." 
 
 " Did he ? He will be here then, no doubt, very soon. Now 
 do come and see if you can make any two of these people agree." 
 
 " You set me a difficult task ! " said Rosalind, with a laugh. 
 
 She came to the rescue, however, and, leaving her to pour oil 
 on the troubled waters. Miss Champion moved down the room 
 to where Lacy still lingered at the piano. 
 
 " Won't you sing for us ? " she asked, touching him lightly 
 with her fan. " It is not allowable to come to a business meet- 
 ing and do nothing. Have you heard the confusion over yon- 
 der? I think the best plan will be to elect a president, and 
 make everybody abide by his or her decision." 
 • "I am quite sure of that," said he, " and I beg leave to cast 
 my vote at once for yourself. What have you decided to do ? — 
 Act a play ? " 
 
 "I believe so — almost every one is anxious for that. But 
 the question is, what play ? — and you know there will be a bat- 
 tle-royal over the characters." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. " I know indeed ! If you want 
 to sound the hidden depths of people's natures, act a play with 
 j them — above all, give them a character which they fancy be- 
 neath their powers. I wonder if you have an idea what a har- 
 vest of hatred you are going to reap in return for your efforts as 
 a social reformer ? " 
 
 " Why should you try to discourage me so ? It is very un- 
 
1.41 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 kind. But if people are offended, let them go ! I shall have 
 you left — and Rosalind and Mr. Severn." 
 
 *' A small dramatic company," said Lacy, smiling. " But I 
 have a suggestion to make. Instead of one of those five-act 
 plays which you were all discussing, choose a short, three-act 
 comedy, distribute the characters impartially as you think best, 
 leaving out you and me altogether." 
 
 " But why ? " asked Miss Champion. Her face fell absurdly. 
 " I am not so disinterested as you seem to think," she said. " I 
 have a great desire to act myself." 
 
 " Do you think I meant to propose that you should not do 
 so ? I am sure j^ou will act excellently, and I am selfish enough 
 to want you to act with me. When they have finished their 
 play, let us then give some graceful little comedietta like the 
 'Morning Calk'" 
 
 "That is an admirable programme; but what will the rest 
 say?" 
 
 "Don't ask them to say any thing. Make a bold coup 
 cVttat and constitute yourself manager. Then announce what 
 you mean to do." 
 
 " You must support me," she said, with a laugh. 
 
 "With all my heart," he answered. "And j'onder comes 
 some one who will support you also, no matter what act of des- 
 potism you may choose to execute." 
 
 " Who is that ? " she asked ; but the next instant she saw 
 who he meant. Basil Severn was entering the room with Mr. 
 Devereux. They paid their respects to Mrs. Champion, then 
 crossed the floor to where the younger and fiiirer hostess stood. 
 
 " You are very late," she said, after she had greeted them 
 both. " How do you know what important matters might have 
 been transacted in your absence ? Mr. Devereux, I hope you 
 mean to help us ? I am sure you can if you wilk" 
 
 " I place myself at your command," replied Devereux. " But 
 it is only fair to tell you that my theatrical experience is very 
 limited." 
 
 " You have played, however, have you not ? " 
 
THEATRICALS— AXD OTHER MATTERS. 145 
 
 "A few times. I undertook to murder the character of 
 Charles Surface once — and again to personate Dazzle.'''^ 
 
 " Ah, I am sure you will do admirably," she said, complacent- 
 ly. Then she turned to Basil . " Can you suggest any three-act 
 comedy in which you would like to take a part ? " she asked. 
 *'Mr. Lacy and I have arranged a programme. It is only neces- 
 sary now to find a play ^nd cast the characters." 
 
 After this an animated discussion ensued. Devereux, who 
 felt not the faintest interest in the matter, bore the part which 
 Fate had assigned him with cheerful philosophy, and it was he 
 who finally suggested one of Scribe's comedies, which seemed 
 to suit the occasion better than any thing else which had been 
 jDroposed. " We must get it at once," said Miss Champion, 
 and Lacy added the name to a long list which he had already 
 made out. Basil took the paper from his hand and glanced 
 over it. 
 
 " These must be ordered immediately," he said. " Until 
 they arrive we can do nothing more." 
 
 " I wish you would make a statement to that effect," said 
 Miss Champion. 
 
 Mr. Severn obeyed. He advanced into the middle of the 
 
 • floor, requested silence, and informed the assembled company 
 
 that a list of plaj^s had been made out, which would be ordered 
 
 speedilj', after which they would be called upon to decide what 
 
 they desired to act. 
 
 " You need not have added that," said Helen when he re- 
 turned to her side. " I don't mean to have such a gathering as 
 this again. We will choose a comedy, and then we will simply 
 let the people to whom we assign the characters know what 
 they are to play." 
 
 " Very likely, then, they will simply let you know that they 
 do not fancy the characters assigned, and do not care to play 
 them." 
 
 ''^NHmporte ! " she laughed. " We shall do very well, I dare 
 say. Now let us have some music. Mr. Devereux, go and bring 
 Rosalind. She must sing." 
 
146 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 Mr. Devereux went — nothing loath. He had the qnick eye 
 of a societj-man, and, the moment he entered the Champion 
 drawing-room, he had seen that there was but one woman in it 
 worth any attention. That woman was Rosalind, looking fair as 
 her namesake of Ardennes, in her fleecy white muslin and the 
 delicate tints of rose about her. He went up to her now — amused 
 to see how listlessly she was enduring rather than receiving the 
 attentions of one or two Stansbury gentlemen. Champion, on 
 his part, had fallen into the hands of a very livelj'' 3"Oung lady 
 across the room, who evidently had not the slightest idea of re- 
 linquishing him. 
 
 Rosalind saw Devereux approach before he reached her, and 
 the listlessness vanished instantly from her face. Animation 
 waked to lustrous beauty the lovely blue-graj'' eyes, and bright- 
 ened the carmine on her cheeks till it matched the roses in her 
 hair. She turned her shoulder deliberately on her faithful at- 
 tendants, and greeted him with the most radiant of smiles. 
 
 " I thought you did not mean to come to let me thank you 
 for your partridges, and tell you how much I enjoyed them," she 
 said, when he reached her side. " You may frighten my horse 
 again any afternoon you choose." 
 
 " Thank you very much for the permission," he answered. 
 " But I hope I shall never be so awkward again. I am glad you 
 enjoyed the birds — you must let me send my game-bag to you 
 hereafter. It will give me an object in shooting besides that of 
 killing time." 
 
 "You are too good — I don't want to be selfish. But do j^ou 
 only shopt to kill time ? " 
 
 " Only for that — and a little, perhaps, for the sake of the 
 sport. One must do something, you know." 
 
 " Stansbury is certainlj'- a very dull place," said she, candidl3% 
 
 " Any place is dull to a man with few acquaintances, and no 
 occupations," he replied. I assure you I am not inclined to find 
 fault with Stansbury. It has one or two attractions which would 
 redeem a very Sahara of dullness." 
 
 " Such as amateur theatricals ? " asked she, laughing. " How 
 
TnEATPJCALS— AND OTHER MATTERS. 147 
 
 sorrj I am for you ! How good it is of you, to submit to be 
 bored with the smiling serenity of a martyr ! " 
 
 " You forget that boredom — like every other form of martyr- 
 dom — occasionally has its rewards," said he, looking straight 
 into her eyes as no Stansbury man ever looked. " I am being- 
 rewarded now." 
 
 " How delightful it is to find a man who knows how to pay a 
 compliment ! " thought Rosalind, with a growing sense of grati- 
 fication. But she was careful to give no expression to the feel- 
 ing. Though she lacked society training, she had innate tact 
 enough to hold her own even with Mr. Devereux. 
 
 " You are very kind," she said, quietly ; " more kind than sin- 
 cere, I am afraid. But have you really pledged yourself to the 
 theatricals ? Do you mean to take a part ? " 
 
 " I have pledged mj'self to take any part which Miss Cham- 
 pion assigns me ; but I may be allowed to express a hope that 
 she will cast me to play w^ith you." 
 
 " I should like that," said Rosalind, frankly. " I am sure 
 you play well — and, in amateur theatricals, bad playing is the 
 rule." 
 
 " You must not think that I am the brilliant exception to 
 prove the rule," said he. " I might allow you to do so — for none 
 of us object to being overrated — if you were not destined so 
 soon to find me out. — But I am neglecting the mission on which 
 I was sent," he added, suddenly. " I see IMiss Champion is 
 shaking her fan at me. I came to beg that you will sing for us. 
 I hope 3"our throat is well enough to allow you to do so ? " 
 
 " My throat is quite well," she answered, " but, honestly, my 
 singing is not worth listening to. It does well enough for Stans- 
 bury, but I had rather not sing for you." 
 
 " Why not for me ? Do you take me for a nightingale or a 
 critic ? " 
 
 " You may be either or both, for aught I know to the con- 
 trary. I do know, however, that you are accustomed to hear- 
 ing cultivated voices, and therefore I prefer you not to hear 
 
 mine." 
 
148 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " I will not press the point, if you would really rather not 
 sing," said he, " but, if that is your only objection, I must dis- 
 claim any such critical knowledge of music as you attribute to 
 me." 
 
 She raised her shoulders lightly. " Ah, I know ! " she said. 
 " Besides, it docs not matter. Yonder is Linda Berry going to 
 the piano. She will please the company better than I can. She 
 sings American ballads — horrid things that I have culture enough 
 to despise." 
 
 " Need we stay and listen to h^r, then ?" he asked. " The 
 night is lovely. Won't you go out on the piazza and look at 
 it?" 
 
 Rosalind hesitated. It was an entrancing prospect that 
 of going out in the moonlight with this pleasant companion, 
 but — there was James ! What would he think ? Whatever he 
 might think, she decided, after a moment, to go — and this deci- 
 sion was not taken in a spirit of recklessuess, but of sober calcu- 
 lation. It might be absolutely necessary to her future plans 
 and prospects for her to encourage Devereux's attentions, and 
 fan into something more than liking, the — well, the appreciation 
 he showed her. If that lease should be proved — Rosalind's 
 thoughts did not go definitely farther than this, but she rose 
 and moved toward a window which was open near them. 
 
 "The night is lovely," she said. "It seems a pity not to 
 enjoy it." 
 
 The night was truly lovely. A great, silver moon was hang- 
 ing in the dark-blue heaven, in the midst of fleecy clouds, and 
 the air had that softness which is peculiar to the autumn. Over 
 the lawn in front of the house, dark shadows lay, and the half- 
 stripped branches of the trees stood out with delicate effect 
 against the sky. While Rosalind and her companion admired 
 this scene — no doubt with pleasure and profit to themselves — the 
 gay voices talked and laughed within, and a merry clatter of 
 tongues came out to the silent night which was filling earth 
 with the beauty of its pageantry. Champion still performed his 
 share of social duty, but his face began to wear a look which his 
 
THEATFJCALS— AND OTHER MATTERS. 149 
 
 mother and sister both knew well, though it would have been 
 scarcely perceptible to one not familiar with his countenance. 
 The firmly-cut mouth only set itself a little more sternly when 
 he was not speaking, and the dark, straight brows drew a shade 
 closer together. It would be difficult to express how strongly he 
 disaijproved of flirting — especially of a woman who flirted with 
 other men after she had engaged herself to marry one — and it 
 was more disapproval than jealousy which hardened his face 
 now. He did not fear that Rosalind was in love with Devereux, 
 but he felt that she was acting in a manner unworthy of herself, 
 and a shade of disgust mingled with his displeasure. 
 
 The evening wore on. Miss Berry having exhausted her 
 repertoire^ was succeeded by others at the piano, and finally 
 Lacy's melodious tones — he had a remarkably good and remark- 
 ably well-cultivated voice — floated out on the moonlit night in 
 the exquisite " I arise from dreams of thee." Miss Champion 
 played his accompaniment, and, when the song was ended, she 
 looked up with a smile. 
 
 " How beautiful that is ! " she said, " and how well you sing ! 
 It must be charming to have such a poem addressed to one ! I 
 suppose you often address your poems to Madeleine — do you 
 not ? " 
 
 " I address them, or rather, they address themselves, to any 
 subject which inspires me," he answered. " I am no Shelley, 
 alas ! but I have been tempted all night to put you in a poem. 
 May I do so ?— and shall I call it ' The Fair Odalisque ? ' " 
 
 " Are you in earnest ? " she cried, with sparkling eyes. " I 
 should be delighted! But you can't mean it, I am sure." 
 
 " I do mean it most sincerely," he answered. " Since you are 
 kind enough to admire my verses, why should they not be dedi- 
 cated to you ? " 
 
 "I admire them inexpressibly ^"^ said she, with emphasis. 
 " But then, I am not alone in that. Everj^body is enthusiastic 
 about your writings — prose as well as poetry. I suppose a hun- 
 dired people asked me this summer all about you, and I felt very 
 proud of having a genius for a friend." 
 
150 A QUESTION OF IIOXOK. 
 
 " Not much of a genius," said he, with a faint, self-scornfal 
 laug-h. Yet the flattery soothed his ruffled pride. He knew 
 perfectly well the intellectual weakness of the woman who spoke 
 — her absolute incapacity for forming an intelligent critical opin- 
 ion — yet the admiration which she expressed pleased and grati- 
 fied him. A vague consciousness came to him that perhaps this 
 was the ideal comforter, after all. A household critic might 
 prove an undesirable and uncomfortable thing. A man's home 
 should be an asylum from criticism ; the divinity of his hearth 
 and heart should be one who took his genius for granted, and 
 admired rather as a matter of faith than of judgment. 
 
 " What do you mean by saying ' not much of a genius ? ' " 
 asked Miss Champion, with a melting glance. " You should not 
 doubt your great powers. It is really wrong to do so ! " 
 
 "You inspire me to believe in them," said he, with tender 
 gallantry. 
 
 In this strain the conversation continued for some time. 
 Lacy meant no disloyalty to Madeleine. He was simply enter- 
 taining himself after an old fashion, which of late he had rather 
 laid aside. Perhaps his volatile nature had grown a little tired 
 of undeviating constancy, or perhaps poor Madeleine in her 
 straightforward simplicity had wounded his vanity more deeply 
 than she knew that evening in the cedar summer-house. At all 
 events he was quite ready to receive the homage of this " fair 
 odalisque" in golden silk and crimson roses — and to repay it in 
 kind. 
 
 Basil, looking on, felt a suspicion which he would not acknowl- 
 edge to himself, that things were not quite right. He did not 
 like to own that he was jealous of Lacy — who was engaged to 
 Madeleine ; yet he felt sure that, if any other man had so devoted 
 himself to Helen Champion, he should have been jealous of him. 
 Yet he was too loyal to blame the young lady for accepting 
 these attentions. What he would have thought if he had known 
 how deliberately she was encouraging them, it is not worth 
 while to conjecture. Our code of morality and good taste is 
 generally an elastic one, and fitted to stretch over the short- 
 
THEATEICALS— AND OTHER MATTERS. 151 
 
 comings of those whom we like or admire. It will be seen, how- 
 ever, that matters were not all tranquillity in this first of the 
 gatherings which were meant to reform Stansburj society. 
 
 There was some slight change in affairs when two or three 
 servants entered with trays of refreshments. Pyramids of ice- 
 cream and piles of frosted cake are not only good things in them- 
 selves, but they serve admirably to relieve the tedium of an 
 evening when people have nothing definite to do beyond talking 
 to each other. Miss Champion came forward to assist in serv- 
 ing her guests, and, having made Basil very useful, rewarded him 
 by taking her ice-cream in an alcove with him. It was the only 
 pleasant hour of the evening to the young man. The window 
 was open behind them, and a fragrance of honeysuckle came in 
 with the silver moonlight ; draping curtains in front shut them 
 partially from view, and gave a picture-like effect to the lighted 
 room and clustered groups beyond. Did it matter that the 
 voice by his side talked nonsense, while the face that looked at 
 him was fair, and the eyes full of alluring light ? There are some 
 things on earth, if not in heaven, which will always remain be- 
 yond the ken of any philosophy — and the manner in which a 
 sensible man will tolerate and admire the silliness of a pretty 
 woman is one of them. 
 
 Rosalind, meanwhile, was taking her ice-cream with Deve- 
 reux still by her side, for Champion held resolutely aloof. When 
 she came in from the piazza, a glance had showed her the state 
 of her lover's feelings, but she took the matter philosophically. 
 There was time enough to soothe him — she could not afford to 
 be distrait just now, and weaken the impression she had made 
 on Devereux. In highest beauty and brightest spirits, there- 
 fore, she talked ; and Champion, without seeming to glance at 
 her radiant face, saw and marked it all. 
 
 There were one or two dances to the piano after this. Miss 
 Berry playing waltzes and galops very obligingly. " Will you 
 dance ? " Devereux asked Rosalind ; but she shook her head 
 reluctantly. This was more than even she dared venture. It 
 would have been delightful to float round the room on this 
 
152 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 handsome stranger's arm, but James ^vould never forgive 
 tliat^ she felt quite sure ; and she was not ready to resign the 
 substance for a shadow which, after all, might prove only a 
 shadow. 
 
 When the hour for departure arrived, when the assembly 
 was dispersing, and the last good-nights had been exchanged, 
 Champion came up and offered his arm to her ; but he did so in 
 almost perfect silence. For the sake of his peace of mind it is 
 to be hoped that his eye was not quick enough, or his observa- 
 tion close enough, to miss one of the pink perfumy roses from 
 her hair, else he might naturally have identified it with one 
 w^hich Devereux held in his hand when they passed him stand- 
 ing on the piazza lighting his cigar. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AT THE LODGE. 
 
 The day following Miss Chamj^ion's " evening " was over- 
 cast, as days sometimes are after lovely moonlight nights, even 
 in October. A south wind had brought hazy clouds, and rheu- 
 matic people were conscious that there was dampness in the 
 air. Notwithstanding this fact, it might be some days before 
 the dampness culminated in rain — so Madeleine thought as she 
 walked in front of the Lodge after breakfast. Mary had not 
 appeared at that meal, and a ttte-d-ttte with Mrs. Ingram was 
 never agreeable to Miss Severn ; indeed, so much the reverse, 
 that she was glad to end it by taking her hat and strolling out 
 as soon as they left the breakfast-room. Few things can be 
 conceived more wearying than an absolutely vapid and negative 
 companion ; but Madeleine's gentle courtesy could have borne 
 with the vapidity if that had been all. It was not all, however. 
 Like most negative people, Mrs. Ingram could be positive occa- 
 sionally in her dislikes, and she heartily disliked this friend and 
 
AT THE LODGE. I I53 
 
 cousin whom the heiress loved and trusted. She made no active 
 display of this feeling, but it vras clearly patent to the subject 
 of it, as such feelings alwaj^s are. Love may conceal itself, but 
 aversion has a language that not even the veriest dullard can 
 fail to read. " Poor woman ! she is envious and jealous," 
 Madeleine thought, as she met the cold glance and detected the 
 venom lurkins: under the measured tones. She made not the 
 sliorhtest diflference in her own manner, but this mornino* — as on 
 many other occasions — she found it tiresome to talk platitudes 
 and commonplaces to an uninterested companion, and she was 
 glad to escape. 
 
 She strolled sloAvly along toward the gate with her hat in 
 her hand — there being a gray veil of cloud over the sun — her 
 pretty brown hair coiffed in the graceful knot which suited the 
 classic arch of her head, and her soft brown eyes gazing somewhat 
 wistfully before her. Not a beautiful woman like Rosalind, nor a 
 magnificent woman (considering a woman in the light of a fine 
 animal) like Helen Champion ; but one whose charm had the 
 power of strong individuality, and whose bravery was veiled in 
 softness, as a woman's courage should always be. Just now her 
 heart was conscious of a sense of heaviness. She was thinking 
 of Lacy, and more than once she sighed. "Was I unkind?" 
 she thought. " Am I a blunderer, trampling heedlessl}^ on the 
 sensibilities of others ? Ah ! how hard it is to remember that 
 we must take people as they are — as God has made them — and 
 not try to remodel them according to our poor, presumptuous 
 ideas ! " 
 
 These were not cheerful reflections, vet she was so absorbed 
 in them that she did not notice the sound of a horse's hoofs on 
 the hard, graveled drive, until she walked slowly around a curve 
 and found herself facing Basil and Roland. The young man 
 smiled at her start, reined up his horse, and dismounted. 
 
 " T am glad to meet you," he said. " It was to see you 
 more than any thing else that I was coming in." Then he laid 
 his hand on her shoulder, and, stooping, kissed her brow — an un- 
 usual caress on his part, for the Severns were not a demonstra- 
 
154 I A QUESTION or noxoR. 
 
 tive fiimily. " What is the matter ? " he said. " You look 
 pale, and a trifle sad." 
 
 " I think 3-0U must be mistaken," said Madeleine. " The 
 overcast day makes every thing look a little sad. I am like the 
 leaves, perhaps, and need sunlight to brighten me. You are 
 the sunlight," she added, slipping one hand in his arm and 
 clasping the other over it. " I am very glad to see you, but 
 why have you come ? " 
 
 *' Don't I ahvaj^s come to you when anything worries me ?" 
 answered he, with a slight laugh. " I often feel ashamed to 
 think how I cast my cares and annoyances on your shoulders. 
 Women ought to be shielded from such things, but it has always 
 been the other way with you, and habit is strong." 
 
 " I hope that habit will always be strong with you," said 
 Madeleine, in her sweet voice. " It seems to me that the wom- 
 an who does not help others — who does not take on herself as 
 far as she can the troubles of others — has scarcely a right to 
 live. People talk of a woman's rights. I think that is the 
 chief of her rights — to share the burdens of those she loves. 
 What is your burden now ? " she asked, glancing up in his 
 face. 
 
 " Not a burden — rather a doubt," he answered. " After 
 leaving Mrs. Champion's last night I had quite a talk with Dev- 
 ereux, and we went over that business of the lease in all its 
 bearings. It is a staggering thing sometimes to hear a matter 
 with which you have fancied yourself perfectly familiar, and 
 with regard to which your convictions are entirely settled, pre- 
 sented clearly and impartially from the opposite view. I begin 
 to think that he may be right and Champion wrong — I begin to 
 think that it might be well to compromise." 
 
 " Is it possible ! " said Madeleine. She was so much surprised 
 that for an instant this was all she uttered Then she said, 
 " So Mary's interests are, after all, seriously threatened ? " 
 
 " Very seriously threatened, as far as I can judge," Basil 
 answered. " Champion thinks I am wrong, but Champion is by 
 nature a very obstinate partisan. I believe Devereux is honest, 
 
AT THE LODGE. I55 
 
 and I believe bis case is a strong one. TLe lease was never 
 registered, but he has a witness w^ho can swear positively to his 
 grandfather's handwriting, and the handwriting of Shelton, who 
 held the property. One thing is certain, Mr. Carlisle was not as 
 careful as he ouo-ht to have been about lookino- into the titles 
 when he bought the land. Necessarily, in the course of years, 
 it passed through many hands, but a thorough business-man goes 
 back to the fountain-head. He did not do so. Hence this 
 claim." 
 
 " And you think it ought to be compromised ? " said Made- 
 leine. 
 
 " I am not so positive as that. I told you it was a case of 
 doubt. But I am inclined to think so. Devereux is willing: — 
 
 c5 
 
 indeed, I may say anxious — to compromise, and of course, if a 
 decision is given in his favor, Mary loses the whole. Tell me 
 your opinion. Champion is as determined as ever to fight the 
 matter out. He firmly believes that General Mansfield sold the 
 property to Shelton in the year 1815." 
 
 Madeleine shook her head. " I cannot advise you," she said. 
 " You must act as you think best. I know Mary will say the 
 same thing. She throws all the responsibility on your shoulders, 
 and she is too generous as well as too just to blame you, what- 
 ever happens. But I somehow think " — here she paused and 
 looked up in his face with an expression half-sad and half-amused 
 — " that there will be no compromise needed. Do you remem- 
 ber what you said w^hen Mr. Devereux came ? I begin to be- 
 lieve you were right." 
 
 " Do you mean that he wishes to marry Mary ? " 
 " Yes, I mean that. I may be wrong, but I think so." 
 " And she ? " Basil stopped short, and stood with the keen- 
 est interest in his face. " Can it be possible she will think of 
 such a thing ? " 
 
 " My poor Mary ! " said Madeleine, with a thrill of tenderest 
 pathos in her voice. " She was talking of him last night, and I 
 thought I could perceive that, unconsciously to herself, he has 
 touched her fancy, which, with a woman, is the first step toward 
 
15 6 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 touching her heart. From Marj's affliction and isolation, her 
 heart will be all the more easily touched by one so attractive as 
 we must acknowledge Mr. Devereux to be. Whether he is 
 worthy of her or not, that is another question." 
 
 " I wonder if you are right ? " said Basil, and, notwithstanding 
 the fact that this had been his own suggestion, surprise seemed 
 his predominant emotion. After a moment, he went on with 
 energy : " There is no need to question whether he is worthy of 
 her. No man is worth}'- of the vyoman whom he marries solely 
 as a matter of convenience. If Devereux wishes to marry Mary, 
 it can only be for that reason. I don't consider him the design- 
 ing fortune-hunter that I suspected him to be at first. I recog- 
 nize the fact that, as a man of the world, this may seem to him 
 the best solution of the difficulty. With manj'- women such an 
 arrangement would answer very well, but — but Mary is not like 
 other women to us, Madeleine." 
 
 " No," said Madeleine. " I feel as you do — such a thing, con- 
 nected with Mary, seems like a desecration. But we must hope 
 for the best. ]\Ir. Devereux spoke of her the other night with an 
 unusual degree of appreciation. Perhaps she may touch his 
 heart." 
 
 Basil looked doubtful. " Men like Devereux have not, as a 
 rule, hearts that are easily touched," he said. " He has evi- 
 dently amused himself with many women — if his reputation had 
 not preceded him I should know that from the manner in which 
 he speaks of them. I don't mean that he deals in hackneyed 
 cynicism, but there is a tone of contemptuous lightness running 
 through all that he says of the sex, which is very significant. 
 And this reminds me," the speaker went on, " that I think he is 
 inclined to amuse himself with Rosalind. It might be well if 
 you warned her, Madeleine, that he is not the kind of man whose 
 attentions she should encourage." 
 
 " Does she need the warning ? " asked Madeleine. " Surely 
 now that she is engaged — " 
 
 " I am afraid her enc^a2:ement has not altered Rosalind," said 
 Basil. " She seems as much disposed to flirt as ever. She flirted 
 
AT THE LODGE. 157 
 
 with Devereux last night to a degree which made her the object 
 of general attention and the subject of general remark." 
 
 " How sorry I am to hear it ! " said Madeleine, with a look 
 of distress in her eyes. " Such conduct is so unworthy and so 
 unkind; Rosalind lowers herself, while she is paining as faithful 
 and disinterested a lover as ever woman had. What did Mr. 
 Champion think of her ? " 
 
 " That is more than I can say. He looked as black as mid- 
 night, and I have no doubt expressed his disapprobation when 
 he was taking her home, but I was not there to hear it. If she 
 *s not careful she will wear out his patience : he is not a man to 
 endure such treatment beyond a certain point. — Well, I must go 
 now." They had been walking slowly onward, and reached the 
 gate at this moment. " Give my love to Mary, but it is not ne- 
 cessary to say any thing to her about the compromise at present. 
 We can wait a little longer, and see what turn aflfairs will take." 
 
 " But you have not told me any thing about yourself yet," 
 said Madeleine, laying her hand on his shoulder as he was turn- 
 ing to mount Roland. " I may be wrong, but I think you have 
 something you meant to tell." 
 
 " You are mistaken," he answered with a slight increase of 
 color. " I have exhausted my budget. There is nothing else 
 with which I need burden your mind or your heart. I am as 
 right as a trivet. God bless you . Take care of yourself, and 
 good-by ! " 
 
 He kissed her forehead again, then sprang into his saddle 
 and rode off, leaving her quite still in the open gate — stricken as 
 it were into silence. What did he mean ? She felt sure that 
 his last words, his last caress, had some more than ordinary 
 meaning attached to them — but what could it be ? Naturally 
 her mind reverted to Lacy. Did Basil suspect any thing of the 
 subtile estrangement there ? — or was the trouble his own ? " My 
 poor boy ! " she thought with a pang of that vicarious suffering 
 which it falls to the lot of some women to endure all their lives. 
 "How hard it seems that he should have given his heart to such 
 a woman as Helen Champion ! " 
 
158 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 Basil, on his part, was thinking as he rode away that his 
 courage had failed at the critical moment, that he could not tell 
 Madeleine how Lacy had made himself conspicuous the evening 
 before by his devotion to Miss Champion. " She will hear it 
 soon enough," he said, grimly. " As for Lacy, it will not be well 
 for him to attempt any thing like trifling — Heavens what a rid- 
 dle life is ! Now, why should a woman like Madeleine have fallen 
 in love with such a man as that ? " 
 
 The speaker did not consider that the world is full of such 
 enigmas — that he who looks around observantly may find them 
 by the score — and that no one has ever been wise enough to 
 solve for us the least of them. They are part of that great mys- 
 tery which we call life, that burden of sore doubt and misunder- 
 standing, of confused meanings and hidden purposes that only 
 eternity can lift away and nia"ke clear to the puzzled soul. 
 
 When Madeleine returned to the house, she found Miss Car- 
 lisle in the library, where she usually spent her mornings ; looking 
 very fair and fragile, in a white cashmere morning-robe, as she 
 lay on a couch near the fire. She held out her hands with a 
 smile when she heard the light, welcome step which entered. 
 
 " It is you, Madeleine, I know," she said. " How differently 
 you walk from Aimt Ingram or Jessie ! Are you well this morn- 
 ing ? You can't tell what a comfort it is to wake and feel that 
 you are in the house ! " 
 
 " I am always well," answered Madeleine, kissing her. " What 
 should ail me this morning ? But how are you ? Jessie looked 
 doubtful when I asked about you before breakfast, and hinted 
 darkly that you were kept up too late last night." 
 
 " Jessie knows nothing about it," said Mar}^, " I was not 
 kept up too late at all ; and I am quite as well as usual. I sup- 
 pose I shall never be strong — I never have been, you know. 
 What a orood thins: it is on that account that I am rich ! — for, if I 
 were poor, I should be a terrible burden to somebody." 
 
 "You can never, under any possible circumstances, be a bur- 
 den to anybody," said Madeleine, quickly. Somehow those words 
 — the first expression of satisfaction in her wealth which she had 
 
' AT THE LODGE. 159 
 
 ever heard the blind girl utter — struck her strangely and almost 
 painfully coming so immediately after Basil's foreboding ac- 
 knowledgment that her interests were '' seriously threatened." 
 Of course in no case — even granting the worst — would Mary Car- 
 lisle be poor in the literal meaning of the term ; but still that 
 congratulation made Madeleine feel as if she were concealing 
 something which it was the other's right to know. 
 
 " What can I do to amuse you ? " she said, changing the 
 subject. " I am here to play companion. Shall I read to you ? 
 I see some new magazines and novels on the table." 
 
 " One of the magazines has an essay of Gordon Lacy's, so 
 Aunt Ingram told me," said Mary. " Read that." 
 
 Madeleine obeyed, nothing loath. She was an admirable 
 "reader, and Lacy's prose, like his poetry, was full of ease and 
 grace. The style flowed so pleasantly, the pure, delicate English 
 was so well chosen, there was so much of sparkling brightness 
 here and tliere, that it was almost impossible to ask whether 
 there v/as not a certain lack of nervous vigor, and whether the 
 social theories which the v^^riter expounded were sound, or his 
 broadly generalizing criticism always just. 
 
 Certainly, these questions did not occur to the reader or the 
 listener. The fire burned with a pleasant sound on the hearth, 
 the mild, balmy air came in through the open window, and there 
 was a tenderness at Madeleine's heart which echoed in the musi- 
 cal rise and fall of her voice. She w^as blaming herself and ex- 
 alting the writer in a glow of remorseful love and pride. She 
 longed to see him, in order that she might put her self-reproach 
 into words, and make generous amend for every expression of 
 seeming depreciation which she had uttered. 
 
 This longing was so strong that, when a peal of the door- 
 bell suddenly echoed through the house, she laid the magazine 
 down in her lap — almost sure that he of whom she was thinking 
 had come. A man's voice sounded in the hall — a sudden flusfc 
 rose to Mary Carlisle's cheeks. She thought, " It is Mr. Dev 
 ereux ! " and she was right. It was Devereux, not Lacy, who 
 entered the room when the door opened. 
 
160 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 It has already been said that he was a man of unusually 
 quick perceptions, so it chanced that he caught the look of 
 eager expectation — the love-light, as it were, of welcome — shin- 
 ing in Madeleine's eyes, and read aright the disappointment in 
 which that liffht died out. It interested him and wakened his 
 curiosity. Miss Severn, who rose to greet him, had no idea how 
 much her eyes, in one swift second, had betrayed. 
 
 His manner certainly did not enlighten her. He advanced 
 with the ease which always characterized him, and made his 
 apologies for appearing so early. " But I am like the lover in 
 Shelley's serenade," he added, with a smile. " ' A spirit in my 
 feet,' brought me, whether I would or no. How well, by-the- 
 way, Mr. Lacy sang that song last night. Miss Severn ! " 
 
 " He sings very well, I think," said Madeleine, with a con- 
 sciousness that it was odd that Lacy's name should be the first 
 mentioned. " I hope you enjoyed your evening," she went 
 on, remembering what Basil had told her of Rosalind's flirta- 
 tion. 
 
 " Very much indeed," answered Devereux, probably mindful 
 of the same fact. " Miss Champion promises to be an energetic 
 manager, and I think will carry the theatricals through success- 
 fully. Do you not mean to take any part ? " 
 
 She shook her head. " None at all. I do not think that I 
 have any dramatic talent, and I am sure I have no dramatic am- 
 bition." 
 
 " Rosalind will act well," said Mary. " She intends to play, 
 does she not ? " 
 
 " I think she will likely be the star actress — what on the 
 lyric stage is called prima do7ina assoluta — of the company," 
 answered Devereux. *' She is already cast for the leading part 
 in the comedy." 
 
 " And Helen Champion," said Miss Carlisle. " What part 
 
 will she take ? " 
 
 " Miss Champion intends to play an after-piece with Mi 
 Lacy, in which she will share her laurels with no one." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Mary. It was impossible for her not to 
 
AT THE LODGE. Igl 
 
 wonder what Madeleine thoiiglit of this. But Madeleine only 
 looked up with a smile. Neither suspicion nor jealousy en- 
 tered her mind. If it pleased Lacy, there was *no reason 
 why he should not play a dozen after-pieces with Helen 
 Champion. 
 
 " I hope they will extract some amusement from tlie affair," 
 she said. " It really seems to me a laborious pursuit of pleas- 
 ure ; but who can account for tastes ! Are you much of a read- 
 er, Mr. Devereux ? " she added, glancing at the magazine in her 
 hand. " Do you keep up with the current literature of the 
 day ? " 
 
 " I confess, to my shame, that I am very little of a reader," 
 said Devereux, with humility. " I skim the journals, and man- 
 age to know what books are out, but as for reading them — " he 
 paused expressively. 
 
 " How strange ! " said Mary, in her pathetic voice. " If I 
 could read, I should like literature best of aU things ! I often 
 think if I could only take a book and lose myself in it — not be 
 obliged to tax any one else's eyes and throat in my service — 
 pain might be forgotten, and life prove easy. And you, who 
 can read — you do not care for it ! " 
 
 " I did not mean to express quite so much as that," said he ; 
 " but you make me feel how little I have appreciated a great 
 source of enjoyment. But then, one might feel that of almost 
 every thing. In truth, I have lived a life which does not fit one 
 for intellectual pleasures ; the most barren and aimless life in 
 the world, I begin to think— that of a society-man." 
 
 " If you feel that it is barren and aimless, why do you con- 
 tinue to live it?" asked Mary, with the direct frankness which 
 people were good enough to pardon in her. 
 
 " One falls into a groove," he answered, " in which it is less 
 trouble to walk than to rouse one's self and step out of it. ] 
 have never had a motive to rouse me, and I have been an epicu- 
 rean from my birth, liking pleasure, loving ease. If I were ab- 
 solutely a poor man, now — " Here he stopped. " I am tempted 
 to be frank with you," he went on after a moment, addressing 
 
162 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 Mary, yet looking at Madeleine. " Personal details are never 
 in good taste, but it may help you to understand why I am here. 
 I came out of the war with only a moderate fortune, and I lived 
 extravagantly. The result was that my means were soon very 
 much diminished — so much diminished that I was obliged to 
 apply to Mr. Stringfellow, a keen lawyer and old friend of my 
 father's, for legal aid in some pecuniary difficulties. He found 
 my affairs in a desperate state, and, in examining them, he hit 
 upon this matter of the forgotten lease. I shall never forget the 
 expression of his face when he said to me, ' Well, Mr. Devereux, 
 I have found another fortune for you to make ducks and drakes 
 of ! ' The lease had already expired, and he instituted suit at once 
 for the recovery of the property. It went on for two years with- 
 out my troubling myself much about it, but during this past sum- 
 mer I met some people who knew j^ou " — he spoke directly to 
 ^lary — " and they told me so much of you, that I began to feel 
 as if I should like to know you, also. To Mr. Stringfellow's 
 disgust, I determined to come and offer to compromise. I came, 
 and you know the result. Tf the suit goes against me, I shall 
 be a poor man ; but that may be for the best. I have been a 
 good-for-nothing all my life. Perhaps I possess no ability to be 
 any thing else ; but, if there is any power of doing in me, pov- 
 erty ought to bring it out." 
 
 " Poverty must be a terrible thing," said Mary, " though I 
 speak of it as one safely sheltered talks of tempests. How 
 would you learn to struggle with it after such a life of careless 
 ease ? I begin to think with you that the claim should be com- 
 promised." 
 
 A sudden flush rose to Devereux's face. " You cannot do me 
 the injustice of supposing that I spoke of myself with any ref- 
 erence to that, with any idea of touching your compassion ! " he 
 said. " I must beg you to believe — " 
 
 Mary lifted her hand w^ith a slight silencing gesture. " I do 
 you no injustice," she said, softly. " I believe that you have 
 thought of me more than of yourself ; but you must not quarrel 
 with me if, in turn, T think of you a little." 
 
AT THE LODGE. 1G3 
 
 "Quarrel with you!" said Devereux, touched by the sweet- 
 ness of her words and smile. " You know that is impossible. 
 But I cannot permit you to think of me in such a way. I am a 
 man, though a good-for-nothing one. I shall do well in any 
 event." 
 
 " You cannot be sure of that," said Mary, with a serious air. 
 Then, hearing the rustling sound of Madeleine's dress as the lat- 
 ter suddenly rose, she turned to her. " Where are you going ? " 
 slie asked quickly. 
 
 " Only to meet Rosalind, who is coming toward the house," 
 answered Madeleine. " No doubt she wishes to see me. I 
 shall be back presently." 
 
 " Bring her with you," said Mary. " Mr. Devereux and her- 
 self can compare notes of the last night's entertainment, and we 
 can listen." 
 
 Madeleine said nothing — she did not even glance toward Dev- 
 ereux to see how he received this suggestion — as she crossed the 
 floor, and passed out of the open window, through which she had 
 perceived Rosalind approaching; She was possessed by a feeling 
 of angry contempt so unusual, that it almost startled her. It is 
 impossible to say whether this feeling was most strongly directed 
 against Rosalind or Devereux, or whether it was shared equally 
 between them. She felt an instinct approaching to a conviction 
 that their meeting at the Lodge was not altogether an accident 
 — and if it w^ere arranged, there was an air of duplicity about it 
 which made her heart stir with a hot sense of indio-nation. If 
 they wanted to flirt, had they not honor enough to do it openly 
 and brave the consequences ? This was what she thought as 
 she swept by Devereux with disdain, and stepped out on the 
 piazza to meet Rosalind. 
 
 That young lady was looking quite as lovely as usual, as she 
 advanced tow^ard the house. Nothing that could possibly hap 
 pen ever disturbed Rosalind ; unless, indeed, it happened tc 
 herself. The misfortunes, the anxieties, the troubles of others, 
 caused no ripp.e on the smooth surface of her content and self- 
 complacency. Not even a recollection of the pain she had in- 
 
164 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 flicted on Champion marred her calm. She was not cruel, as 
 some women are, for the very love of cruelty ; but she was en 
 tirely absorbed in herself, and wrapped in egoism like a garment 
 
 She looked a little surprised as Madeleine descended the 
 piazza-steps to meet her. " Good-morning," she said, with her 
 light, rippling laugh. " I did not know that there was a watch- 
 tower here, from which you observed the approach of visitors. 
 How is Mary to-day ? " 
 
 " She is as usual," replied Madeleine, with a strain of cold- 
 ness in her voice. " But she is occupied just now, so I came 
 out to meet you, thinking most likely you wanted specially to 
 see me." 
 
 " Not at all," said Rosalind, quietly. " I only walked out 
 because the morning was pleasant and I had nothing to do at 
 home. If Mary is occupied — but how strange that Mary should 
 be occupied ! I did not know that she ever attended to business 
 or any thing of that kind." 
 
 " She is not attending to business," said Madeleine ; " a vis- 
 itor is with her. If you will come into the drawing-room, or up 
 in m}'^ room — " 
 
 " No, thanks," interrupted Rosalind. " The open air is much 
 pleasanter. We can walk here until the important visitor is 
 gone. I should like to see Marj^" 
 
 " We will walk in the garden, then," said Madeleine. 
 
 She turned in that direction as she spoke, and Rosalind did 
 not demur, though she knew perfectly well who the visitor was. 
 It was no part of her policy to seem to seek Devereux's atten- 
 tions, and she thought as she moved away that the step would 
 have a good effect. He could not now suspect her of having 
 come to meet him. She was consoling herself with this re- 
 flection, when Madeleine spoke. 
 
 " Basil was here an hour or two ago," she said. " He looked, 
 I thought, a little jaded, and not as if he had enjoyed himself 
 last night." 
 
 " I don't suppose he did enjo}^ it," responded Rosalind, cool- 
 ly ; and, being vexed, though she showed no sign of it, she went 
 
AT THE LODGE. 165 
 
 on with the dehberate intention of annoying her companion, 
 " Helen Champion spent the evening flirting with Gordon Lacy. 
 You can imagine whether or not that was pleasant to Basil. I 
 wonder he did not give you a hint that you had better look 
 after your property." 
 
 " Basil knows that I trust Gordon entirely," said Madeleine, 
 in her calm, proud voice. " But how can you, Rosalind, talk of 
 others flirting, when I heard with the deepest regret that you 
 made yourself conspicuous last night by the manner in which 
 you received Mr. Devereux's attentions." 
 
 " I suppose Basil told you that," said Rosalind, nonchalant- 
 ly, " How strange that he had only an eye for my small pecca- 
 dilloes ! Mr. Devereux was the most agreeable man in the 
 room, why should I not have received his attentions? I was 
 very much obliged to him for entertaining me so well as he 
 did.'' 
 
 " The most agreeable man in the room ! " repeated Made- 
 leine. " Where was Mr. Champion ? " 
 
 Rosalind laughed, half mockingly. " James was there," she 
 said, " and would no doubt be infinitely gratified by the compli- 
 ment your question implies. But he is not Darby yet, and I 
 am not Joan — pledged to think him the pleasantest as well as 
 the wisest man in the world." 
 
 " Rosalind, how can you speak so lightly ! " said Madeleine, 
 pausing abruptly, with a glow in her eyes. " How can you be 
 so ungrateful, and — forgive me if I speak plainly — so unfeeling ? 
 Do you think that it is honorable to pledge yourself to marry 
 one man, and then to lower yourself and him by flirting with 
 another ? Basil said I must tell you that Mr. Devereux is not a 
 man whose attentions you ought to encourage, even if you were 
 not engaged. But since you are engaged — " 
 
 *' Since I am engaged," interposed Rosalind, coldly," " I can 
 manage my own affairs, without the assistance of Basil or your- 
 self. I know what I am doing. As for my being ungrateful 
 and unfeeling, that is — stuff! I have never thanked James 
 
 Champion humbly for the honor he did me in asking me to mar* 
 8 
 
/• 
 
 1G6 A QUESTION OF IIOXOE. 
 
 ry liim, and I have no idea that his heart will break because I 
 amuse nij^^self with Mr. Devereux." 
 
 " You cannot deny that he was pained," said Madeleine. 
 " Eyen Basil saw that." 
 
 " He was jealous and angry," said Rosalind, carelessly. 
 " We had rather a stormy scene last night, and I am glad he 
 has gone off to his courts this morning, and will not be back 
 for two weeks. A jealous man is a dreadful bore," pursued the 
 young lady, contemplatively. " I like people who take things 
 lightly and gracefull}'', like Mr. Devereux." 
 
 " There are certainly disadvantages connected with feeling 
 any thing deeply," said Madeleine, with a tone of scorn in her 
 voice. 
 
 After this there was silence. They paced slowly along be- 
 tween the flower-beds all aglow with bright autumn flowers, and 
 the rose-bushes laden with sweet blossoms, yet neither of them 
 heeded these things — Rosalind because she was wondering 
 whether Devereux would go without making an opportunity to 
 speak to her, Madeleine because her thoughts were in a tumult. 
 This was how the world went, she said to herself with unaccus- 
 tomed bitterness. To the light of soul fell the rich gifts of 
 life — the love, faith, devotion, loyalty, which are worth more 
 than the wealth of kings ! While to others — somehow, she 
 could go no farther than this. There was a pain at her heart 
 which she could not or would not analyze. She turned her 
 back on the demon of suspicion, but how could she still the 
 pang that was like a lance ? 
 
 When they reached the end of the walk, they turned to re- 
 trace their steps toward the house. Then Rosalind uttered a 
 slight exclamation which caused Madeleine, who was looking 
 down, to glance up. At the end of the long alley two figures, 
 framed in green, were advancing toward them. One was Miss 
 Carlisle, the other Mr. Devereux. 
 
"OX PLEASURE BENT." . 167 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "ox PLEASURE BEI«"T." 
 
 " So it is Mr. Devereux wlio is Mary's visitor ! " said Rosa- 
 lind, with the least possible accent of triumph. " Odd of you 
 not to mention the fact ! You surely did not fear that I would 
 go in and take his attention by storm, did you ?" 
 
 " You know that I feared nothing of the kind," said Made- 
 leine. " But I did not think that his presence concerned you." 
 
 She spoke quietly, yet she was in truth very much disturbed 
 by Devereux's appearance. It seemed to justify her worst fore- 
 bodings, and changed all the kindly feeling which she had be- 
 gun to entertain for him as Mary Carlisle's possible suitor into 
 dislike and distrust. It may be thought, perhaps, that she was 
 rio-id and strained in her ideas of w4iat constituted honorable 
 conduct, but she only followed in this the tradition of her fam- 
 ily. If Devereux wished to marry Mary Carlisle, was it honor- 
 able of him to amuse himself with the vanity of another woman, 
 and, above all, to make Mary's own house a place of rendezvous ? 
 This was what Madeleine was saying to herself when they met 
 the others, and paused. 
 
 " How do you do, Rosalind ? " said Mary. " It is Rosalind, 
 is it not ? You see we came in search of you, Madeleine. — The 
 day is so pleasant, I thought I should like to enjoy the air." 
 
 "It is pleasant," said Madeleine, "in a sere soft, autumn 
 fashion ; but too damp for you, I am afraid." 
 
 " Don't believe her, Mary — it is not damp at all," said Rosa- 
 lind, with a light kiss. Then she turned to Devereux with her 
 eyes shining under their silken lashes, an enchanting smile dim- 
 pling her cheeks and showing her pearl-like teeth. " How are 
 you this morning, after your arduous exertions last night ? " she 
 asked. " I had no idea of meeting you here." 
 
 "It is a very charming place to be met," answered he. 
 
168 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " May I say that I am glad to see you looking so well ? Evi- 
 dently your social duties last night did not exhaust you." 
 
 " What social duties had you, Rosalind ? " asked Mary. 
 
 "None at all except to be amused," answered Rosalind. 
 " There was a good deal that loas amusing, too, was there not ? " 
 (this to Devereux), " Everybody was so comically selfish and 
 intent upon getting the best of every thing for themselves and 
 their friends. Human nature, regarded from a dramatic point 
 of view, is certainly a study." 
 
 " Is it not a study from any point of view ? " asked Devereux. 
 " But whether it repays one 'for devoting time and attention to 
 it, may be doubted." 
 
 " I should think that, of all things in the world, it would re- 
 pay one best," said Mary. 
 
 " Such an opinion speaks well for your own disposition, and 
 for the friends you have made," said Devereux. "But cj^nical, 
 worldly-wise people like Miss Rosalind Severn and mj^self, can- 
 not agree with you." 
 
 " What reason have you for classing me with yourself as cyn- 
 ical and worldly-wise ? " demanded Rosalind, looking at him w4th 
 lauerhino- eves. 
 
 " I thought you favored me with a good deal of that kind of 
 philosophy on the piazza last night," he answered, half-uncon- 
 sciously lowering his voice a little. 
 
 " Ah," said she, gayly, in the same tone, " but that was all 
 moonshine." 
 
 Talking in this manner, the quartet strolled about the garden 
 for some time — Rosalind and Devereux bearing the chief burden 
 of conversation, Mary joining in occasionally, but Madeleine say- 
 ing scarcely any thing at all. Often she looked back to this 
 morning, and thought of it as the beginning of a time of doubt 
 and trouble. The flowers, the fragrance, the south wind laden 
 with coming rain, all seemed full of the suggestion of anxiety — 
 all seemed to stamp the occasion with picture-like vividness on 
 her memory. 
 
 When they finally returned to the liouse, Mary asked Rosa- 
 
"OX PLEASURE BENT." 169 
 
 lind to comg into the drawing-rooiu and sing for lier. " I do not 
 have so much music as I should like," she said, " and your songs 
 always please me." 
 
 " So I shall have the pleasure of hearing you at last ! " said 
 Devereux to the girl, as she hesitated 
 
 " And the pleasure of laughing at me, very likely," she re- 
 torted. " Only remember, please, that I know quite as well as 
 you do that my voice is nothing." 
 
 *' But at least you will sing," said Mary, v>dien they entered 
 the hall. 
 
 " If you reall}^ wish to hear me," Rosalind answered, turning 
 toward the drawing-room. 
 
 There was no fire in this room, but the air everywhere was 
 mild and warm. Madeleine opened a window, and Devereux 
 raised the lid of the piano. Rosalind sat down and began to. sing-. 
 Slie had a clear mezzo-soprano voice, flexible and sweet, and, 
 though untrained, she sang with taste ; it is not possible, how- 
 ever, to add with feeling. She knew this, and consequently she 
 rarely attempted to render a song which required any thing like 
 pathos. But certain light and graceful melodies she sang charm- 
 ingly. On the present occasion she did herself more than justice. 
 Her gay tones rang out with silvery effect. " Through the wood, 
 through the wood, follow and find me ! " the arch-voice lilted. 
 Devereux stood leaning against the piano, handsome and indo- 
 lent, his eyes on the singer's face. At the other side of the 
 instrument Mary sat, while at the farther end of the room 
 Madeleine's slender figure was outlined against the light, as 
 she stood by the window she had opened. It was the same 
 window at which Devereux had seen her when he came to the 
 Lodge first. He thought of this as he glanced toward her once 
 or twice. 
 
 Presently the song ceased, and compliments were paid ; then 
 other songs followed, and might have continued for some time, 
 if Madeleine, in one of the interludes, had not approached Mary. 
 
 " You will take cold in this atmosphere," she said. " It is 
 very damp. Come over to the library. If Rosalind wishes to 
 
170 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 go on singing, and you wisli to hear her, the doors can be left 
 open." 
 
 " I have not the least desire to go on singing," said Rosalind, 
 rising. " On the contrary, I must say good-morning, and take my 
 way back to Stansbury. Mamma will be wondering what has 
 become of me. — Good-by, Mary — I shall come out soon and 
 spend the day with you." 
 
 " What ! are you going ? " said Mary. " Not before luncheon, 
 surely ? I cannot hear of such a thing ! You must stay — and, Mr 
 Devereux, you will stay also, will j'ou not ? " 
 
 Devereux felt no inclination to decline — especially when 
 Miss Carlisle added, " I will order the pony-carriage afterward, 
 and you can drive Rosalind back to Stansbury." 
 
 " My dear Mary, how kind of you ! " said Rosalind. " But I 
 dislike to trouble Mr. Devereux." 
 
 " The trouble will certainly be terrible," said Devereux, look- 
 ins- at her with a smile. 
 
 They adjourned to the library after this, and found Mrs. 
 Ingram established there. She had come down sjDecially to see 
 Devereux, concerning whom her curiosity was greatly excited ; 
 yet, when Madeleine presented him, she acknowledged the intro- 
 duction very stiflQy. What business had this claimant of Mary 
 Carlisle's rightful property, under the roof of the Lodge, she 
 thought, being one of those quietly venomous people who are 
 esteemed amiable by the many, and are only known by the 
 few. 
 
 " What a charming room this is ! " said Rosalind, sinking 
 into a puffy chair that was a very nest of luxurious comfort. She 
 heaved a heart-felt sigh as she did so. Why was not all this 
 brightness and grace of wealth hers? If it only could be! 
 Already, from a mere day-dream, this idea had grown to a tan- 
 gible desire. She looked at Devereux, who was essaying a few 
 commonplaces in the direction of Mrs. Ingram. How she ad- 
 mired him ! How entirely such a husband, and such a house, 
 would suit her ; would realize all her aspirations and desires ! 
 What would become of Mary in such a case, she did not trouble 
 
"ON PLEASURE BENT." 17X 
 
 herself to consider, further than that no doubt she Vv^ould be very- 
 comfortable with Madeleine and Basil. 
 
 Leaving the group about the library-fire, Miss Severn, mean- 
 while, sought Jessie out in the region of the store-room, and 
 suggested that luncheon should be served as speedily as possible. 
 *' Rosalind and Mr. Devereux are here," she said, " and I think 
 the sooner they go the better — Mary is exerting herself too 
 much." 
 
 " She'll bring on some o' them awful spasms of the heart if 
 she don't take care," said Jessie, anxiously. " I saw her walking 
 in the garden with Mr. Devereux. Miss Madeleine, what is he 
 comin' here for ? " 
 
 - " How can I tell ? " answered Madeleine, who understood 
 perfectly the drift of the question. " Have luncheon, Jessie, at 
 once, and don't forget to put down wine — claret and sherry will 
 answer, I suppose." 
 
 " Is there any thing else you can think of, Miss Madeleine ? " 
 asked Jessie, who always scorned to accept a word of advice 
 from Mrs. Ingram. " It isn't often a gentleman comes to the 
 Lodge, and a body likes to have things nice." 
 
 " You always have them nice," said Madeleine. " I cannot 
 think of anj' thing else to suggest. But pray make haste." 
 
 She went back to the library after this adjuration, and Jessie 
 did make haste. In less than fifteen minutes, Albert, the tall, 
 black, well-trained servant, who had waited in the Carlisle dining- 
 room ever since he was a boy, appeared, and announced that 
 luncheon was ready. 
 
 The dining-room was one of the pleasantest apartments of the 
 Lodge — pleasant and thoroughly well fitted up as they all were 
 — and immediately in front of a deeply-recessed bay-window, 
 draped with lace curtains, stood the round-table, on which was 
 spread a luncheon that was dainty enough to tempt the appetite 
 of a valetudinarian. Devereux was charmed. Like all men, he 
 appreciated excellence in the gastronomic department, and after 
 a week or two at the Stansbury Hotel, he was specially fitted 
 to enjoy this well-served collation, with its carefully-prepared 
 
172 A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 dishes, snowy damask, beautiful china, and fragile glass. The 
 wine, too, w^as good — better than is usually found in a lady's 
 cellar — and altogether he felt like one for whom the gods liaA^e 
 a special care. He had come to this strange region on an abso- 
 lute uncertainty, not knowing what manner of people he should 
 find, and lo ! how Fortune had rewarded his somewhat blunder- 
 ing effort to do the thing which was right ! When, in all his 
 life, had he ever found a more interesting character than that 
 of the blind girl by his side, or a more exquisite face than that 
 of Rosalind, which blushed and dimpled opposite him ? 
 
 When luncheon ended, the pony-carriage was standing before 
 the door, and Rosalind put on her gloves. " Are you ready to 
 play cavalier ? " she said to Devereux. " I do not know how to 
 drive. Madeleine is an accomplished w^hip, but I make it a rule 
 never to learn to do troublesome things. Then somebody else 
 'iiiust do them for me." 
 
 "An excellent rule," said he, smiling; "at least it seems 
 excellent to me just now. In fact, at all times, one of the chief 
 charms of a woman is her helplessness." 
 
 " Why not say her selfishness at once ! " Madeleine thought 
 — ^but such thoughts as these are among the large number that 
 never find expression. She did not know whether Devereux 
 was sincere, or Vvhether he was merely uttering a commonplace 
 of gallantry ; but she was well used to hearing foolish and selfish 
 speeches commended when spoken with infantine sweetness by 
 lips of coral. 
 
 " Good-by again, Mary ! " said Rosalind. " I have spent such 
 a pleasant morning, and am so much obliged to you for sending 
 me home in this delightful fashion ! " 
 
 "Let me bid you good-morning also, Miss Carlisle," said 
 Devereux, " and thank you for your graceful hospitality. Will 
 3^ou forgive the unconscionable length of my visit, and permit 
 me to have the pleasure of seeing you soon again ? " 
 
 " The length of your visit is very easily forgiven," said Mary, 
 as he took her hand, " and I shall be glad to see you when you 
 come again." 
 
"ON PLEASURE BENT." 173 
 
 The soft graciousness of the tone was more than the words 
 — was so much, indeed, that Devereux felt strongly tempted to 
 lift to his lips the delicate hand which lay in his. But, even if 
 they had been alone, he would scarcely have ventured on this — 
 of 30urse with three ladies standing by such a thing was not to 
 be thought of for a moment. He pressed the hand slightly, 
 however, saying as he did so, " Do not blame me if I come too 
 soon." 
 
 " ^Yhen do you exj^ect to return to Stansbury, Madeleine ? " 
 Rosalind was sajdng, meanwhile, in her careless voice. " Hon- 
 estly, I think Gordon needs looking after — which reminds me 
 that Helen Champion is very anxious to know definitely if you 
 will not take a part in the dramatic entertainment with which 
 Stansbury is to be edified." 
 
 " Let her know as definitely as possible that I shall not," 
 answered Medeleine, a little coldly. She would have scorned 
 herself if she had been "jealous " for a moment, but still human 
 nature is only human nature ; and it was with Helen Champion 
 that Lacy's name had been coupled before this. 
 
 Then Devereux led the young lady out and assisted her into 
 the luxurious little phaeton, where she leaned back with an air 
 of extreme satisfaction, while he took his seat by her side, Joe 
 sprang to the rumble behind, and the ponies darted ofi". The 
 air was more damp than it had been an hour or two before, the 
 clouds had gathered more grayly, prospect of rain was more 
 certain ; but there was a sense of exhilaration in the moist fresh- 
 ness of the atmosphere, and the breeze created by their swift 
 motion soon brought a lovely flush to Rosalind's face. 
 
 " Oh, how delicious this is !" she cried, as they swept out of 
 the Lodge-gates. "Pray, Mr. Devereux, if you have no spe- 
 cial reason for going at once to Stansbury, let us take a drive ! 
 Mary never goes out such a day as this, but i" think it is perfect 
 — the southerly wind and cloudy sky of the old hunting-ballad." 
 
 " I shall be delighted ! " said Devereux, who thought that he 
 might be more uncomfortably placed. " I am obedient to your 
 commands. Tell me where to go." 
 
174 A QUESTIOX OF HONOR. 
 
 " Turn here to the right," said Rosalind. This was the road 
 away from the mills, for she had no desire to meet Basil. Dev- 
 ereux obeyed, and with their horses' heads turned in the oppo- 
 site direction from Stansbury, and the southerly wind in their 
 faces, thev bowled alons; over the smooth autumn roads. " Who 
 would not be rich ! " thought Rosalind, with a sense that the 
 transformation scene in her life was about to dawn. The cin- 
 ders of jDOverty, metaphorically speaking, had been her portion 
 during many weary years, but the turn of fortune's wheel had 
 come at last, and she was to be lifted to that position for which 
 she was fitted, and which she felt a calm certainty of adorning. 
 
 It boots not to tell how far this well-entertained pair drove, 
 nor at what hour they returned to Stansbury. To them the re- 
 sult of their morning's visit was no doubt thoroughly agreeable 
 and satisfactory. It was an example of the different effects 
 which may follow the same cause that it was exactly the oppo- 
 site of these things at the Lodge. Miss Carlisle, as Madeleine 
 feared, had been too much excited. The inevitable conse- 
 quences of excitement and exertion followed. After the vis- 
 itors left, she complained of lassitude. " Lie down, and I will 
 read you to sleep," Madeleine said. But there was no such 
 thing as sleep for Mary — though tired, she was still full of ner- 
 vous excitement. By evening she was feverish and suffering 
 ■with those " spasms of the heart " which Jessie had prophesied • 
 and by ten o''clock at night a messenger was galloping into 
 Stansbury for Dr. Arthur. 
 
 He came, to find his patient suffering with her most danger- 
 ous malady — that terrible form of heart-disease known as an- 
 gina pectoris. Madeleine and Jessie were by her bedside — they 
 had shared many a vigil like this before, and knew perfectly all 
 that could be done, and how to do it — while Mrs. Ingram dozed 
 placidly near the fire. Nobody was paying the least attention 
 to her, but she thought that it would not " look w^ell " if she 
 was not visible when the doctor came ; so she established her- 
 self comfortably in a deep chair, placed her feet on a cushion, 
 and said " O dear ! " and " poor child ! " at sympathetic inter- 
 
"ON PLEASURE BENT." I75 
 
 vals, when Mary's agony found expression in shuddering moans 
 and gasps. 
 
 It was agony such as Madeleine had never seen her suffer 
 before, and she was not surprised that Dr. Arthur's face settled 
 into anxious gravity as soon as he approached the bedside. He 
 pent the night there, and only took .his departure in the morn- 
 ing when the paroxysms of pain had at last subsided, and tlie 
 3xhausted girl sank to sleep under the influence of the opiates 
 <\'hich had been freely given. Then he went down-stairs with 
 Madeleine and uttered a few impressive words of warning, while 
 she poured out a cup of coffee for him. 
 
 " Miss Carlisle should avoid all excitement," he said, " and 
 she should be very careful with regard to over-exerting herself. 
 I am sorry to perceive that her attacks become more frequent, 
 and the paroxysms more severe. Her heart is organically af- 
 fected, and, when that is the case, a fatal result may ensue from 
 any imprudence. It might be well for you to let her know this, 
 'Miss Severn, without alarming her more than you can help. It 
 is above all things necessary that she should be prudent, and 
 prudence is not a virtue in which young ladies excel." 
 
 " Mary is not foolish enough to be recklessly imprudent," 
 said Madeleine. She was unstrung from watching and anxiety, 
 and she looked at the doctor with quivering lips and tearful 
 eyes. " Do you really think the heart is organically affected ? " 
 she asked. " Does not that mean danger of — of sudden death 
 at any time ? " 
 
 " It means that in a measure ; but in this disease the chief 
 danger is of acute and prolonged suffering ending in death," an- 
 swered the doctor. " I am sorry to pain you — as I see I do — by 
 such words; but you must understand the case, and the need 
 that there is for prudence and care. » Miss Carlisle may live for 
 many years if she avoids excitement and over-exertion. I can- 
 not impress this upon you too strongly, and you must impress 
 it upon her in any way that seems to you best." 
 
 These were not the last words he spoke, but they were the 
 w^ords that rang in Madeleine's ears after he was gone, and she 
 
176 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 stood for a few minutes at the window watching the mist-like 
 rain which was falling rapidly, and the canopy of clouds that 
 bent low over the sere trees and brown earth. The day was 
 ineffably sad and dreary, or seemed so to her as she looked out. 
 Who has not felt the depression which weighs on mind and body 
 after a night's vigil ? And with this depression already resting 
 like an incubus upon her, she had heard that the life of the gen- 
 tle girl who filled a sister's place in her heart, hung on a thread, 
 that a little excitement, a little exertion, would end all things 
 whatsoever — as far as things can end on earth — for the richl}'- 
 dowered mistress of this pleasant home. 
 
 She felt that she could not trust herself to think of all that 
 was implied in such an idea ; so, hearing Mrs. Ingram's step on 
 the stairs, she turned hastily and left the room. That estimable 
 lady had retired to her slumbers the night before at eleven 
 o'clock, and this was her first appearance since that time. She 
 was looking injured and majestic when Madeleine met her in the 
 hall, for she had called at Mary's door in passing, and Jessie had 
 declined to admit her. 
 
 " I hear that Dr. Arthur has gone. Miss Severn," she said. 
 " I hoped that I should have come down in time to see him and 
 hear what he thinks of Mary's case. I am sure she is not seri- 
 ously ill, and I said so last night if you remember ; but still it 
 is always well to have the opinion of a physician." 
 
 " Dr. Arthur thinks that she will do very well now, provided 
 she is quiet and careful," said Madeleine. " I suppose you have 
 heard that she is asleep at last, after a night of terrible sufFer- 
 mg. 
 
 " Jessie Holme told me so," replied Mrs. Ingram, with severe 
 emphasis on that offending person's name. *' She was afraid that 
 I would disturb Mary if I went to her room — I, who have always 
 been considered one of the best people in the world for a nurse, 
 because, as everybodj'' always saj's, I am so quiet. I was sorry 
 I could not sit up after midnight last night ; but there seemed 
 no need of me, and I feel that at my time of life I must consid- 
 er my own health." 
 
"ON PLEASURE BENT." I77 
 
 " There was no need of you at all," said Madeleine, passing 
 on. She felt too weary and anxious to be quite as courteous as 
 usual, and Mrs. Ingram apjoreciated the change in lier manner. 
 
 " One would really think that Miss Severn was mistress of 
 the house ! " she said, with spiteful emphasis, to Albert, who 
 was bringing in warm buckwheat-cakes when she entered the 
 dining-room. 
 
 Unconscious of the offense which she had given, Madeleine 
 went up the broad, thickly-carpeted stairs to Mary's room. She 
 sent Jessie awaj^, and sat down by the bed on which tlie sick 
 girl lay, heavily sleeping, her fair hair pushed back from the 
 white brow on which every azure vein could be clearly traced. 
 Madeleine gazed at the delicate, unconscious face until tears 
 misted her sight. " My poor Mary ! " she whispered once or twice. 
 She was just then in that morbid state of mind — a verj^ uncom- 
 mon state with her — when feeling, events, foreshadowings, are 
 magnified and distorted beyond their true proportions. She 
 connected the doctor's warning with the fears which had op- 
 pressed her the day before, and to her fancy it seemed as if a 
 double doom was impending over that quiet sleeper — a doom of 
 love and a doom of death. Which was worst? Madeleine 
 said to herself that she could not tell. " To give such a heart 
 as yours to an idle vaurieii who cares only for your fortune ! " 
 she thought. " O my poor Mary, God may be kind if He 
 takes you away from that fate ! " 
 
 These were not cheerful thoughts ; the fire burned low, the 
 room was dark, and presently, through very weariness of spirit, 
 Madeleine fell asleep. She must have slept an hour or two, but 
 she waked at last suddenly with Jessie's hand on her shoulder 
 and Jessie's voice in her ear. 
 
 " I am sorry to disturb you. Miss Madeleine," she said, in a 
 low voice, " but Mr. Lacy is down-stairs." 
 
178 A QUESTION OF HONOR 
 
 OHxlPTER V. 
 
 THE EESTJLT OF PLEASUKE. 
 
 As Madeleine took her way down .to see Lacy, she could not 
 fail to be conscious of a sense of constraint with regard to him. 
 There was no coldness, no jealousy, no injured self-love in this ; 
 it was not that she resented any thing which he had done, oi 
 left undone, but it was simply the inevitable result of certain 
 given causes. Perhaps the depression under which she was 
 lal)oring deepened the effect. At all events she looked like a 
 pale wraith of herself when she glided into the library where 
 Lacy was standing before one of the bookcases, apparently 
 reading the titles of the volumes. 
 
 " Good-morning, Gordon," she said, in her sweet, clear voice ; 
 and he started and turned. 
 
 " Heavens, Madeleine ! — what is the matter ? " he exclaimed. 
 " Is Miss Carlisle dying or dead, that you look so like a ghost ? " 
 
 " She has been very ill indeed, and I suppose I look badly 
 from having been awake all night," Madeleine answered, as he 
 came forward and took her hands. Even then, with his warm 
 clasp on her own and his eyes reading her face, the sense of 
 constraint still oppressed her. It was so subtile that she could 
 not define in what it consisted, yet it was decided enough to 
 keep her from drooping her head on his shoulder, as she might 
 else have done. She made an effort, however, and, looking at 
 him with her usual tender smile, said : " I am very glad to see 
 you. I hoped you would come ; for I do not know when I shall 
 be able to go back to Stansbury." 
 
 " Why not ? " asked Lacy. " I cannot bear that you should 
 be here. It puts 3'ou so far away from me, and I need you 
 so much ! " 
 
 " Do you miss me, then ? " she said ; and despite herself she 
 could not help a little wistfulness, a shade of doubt, in her tone 
 
THE RESULT OF PLEASURE. 179 
 
 a 
 
 Miss 3^ou ! " be repeated. " Wliat a question ! As if I 
 could do any thing else than miss you ! I have come out here 
 this morning because I must have your advice ; are you not my 
 counselor ? Here are some letters I have received. Come to 
 the fire and read them." 
 
 He drew her gently forward and placed her in an arm-chair. 
 It was pleasant to be so cared for, and yet, for the first time, 
 Madeleine felt an intangible sense of want. What was it ? She 
 did not ask herself, she only felt that it would have been better 
 if he had come because he wished to see her, not simply because 
 he desired her advice. But she was that rare thing — a thor- 
 oughly unselfish and unexacting person. This reflection cast 
 no shadow on her manner. She only said : " I fear I am dull 
 and stupid this morning. You must excuse me — Mary has been 
 so ill." 
 
 " You are never dull and stupid," said Lacy. " The idea is 
 absurd ! But I am sorry that Miss Carlisle is so ill, and still 
 more sorry that you were obliged to sit up all night. Was it 
 necessary ? Has she not attendants ? " 
 
 " Attendants — yes," said Madeleine. " But do we leave 
 those whom we love to attendants ? Xow, what are your let- 
 ters about ? Of course you know that my best advice is at 
 your service." 
 
 The letters were produced and examined. Two were from 
 editors, a third from a publisher. One of the first accepted and 
 complimented highly the poem which had been so unfortunately 
 criticised. When she read this Madeleine looked up with a smile 
 of pleasure so sincere that no one could doubt or mistake it. 
 
 " You see I wa:s wrong ! " she said. ^' How glad I am! Now 
 you will forgive me for my blunder, will you not ? — and I shall 
 never try to play critic again." 
 
 The sweet frankness of her tone and glance touched Lac}'' 
 with a sudden sense of admiration and self-reproach. At this 
 moment it was not agreeable to remember that he had come to 
 the Lodge specially to show her how wrong she had been — or 
 at least, how differently others thought. The better part of 
 
180 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 his nature was fast becoming spoiled with success and the de- 
 sire for praise, which is like an unhealthy appetite, that grows 
 with indulgence ; but still he felt dimly that Madeleine was his 
 good genius, that her fearless truth, her tender sincerity, was 
 better for mind and soul than the laudation which had become 
 so necessary to him. 
 
 " I am not sure at all that this fellow is right," he said, 
 touching the letter. " But, since the matter was at issue between 
 us, I thought I would submit it to some one else." 
 
 " And the some one else has decided against me," said Mad- 
 eleine, who was really delighted — it was so pleasant for Lacy to 
 be gratified, and for herself to be proved wrong ! " Dear, I con- 
 gratulate you with all my heart." 
 
 " What a heart it is ! " said Lacy. " The sweetest, the bravest, 
 the best in all the world ! " 
 
 " You don't know all the hearts in the world," said Mad- 
 eleine, laughing. She looked up with her soft glance. Con- 
 straint and doubt fled in one happy moment. She did what 
 many women before her have done — shut her eyes to the weak- 
 ness, and threw over his faults the generous mantle of love. 
 What people take to their hearts, they do not criticise. There 
 is a certain degree of distance alwaj's necessary for that unpleas- 
 ant operation, and Lacy had only himself to blame when he 
 placed himself in a position where Madeleine's judgment was 
 forced to regard him, instead of Madeleine's heart. 
 
 la this manner, that which scarcely deserves the name of an 
 estrangement was ended, and perfect harmony restored. Lacy's 
 wounded amoz^r^^ro^re was soothed, and Madeleine felt that she 
 was magnanimously forgiven. What did that matter ? Peace 
 and trust were sweet — and there was a golden charm about the 
 hour which followed. The autumn rain beat mournfully on the 
 windows, but the firelight within flickered over the apartment, 
 Mrs. Ingram's large Maltese cat dozed placidly on the hearth-rug, 
 and Lacy, thoroughly comfortable in a luxurious chair, talked 
 of himself, his hopes, fears, doubts, and intentions, to his full 
 content. 
 
THE RESULT OF PLEASURE. I3I 
 
 He could readily have spent the morning, if not the day, in 
 this fashion; but an interruption occurred. The door-bell rang 
 sharply, and Albert's voice was heard answering some one's 
 questions with regard to Miss Carlisle, and finally saying that 
 Miss Severn was in the library. 
 
 " Who is that, do you suppose ? " asked Lacy, irritably. 
 
 Before Madeleine could reply, the door opened and Devereux 
 entered. He looked, as usual, self-possessed and graceful, though 
 Miss Severn's manner was chiefly remarkable for its coldness as 
 she rose. 
 
 "Pray pardon me," he said, coming forward, "but I have 
 been extremely concerned to hear of Miss Carlisle's illness — and 
 especially concerned because I fear that I am to blame for it. I 
 called to inquire how she is, without hoping to see any one, but 
 the servant at the door told me that you were here, and I ven- 
 tured to enter, in order to learn her condition, and express my 
 most sincere regret." 
 
 " She is quiet now," said Madeleine. She spoke courteously, 
 but he felt the chill in her voice, as if it had been a draught of 
 cold air. " She spent a terrible night, but, for the present, danger 
 is over, I hope." 
 
 " Danger I — was there danger ? " asked Devereux. He looked 
 shocked. " How can I forgive myself? " he went on, " You do 
 not say so, Miss Severn, but I feel that her having walked out 
 yesterday morning — " 
 
 " Had nothing to do with her illness," interrupted Madeleine. 
 " But she was too much excited. I knew that at the time. She 
 lives so quietly, she is not accustomed to seeing visitors very 
 often, and Rosalind and yourself — " 
 
 " I cannot sufficiently express my concern," said Devereux, 
 as she paused. " If I had suspected such a thing for a moment, 
 nothing would have induced me, for my own gratification, to 
 incur any risk. May I beg you to let Miss Carlisle know how 
 sorry I am, and how earnestly I hope that she may soon be well 
 
 again 
 
 9» 
 
 " I will let her know," said Madeleine, " but I do not think 
 
1S2 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 she will soon be well. She is always very much prostrated 
 after one of these severe attacks, and absolute rest is essential 
 for her." 
 
 Devereux understood the hint, and was a little amused bv the 
 decided manner in which it was given. " When she recovers 
 sufficiently to receive visitors, I hope to express my regrets in 
 person," he said. "But I do not think you need fear that 1 will 
 repeat the same offense. I have received a lesson which I shall 
 not forget." 
 
 " I do not think it was 3^our visit alone," said Madeleine, who 
 felt as if she had been a little rude. " It was the general excite- 
 ment. Will you not sit dow^n ? " she added, with a sudden recol- 
 lection. 
 
 " No, thanks," replied Devereux, bowing again. " I only 
 called to inquire — forgive me for troubling you, and pray express 
 my radst sincere regret to Miss Carlisle." 
 
 He passed out of the room, and Madeleine, with a slight flush 
 on her cheek, turned back to Lacy. 
 
 " I am afraid I was not so courteous as — as I should have 
 been," she said, contritely. " But it was all his fault — his and 
 Rosalind's — that Mary has been so ill." 
 
 " I met them driving into town together in Miss Carlisle's 
 carriage, about four o'clock yesterday afternoon," said Lacy, 
 with an air of lazy amusement. " I thought it lucky Champion 
 was not about. Rosalind looked lovely, and as full of mischief 
 as possible. She certainly is seduisante to an uncommon degree. 
 But what is to be the end of it all ? " 
 
 " Heaven only knows ! " said Madeleine. " Rosalind heeds no 
 remonstrance. As for Mr. Devereux, I distrust him altogether." 
 
 " You and Champion can shake hands, then — but Basil seems 
 to have gone over to the enemy, horse, foot, and dragoons." 
 
 " Basil thinks he means well in a business point of vievv ; 
 and perhaps he may — I cannot tell. But with regard to Mary, 
 I think that he does 7iot mean well. He intends, if he can, to 
 marry her for her fortune, and meanwhile he is flirting with 
 Rosalind in a way that no honorable man would think of doing.'* 
 
THE RESULT OF PLEASURE. 183 
 
 *' According to jour code, few men are honorable," said 
 Lacy, with a slightly uneasy laugh, which may or may not have 
 had its origin in one or two pricks of conscience. 
 
 " You do not think my ideas strained, do you ? " said Made- 
 leine, looking at him with earnest eyes. " It seems to me that 
 if I was in Mr. Devereux's place, I should feel that truth was 
 all the more owing to poor Mary because she might be so easily 
 deceived." 
 
 " Men of the vrorld — " began Lacy, but she interrupted him 
 with an imjDetuosity which was very novel with her : 
 
 " Even ' men of the world ' profess to believe in honor, do 
 they not ? " she asked. " And I am sure you could not call it 
 honorable to try to win a woman's hand solely as a matter of 
 convenience, and then to fail in giving her even the poor com- 
 pliment of faith, in return for such great gifts as her heart and 
 -her fortune ! " 
 
 Lacy shrugged his shoulders. " The rule is the other way," 
 ne said. " But have you any right to talk of men ? Do wom- 
 en act much better ? There is Rosalind ! " 
 
 '' Ah ! " said Madeleine, as if the mention of Rosalind in 
 such a connection was equivalent to a phj^sical pang. Her pride 
 was hurt as well as her heart. One of the Severns ! — one of 
 those whose n.ame has been for generations a synonym for 
 honor, cf whom " all the men were brave and all the women 
 virtuous ! " — that one of these should be at last that weak and 
 volatile thing, a woman whose faith was like a feather ! There 
 is no denying that this stung Madeleine to the quick. " I can- 
 not talk of it ! " she said. " Such conduct is unworthy of any 
 woman — it is doubly unworthy of Rosalind ! I do not know 
 where it will end. I am sorry for jMr. Champion. O Gordon, 
 is not life a puzzle ! " 
 
 " Sometimes it seems particularly so," said Gordon. He 
 spoke feelingly. There was no disguising the fact that sometimes 
 the puzzle was almost too much for him. It had weighed upon 
 him heavily since he saw Madeleine last, and, if the unquiet 
 spirit was laid a little now by the magic of her presence, he 
 
184 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 knew that it would return to torment him when his dark hour 
 came — the dark hour of temptation as well as depression. 
 
 Presently the door-bell rang again, and this time it w^as Dr. 
 Arthur who made his appearance. Then Madeleine's attention 
 was claimed, and Lacy felt that he must go. She went out with 
 him to the piazza, and stood there in her pretty morning-dress, 
 the damp air waving her brown hair, and bringing a faint color 
 to her pale cheeks, while he mounted his horse. Having ^one 
 so, he turned again to say good-by. " Come back to Stans- 
 bury as soon as possible, anhna mia^'' he said, caressingly. 
 " There is no telling what will become of me if jou do not. I 
 cannot live without my counselor." 
 
 " But you can come to see her, can you not ? " the counsel- 
 or asked. 
 
 "And be interrupted by Messieurs Devereux and Arthur! 
 That is not very satisfactory. Promise me that you will come 
 as soon as you can." 
 
 " Of course I will," said Madeleine. 
 
 But she was not destined to fulfill this promise very speedily 
 Mary's illness lasted as she had feared that it would. There 
 were more paroxysms of heart-disease, followed by utter pros- 
 tration ; and so, for two weeks, Madeleine scarcely left the sick- 
 room where Jessie alone shared her labor of watching. The 
 doctor knew that he could depend implicitly on these two, and 
 all other nurses were excluded. Of how the world went on 
 during this time Miss Severn scarcely knew. Basil came daily 
 to inquire about Mary, but sometimes Madeleine did not see 
 him, and when she did he was not communicative with regard 
 to outside affairs. Indeed, there was not time for any extended 
 communications, if either of them had felt inclined that way 
 Those who have watched in a sick-room know how engrossing 
 that occupation is — how absorbing to the mind, how wear^'ing 
 to the body ! Lacy came once or twice, but found these visits 
 so " unsatisfactory," that he discontinued them. Perhaps it 
 was natural that it should not have occurred to him that they 
 might be a pleasure to Madeleine. Other visitor? called, were 
 
MADELEINE RETURNS TO STANSBURY. 185 
 
 received by Mrs. Ingram, and departed leaving S3rnipatlietic 
 cards and condolences. Rosalind flitted in and said sbe would 
 be " glad to do any thing sbe could." Being assured tbat her 
 services were not needed, she gladly departed. So matters 
 went on. By the end of the second week Mary began to mend, 
 but the third week was well advanced before the doctor said 
 that she might be taken to the library and see a few quiet 
 friends. 
 
 CHAPTER yi. 
 
 MADELEIXE EETURXS TO STAXSBURY. 
 
 FoREiiosT among these quiet friends was Basil Severn. The 
 first day that Mary was established on her familiar couch by the 
 library-fire — fire needed now, since it was a clear, frosty No- 
 vember morning — he entered, with warmest pleasure and con- 
 gratulation on his frank, sunburned face. This face poor Mary 
 could not see, but she could hear the genial ring of his voice, 
 and feel the cordial clasp of his hand. 
 
 " What a pleasure it is to see j^ou down again ! " he said, 
 holding her fragile hands — thin and shadowy as a fairy's — tight- 
 ly within his own. " I began to think you meant to retire per- 
 manently into winter quarters up-stairs, or that Dr. Arthur meant 
 to keep you there ! By Jove ! it is odd to think that when I 
 saw you last I told you how particularly well you were looking, 
 and now — " 
 
 " And now you can tell me exactly the reverse, I suppose," 
 she said, with a smile. " How fortunate it is that I can't see 
 how badly I look ! Dear Basil, I am so glad to be down — and 
 what a weary time Madeleine has had with me ! " 
 
 " Do you hear her ? " said Madeleine. " She does not talk 
 of her own great pain — such pain, Basil ! — but of how tired I 
 must be who have sufi"ered nothing." 
 
 " The pain is gone," said Mary, simply. " Why should I 
 
186 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 talk of it ? But I am sure that Madeleine feels and shows the 
 effects of her confinement. Basil, does she not? I cannot let 
 you have her in Stansburj yet, but she must certainly go to 
 drive to-day. I have told her that. I ho23e Gordon Lacy will 
 come to go with her." 
 
 " Have you seen Lacy lately ? " said Basil, looking at his sis- 
 ter — and something in his tone, or in the expression of his face, 
 seemed to Madeleine full of restrained significance. 
 
 She shook her head. " It is nearly ten days since I saw him 
 last," she said. " Why do you ask ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing," answered Severn, carelessly, " except that I 
 wondered if he had found time to come ; he seems to be ab- 
 sorbed in those theatricals which they are organizing in Stans- 
 bury." 
 
 " So that is still going on ? " said Madeleine ; then she 
 laughed. " When one has been withdrawn a little from the 
 world, one is apt to forget that it has not stood still," she said. 
 " Instead of asking if the theatricals are still going on, I should 
 have asked, how are they going on ? " 
 
 " As well as such matters usually do, I believe, with not more 
 than a quarrel a day, on an average, among the performers — 
 which, of course, does not include any that may spring out of 
 the half-dozen deadly feuds flourishing in the town." 
 
 " Are you one of the performers ? " asked Mary, 
 
 " I fill the honorable and onerous position of stage-manager," 
 said he," " and heartily tired of the whole affair I am. If it had 
 been possible to retreat, with due regard to others, I should have 
 resigned my office long ago." 
 
 " Tell us all about it," said Mary. " We have heard nothing 
 - — Madeleine and I. Does Rosalind play leading lady?" 
 
 "In the comedy, yes — to Devereux's leading gentleman," 
 answered Basil, looking again at Madeleine — a look in which the 
 significance was not at all restrained now. *' Champion has 
 been induced to take a part in the same play, very much 
 against his will. I fancy he will throw it up in disgust before 
 long. ]\Iiss Champion and Lacy monopolize the after-piece." 
 
MADELEINE RETURNS TO STANSBURY. 187 
 
 " And what is the end of it all ? " asked Mary. " Amusement 
 pure and simple ? " 
 
 " Amusement, certainly," replied Severn, " with a decent pre- 
 text of ' charitable purpose.' If you ask what the charitable pur- 
 pose is, however, upon my word I am unable to tell you." 
 
 "I wonder if the rest are as well amused as vou are?" said 
 Mary, with a lauo-h, while Madeleine looked at her brother with 
 wistful eyes. She understood him thoroughly, and, under every 
 careless word he uttered, heard the sharp cadence of suffering. 
 Instinctively she felt all that had been going on — at least as far as 
 he was concerned. She felt how the fancy for Helen Champion, 
 against which he had struggled for years, had been fanned by 
 the coquetry of its object, and the association of these past weeks, 
 into a torturing love. " For her own triumph ! " Madeleine 
 thought. " Oh, the sinfulness, the heartlessness, the cruelty of 
 such conduct ! " Her soul was sick with indignation. It was not 
 only that she loved her brother as few brothers are loved, but 
 she pitied him with that tender compassion which is akin to pain. 
 His life had been so hard, and he had borne it so bravely ! This 
 was what she often said to herself. And that a frivolous woman, 
 simply for her own amusement, should add the bitterness of 
 squandered love to the failed ambition and weary toil of this life, 
 seemed almost too much to bear. Yet such things must be borne. 
 It falls to the lot of many women to look on powerless, and see 
 their dearest and best fling their hearts down into the dust at 
 the feet of some unworthy Circe. 
 
 After Basil was gone — and he did not stay very long — Made- 
 leine felt a spirit of restlessness take possession of her. Despite 
 the efforts to do so, she could not forget how he had looked when 
 Lacy's name was mentioned, and again when he had spoken of 
 Rosalind and Devereux. She was conscious of a sudden desire 
 to see with her own eyes, and hear with her own ears, all that 
 there was to see and hear. After struggling for a time with the 
 feeling, she suddenly rose. 
 
 " If you have no objection, Mary," she said, " I will leave 
 you for a little while. I think I should like to go to Stansbury. 
 
188 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 It was three weeks yesterday since I left home, and there are 
 several things needing my attention." 
 
 " Certainly," said Mar3\ "I am not selfish enough to want 
 to keep 3'ou pinned to my side now. But you will be sure and 
 come back, will you not ? I cannot give you up, and, pray, ring 
 and order the carriage. You must not think of walking." 
 
 Madeleine made no demur about this. Generally she liked 
 walking, but now she felt languid from confinement, and impa- 
 tient besides. This impatience struck her as something strange. 
 For three weeks she had no more troubled herself about affairs 
 in Stansbury than if they had been affairs in Paris ; yet now, 
 all in a minute as it were, she felt charged with restlessness as 
 with electricity. Was it because of the suffering she had seen 
 on Basil's face, or the significance in his tones ? Whatever it 
 was, she was trembling with nervous excitement when she went 
 up-stairs and changed her dress for driving. 
 
 The close carriage which she had ordered, in preference to 
 the pony-phaeton, was at the door when she came down. Gil- 
 bert, the coachman, would probably have kejDt Mrs. Ingram wait- 
 ing half an hour, but all the household liked to serve Madeleine, 
 and he had brought out his horses with unusual celerity when 
 he heard that they were wanted for her. 
 
 The day was bright and sparkling, though cold — as cold 
 is reckoned in the South. There had been a white frost early 
 in the morning under which the roses had drooped their heads, 
 to raise them no more till spring. Indian summer was yet to 
 come with all its mellow, hazy beauty, but for the present the 
 
 earth felt 
 
 "... Winter's scourge, with Summer's kiss 
 Still warm upon her lips." 
 
 The drive to Stansbury was short, and when Madeleine en- 
 tered the town she was struck by the change which the past 
 three weeks had made in the appearance of every thing. Au- 
 tumn splendors were gone, brown leaves covered the earth, bare 
 trees lifted their skeleton branches against the pale-blue sky — 
 bow different from the glowing world of color she had left 
 
MADELEINE RETURNS TO STANSBURY. 189 
 
 when she drove to the Lodge with Mary Carhsle on that Octo- 
 ber afternoon ! Her road led past the Champion residence, one 
 of the stateliest in the town, an imposing, white-pillared house, 
 crowning a hill, its beautiful lawn dotted with evergreens, slop- 
 ing down to the street in front. This was Rosalind's future 
 home. Madeleine could not restrain a slight sensation of won- 
 der as she looked at it. She knew Rosalind so well — her in- 
 tense love of ease and luxury, her passionate desire for wealth 
 — yet, now these things were within her reach, she was playing 
 fast and loose with the man who represented them ! What did 
 it mean ? Miss Severn asked herself, conscious of her knowledge 
 of character being at fault somewhere. Rosalind could not think 
 that Devereux — who had frankly avowed himself a poor man — 
 would marry a penniless woman, neither w^as it at all likely 
 that so thorough an epicurean as that young lady would, under 
 these circumstances, desire to marry him. Was it all a mere pur- 
 suit of the pleasure of the minute ? Or was a grande passion — 
 that mad fever of heart and brain which is thoroughly reckless 
 of consequences so long as it lasts — involved with either or both ? 
 Mrs. Severn was the only person at home when Madeleine 
 entered the familiar sitting-room. She was darning a table- 
 cloth with great care, from which she looked up as her step- 
 daughter api^eared. 
 
 " Why, Madeleine, is this you ? " she said, with placid sur- 
 prise. " I am very glad to see you back again — and how is 
 Mary ? I told Rosalind only this morning that I thought I 
 would go to see her." 
 
 " Mary wiJl be very glad to see you now that she is better and 
 able to receive visitors," said Madeleine. She bent and kissed 
 the faded lips as she spoke, and then sat down — looking round 
 a little vaguely. For what had she come ? She could scarcely 
 tell, except that it was not to sit here and watch Mrs. Severn go 
 back to her work — her slender, blue-veined hands, vrhich seemed 
 made for other uses, moving methodically to and fro across the 
 shining damask. Darning is absorbing work, but nevertheless 
 
 she was able to glance at the face opposite and say : 
 
 9 
 
190 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 "You are looking badly yourself, Madeleine. I am afraid 
 )'0u have been confined too closely with Mary ; indeed, Basil has 
 been quite uneasy about you." 
 
 " I am very well;" answered Madeleine, " but of course the 
 confinement has told on me. I have not much appetite. I hope 
 you have been well — and Rosalind. Where is she ? " 
 
 " She has gone to a rehearsal," replied Mi'S. Severn. " I 
 suppose you have heard of the theatricals Helen Champion and 
 herself are engaged in getting up. I can't say that I exactly 
 approve of such amusements ; but young people must have some 
 diversion — and this is a dull place." 
 
 "I suppose they are diverting," said Madeleine, who was 
 not interested in the theatricals further than what might grow 
 out of them. 
 
 " They seem so," answ^ered Mrs. Severn, threading her needle. 
 " RosaKnd has been at home very little lately ; and the company 
 have been here several times in the evening. I shall be glad, 
 however, when the entertainment is over," she added, in a tone 
 which to Madeleine's ear was full of meaning. 
 
 '' Probably Rosalind will not be sorry," she said. " Such affairs 
 generally end in proving more tiresome than entertaining." 
 
 " I am afraid Rosalind is very well entertained," said Rosa- 
 lind's mother, dropping her work in her lap and looking up with 
 her still pretty and pathetic eyes full of anxiety. At this jooint 
 &he hesitated. She did not wish to say any thing severe of her 
 darling ; and yet she, like every one else connected with Made- 
 leine, always went to her in matters of doubt and times of 
 trouble. 
 
 "I think I can easily conjecture what is going on," said 
 Miss Severn. " Rosalind is flirting with Mr. Devereux, is she 
 not ? I expected nothing else. And what does Mr. Champion 
 think of it ? " 
 
 " He is very jealous," said Mrs. Severn. " Any one can see 
 that ; and, O Madeleine, I am greatly afraid the engagement will 
 be broken off. It is not," the lady went on, raising her delicate 
 head with an air of pride, " that I do not think that Rosalind is 
 
MADELEINE RETURNS TO STAXSBURY. 191 
 
 in a manner throwing herself away upon James Champion ; but 
 then he is the best match she can command here^ and — " 
 
 " And she engaged herself to him, I believe," said Made- 
 leine in a tone which was a trifle hard — if such an expression 
 could possibly be applied to her voice. 
 
 " Yes, she engaged herself to him," said Mrs. Severn. " And 
 it is not in good taste to break engagements — so I have told her j 
 but she only laughs. If you would speak to her — " 
 
 " Excuse me," said Madeleine. " I have no influence over 
 Rosalind. I should have discovered that three weeks ago, when 
 I tried to remonstrate with her about this very matter, if I had 
 not known it before." 
 
 " I do not see what she means," said Mrs. Severn with a 
 sigh. " Mr. Devereux has squandered all his fortune, Basil says, 
 unless he wins this suit, when in that case — Whj'-, what is the 
 matter, Madeleine ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing," said Madeleine ; but she had started and 
 grown suddenly paler than she had been before. Mrs. Severn's 
 words gave, like a flash, the key to the enigma which had puz- 
 zled her. That was what Rosalind meant ! If Devereux won 
 the suit — if Mary Carlisle was dispossessed of her fortune — she 
 would marry him. If not, all this would pass as the amusement 
 of an idle hour, she would probably bestow the inestimable 
 treasure of her hand on James Champion, while Devereux — but 
 this was more than Madeleine could bear to consider. "My 
 poor Mary ! my poor Mary ! " she said to herself, while a flood 
 of passionate resentment rushed over her. Involuntarily she 
 rose. "I will be back presently," she said, and quitted the 
 room. 
 
 Left alone, Mrs. Severn shook her head. Madeleine's afikirs 
 did not by any means possess to her the interest which belonged 
 to Rosalind's ; but she was nevertheless sufficiently attached to 
 her step-daughter to feel sorry for a blow which she knew to be 
 impending over her. More than once lately Rosalind had spoken 
 of Gordon Lacy's " flirtation " with Helen Champion ; more than 
 once she had said that she thoujrht it would end in somethinor 
 
192 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 more than mere flirtation. That very morning at breakfast, after 
 Basil's departure, she had calmly delivered her opinion on this 
 subject. 
 
 " Helen is crazy to marry Gordon since she thinks he is like- 
 ly to become distinguished," Rosalind said. '* She cared noth- 
 ing about him before she went away and heard people talking 
 of his writings. Now she professes to * adore intellect,' and all 
 such stuff, and is perpetually paying him compliments, which he 
 receives condescendingly and returns in kind. I used to be very 
 fond of Gordon, but really he is growing so spoiled that he is 
 not like himself, and, as a matter of self-respect, Madeleine will 
 be forced to discard him before long, I think." 
 
 " Do you think he can possibly wish to marry Helen ? " Mrs. 
 Severn had inquired. 
 
 " I think he does," Rosalind returned, coolly. *' He may be 
 in love with Madeleine — I don't pretend to know about that — 
 but Helen is handsome and rich, and shows her preference for 
 him openly." 
 
 " I call it very singular conduct on her part when she knows 
 he is engaged to another woman," remarked Mrs. Severn, with 
 faint indignation. 
 
 Her daughter laughed. " Helen cares nothing for that. She 
 
 believes in 
 
 ' The good old rule, the simple plan, 
 That he shall take who has the power, 
 And he shall keep who can,' " 
 
 she replied, carelessly — though how much she indorsed such a 
 rule herself, she did not add. 
 
 Mrs. Severn remembered this conversation, and so it chanced 
 that she shook her head over the table-cloth. But she had ex- 
 liausted her powers of keen emotion earlier in life, and now was 
 in the habit of taking things, pleasant or otherwise, with a mild 
 philosophy — which she did not in the least suspect to be philos- 
 ophy. She went back to her darning in this spirit. Matters 
 would probabl}'' right themselves after a time. Meanwhile, it 
 
MADELEINE RETURNS TO STANSBURY. 193 
 
 would not do to " slight " this beautiful damask which had worn 
 so admirably for twenty years. 
 
 When Madeleine came back to the sitting-room she still had 
 her hat on, and she bade her step-mother good-morning, much to 
 that lady's surprise. " I promised Mary not to be gone long," 
 she said, " and I have some shopping to do down-street. By- 
 the-way, can you tell me where the rehearsal is going on ? I 
 should like to see Rosalind for a few minutes — " 
 
 " The rehearsal is at the theatre," answered Mrs. Severn. 
 " If you could only say something to Rosalind to make her 
 more careful, Madeleine — " 
 
 " I fear that is impossible," said Madeleine, gently but 
 coldly. 
 
 This coldness remained with her as she drove away. She 
 felt that she could never again voluntarily speak to Rosalind on 
 the subject. She was filled with a sense of scorn which was 
 new to her, and which may seem overstrained to those who do 
 not consider first her peculiar organization, and secondly the sa- 
 credness which to her, as to Basil, seemed to encircle Mary Car- 
 lisle. 
 
 When Gilbert drew up before the building, which was a 
 very passable little theatre for a country-place, and was always 
 grandiloquently spoken of in bills and posters as the Stansbury 
 " Opera-House," a group of young ladies and gentlemen were 
 descending the steps which led to that temple of art. This was 
 the coiys dramatique. But among them Rosalind was not, 
 neither was Helen Champion, neither Lacy nor Devereux. 
 Madeleine stopped a member of the group to ask for the miss- 
 ing performers — at least for the only one in whom she chose to 
 express an interest. 
 
 " Rosalind is still in the hall," answered the young lady ad- 
 dressed. " I saw her as T came out. Are you going up ? This 
 is the stage-entrance." 
 
 " I am going up for a few minutes," said Madeleine. " The 
 other entrance is closed." 
 
 She passed on as she spoke. The theatre was on the sec- 
 
194 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 ond floor, and the stairs leading to tbe rear of it were steep and 
 dark. Having clinabed to the top of them, she came to a door 
 and pushed it open, finding herself in that bewildering region 
 which lies at the back of the stage. She walked a few steps, 
 and while she then paused, irresolute which w^ay to turn, Helen 
 Champion's artificial laugh suddenly fell on her ear. 
 
 " That w411 do for Sir Edward Ardent," the voice which 
 matched this laugh said, coquettishly ; " but you have no right 
 to say such things to me as Mr. Lacyy 
 
 " Why have I not ? " Lacy's well-known tones replied — in- 
 dolent tones, with a strain of banter in them, yet a subtile ac- 
 cent of admiring tenderness, too. " Are they not true ? You 
 know as well as I do that they are. Let me be Sir Edward 
 Ardent, then, and say how well that yellow rose looks in your 
 hair, helle Odalisque ! " 
 
 " It came from the hot-house ; there are no roses in the gar- 
 den this morning. Should j^ou like to have it ? You said the 
 other day that you only cared for things w^hich were rare." 
 
 " I should like to have it if you can honestly aver that you 
 gathered it and wore it for me ! " 
 
 " Of all conceited men, you are certainly the most conceited 
 and spoiled ! " said Miss Champion, with another laugh of grati- 
 fied vanity. " And suppose I did say so — what then ? " 
 
 " Then I would beg you to put it in my button-hole, while I 
 quoted Waller's verses for you." 
 
 " I never heard them — are they very pretty ? " 
 
 " Very indeed." 
 
 " As pretty as yours ? " 
 
 " I never wrote any thing half so good in my life." 
 
 " I am sure I shall not think so ; mamma says I am quite 
 absurd with regard to your poems, I like them so much." 
 
 " You are very kind, but about the rose — " 
 
 " Oh, I suppose I must confess that, when I saw this bud, I 
 thought of what you said the other day about j^ellow roses, and 
 BO — here it is ! Now for the verses." 
 
 " You must pin it in my button-hole," said Lacy, placidly. 
 
MADELEINE RETURNS TO STANSBURY. 195 
 
 It need not be suj^posed that Madeleine overheard this art- 
 less conversation voluntarily. For a moment she had paused — 
 doubtful whether to go on or to go back — her heart throbbing, 
 her cheeks flushing. Then instinct said, " Go on ! " and she 
 went forward. But to reach the point whence the voices pro- 
 ceeded was not so easy as it seemed. There was little light, 
 and apparently endless confusion. Madeleine had never been 
 behind the scenes in even the smallest theatre before, so it oc- 
 curred most accidentally that she made her appearance on the 
 stage just when Miss Champion was pinning the yellow rose 
 under discussion in Lacy's button-bole, while that gentleman 
 repeated those charming verses of Waller's wdiich begin, " Go, 
 lovely rose ! " 
 
 The lady's face was turned toward the wing at which Made- 
 leine made her entrance, and it was she w^ho started so violent- 
 ly, flushed so deeply, and dropped the rose, that Lacy turned. 
 His surprise and confusion were scarcely less great when he saw 
 Miss Severn advancing. He was generally the farthest possible 
 remove from an awkward man, but at this moment he was 
 thrown off his guard, and he looked as he felt — startled and 
 guilty. Altogether it was an odd little scene — a bit of iinpromp- 
 tu drama — and Rosalind and Devereux, who were conducting 
 their flirtation in the auditorium, paused, surprised and amused, 
 to look on. 
 
 It was Madeleine w^ho ended the awkwardness and put them 
 at their ease. Her pulses were beating with a vibrating rush, 
 but pride steadied her nerves and gave all its usual composure 
 to her manner. Such tests as this show mettle and breeding. 
 She came forward with a smile, and when she spoke her voice 
 had lost none of its sweet frankness. 
 
 " Good-morning, Helen — good-morning, Gordon," she said. 
 " Pray, pardon me for startling you by such an unexpected ap- 
 pearance, but I ventured to come up unpiloted, and it seems that 
 it is a very difficult undertaking to find one's way on the stage. 
 What a lovely rose ! " she added, as she stooped, lifted and 
 handed the beautiful cloth-of-gold bud to its owner. 
 
196 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 '' Yes, it is very pretty," said Miss Cliampion, ^vho had the 
 grace not only to look bat to feel ashamed. ^' I am glad to see 
 you in Stansbury once more, Madeleine," she went on, with an 
 effort to sjDeak cordially. " How is Mary Carlisle ? " 
 
 " Better, I am glad to say," replied Madeleine. Then she 
 looked at Lacy, and spoke with the faintest possible trace of 
 malice in her tone. " Are you rehearsing ? " she said. " I bef^ 
 that you will not let me interrupt you. I came in search of 
 Rosalind. Is she not here ? " 
 
 " She was here a moment ago," said Lacy, looking round. 
 "There she is, in the auditorium ! Will you let me take 3'ou 
 down to her?" 
 
 "That is not worth while," Madeleine replied, "if you will 
 tell me how to get down. Do I go this way ? " 
 
 ' No — in this direction." He moved in the direction indicated, 
 and she followed him throuo-h the side-scenes, down a flight of 
 steps, to a door, which he opened. Then she said : " Thank you ; 
 do not let me trouble you any further" — and passed him with 
 an air of quiet decision. 
 
 He looked after her a moment as she walked away — admiring, 
 perhaps, the gentle stateliness of her carriage, the graceful poise 
 of her head, the whole air of distinction which stamped so un- 
 mistakably her manner and bearing. Then he turned, and went 
 back to Miss Champion, who was rather sedately fastening her 
 boa round her throat. 
 
 " Pray, do not think of attending me home," she said, with 
 an air of elaborate indifference. " Of course, I do not expect 
 such a thing with 3fadeleine here. Good-morning." 
 
 " Allow me to relieve you of that book you are carrying," 
 said Lacy, coolly, " and where is my rose ? — am I not to have it, 
 after all ? " 
 
 " Are you really coming ? " asked she, pleased, yet incredu- 
 lous, as he took the book from her hand. 
 
 "Do I not always come?" he replied. "Is it likely I shall 
 deprive myself of that pleasure this morning ? Take care of the 
 step ! Let me assist you." 
 
"LA BELLE ODALISQUE." 19 7 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 "la belle odalisque." 
 
 RosALiXD met Madeleine very warmly. In some sliglit man- 
 ner she was probabl}'' attached to her sister — in some shght 
 manner, also, indignant with Lacy. This indignation was not 
 extreme, for the younger Miss Severn was not an impulsive per- 
 son, nor did she ever feel keenly any thing which concerned 
 others ; but it was sincere, and untempered by any reflection 
 that she was acting in the same manner. It was a woman's privi- 
 leo-e to flirt, she would have said, if such a consideration had 
 been suggested to her, and it is well known that many things 
 which are allowable in women are contemptible in men. She 
 had no doubt that Madeleine would fina or maice an occasion to 
 say something disagreeable to her, but that did not greatly mat- 
 ter, and in the mean time the little throb of ^sterly feeling, 
 already mentioned, stirred in her breast and gave a genuine 
 warmth to her greeting. Devereux, on his part, received 
 the somewhat frigid bow which Madeleine bestowed on him, 
 with the air of one whose conscience was altogether void of 
 offense. 
 
 " Where do you come from ? " Rosalind asked. " I never was 
 more surprised than when I looked up a minute ago, and saw 
 you advancing on the stage. You appeared quite dramatically 
 — did she not? " (this to Devereux). " And so gracefully, too ! 
 I wish I could hope to make 'my appearance so effectively. 
 But how is Mary? — and have you come home 'for good,' as 
 children say ? " 
 
 " Mary is much better," replied Madeleine, " but I have not 
 come to remain — only for a short visit. I did not find you at 
 home, so I thought I would call by here to see j^ou." 
 
 " I am glad to see you ! " said Rosalind — who felt any thing 
 but grateful, since her tUe-dL-Ute with Devereux had reached a 
 
108 A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 very interesting point vvlien the interruption occurred. "But 
 are -you walking." 
 
 " No — I am driving. Mary's carriage is at the door." 
 
 " Then you can drive me home — I detest walking ! Let us 
 go down, for this place is growing cold." 
 
 Back over the stage, therefore, they went ; and as Rosalind 
 led the way, Madeleine found herself with Devereux. After a 
 minute, he spoke : 
 
 " I am exceedingly glad to hear that Miss Carlisle is better, 
 Miss Severn, and I hope you have forgiven me for my unlucky 
 share in the imprudence w^hich caused her illness." 
 
 " I should be very unreasonable if I blamed you for her illness," 
 said Madeleine, w'ho felt that she must be just, even though she 
 disliked and despised this handsome, well-bred man of the world. 
 " Of course, you could not know that Mary had heart-disease, or 
 that so slight an excitement might lead to such painful conse- 
 quences." 
 
 " No, I could not know it," he said ; " but now that I have 
 learned it — now that I am not likely again to be guilty of so 
 much imprudence — will you not give me the hope of seeing her 
 soon ? " 
 
 She turned almost involuntarily, and a look which startled 
 and surprised him flashed suddenly out of her brown eyes. 
 Devereux never forgot that moment. He was holding open the 
 door which Lacy had held open before him, and the full glance 
 met his own, just as Madeleine passed into the darkness bej'ond. 
 Such a glance ! It seemed to thrill him like a flash of elec- 
 tricity. He asked himself in amazement, what it meant. What 
 had he said or done ? What had called forth that flash of fire 
 out of the softness which usually sheathed it ? What was it 
 the eloquent look expressed ? — scorn ? — indignation ? But what 
 had occurred to wake either sentiment ? " 
 
 Madeleine, unconscious how much she had betrayed, walked 
 on till they emerged upon the stage. Then she tinmed and ad- 
 dressed him. " I believe I did not answer your question," she 
 remarked. " The doctor has said that Miss Carlisle is able to 
 
"LA BELLE ODALISQUE." 199 
 
 receive visitors, but I think it would be well for those who see 
 her to be very cautious. The least excitement may cost her 
 another severe illness, or — her life." 
 
 " This way, Madeleine ! " said Rosalind, turning round. "Take 
 care ! — the steps are steep. Laura Gresham fell here the other 
 day, and injured herself severely. " 
 
 " Can I assist you ? " asked Devereux, but Miss Severn re- 
 turned a decided negative, and, as he followed, he asked him- 
 self again, what had he done ? He could think of nothing that 
 deserved such severe punishment : from which it will be per- 
 ceived that Mr. Devereux was afflicted with rather a callous con- 
 science. 
 
 Having put the two ladies into the waiting carriage, he closed 
 the door, and was turning awaj^, Vv'hen Rosalind spoke. 
 
 " You will remember to-night, at the Champions', will you 
 not ? " she said ; and Madeleine, glancing at her, thought how 
 much seductive beauty there was in the face bent forward, the 
 lovely eyes upraised, with an expression in their dejDths that the 
 dullest man alive might have read. 
 
 Devereux read it and smiled. After all, can we blame a man 
 for being flattered, when his vanity is gratified as some women 
 know so well how to gratify it ? "I will endeavor to be there," 
 he replied. " But I may be detained away — by business. I 
 shall see you at the rehearsal to-morrow, however. Good-morn- 
 mg. ' 
 
 He lifted his hat, and walked away — an elegant figure, in 
 strong contrast with most of the Stansbury men loitering about. 
 Rosalind looked after him approvingly. " Are not his manners 
 charming ? " she said to her sister, " and does not he dress fault- 
 lessly ? There is no suspicion of the dandy about him, and yet 
 every thing is in such perfect taste ! What beautiful gloves he 
 wears ! What exquisite handkerchiefs he uses ! Ah, how I adore 
 the polish and refinement of men of the world ! " 
 
 "And what has become of Mr. Champion?" asked Made- 
 leine. " Have you altogether ceased to adore him ? " 
 
 "Did I ever adore him?" replied the other, raising her 
 
200 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 brows. " Poor James ! I don't think I ever did, though of course 
 I like him very much — after a fashion. He came back from his 
 courts about a week ago, and has been very unpleasant ever 
 since. If men only knew how much they injure their cause by 
 behaving like bears — but fortunately he is very busy, and I do 
 not see much of him. I suppose you have heard that he has 
 thrown up his part, and refuses to have any thing more to do 
 \vith the theatricals ? " 
 
 " I had not heard that important fact." 
 
 " It is quite true. Helen came to the rehearsal this morning 
 very much vexed. ' Brother James announced at breakfast that, 
 since next week is court week, he will not have any time to 
 spare for theatrical absurdities.' So now we are almost in de- 
 ' spair for some one to take his place. Helen wants Gordon Lacy 
 to do so, but he only cares to play jSir Edioard Ardent to her 
 Mrs. ChilUngton. It affords him no pleasure to take the part 
 of my lover." 
 
 " Did you fancy that it would ? " 
 
 " Oh, dear, no. Why should it ? I am not sympathetic and 
 spirituelle, like you — nor yet a wealthy Odalisque, like Helen 
 Champion." 
 
 " Why do you call her such a name as that ? " asked Made- 
 leine. Despite herself, she shrank a little. The same expres- 
 sion had been on Lacy's lips. 
 
 "Have you not heard it before?" asked Rosalind. She 
 laughed, yet she glanced keenly at her sister. She was sorry, 
 but then she was angry too — with Lacy — and thought it " high 
 time " for his misdemeanors to be known to the person most 
 concerned in resenting them. , " That is what every one in 
 Stansbury is calling Helen just now," she said. " Gordon ad- 
 dressed some verses to her under that name, and she was so 
 elated that she has exhibited them to everybody. People are 
 laughing and talking no little over the affair, and one hears of 
 * La Belle Odalisque ' on all sides." 
 
 " Have you seen the verses ? " asked Madeleine. As she 
 3poke — steady though her voice was — her heart turned faint. 
 
"LA BELLE ODALISQUE." 201 
 
 It was not the isolated fact of Lacy's having dedicated some 
 verses to another woman which so affected her, but the realiza- 
 tion of how one little circumstance after another seemed to be 
 fitting into each other like a mosiac work of proof against him. 
 
 " I should think so, indeed ! " said Rosalind. " The question 
 is who has not seen them r* I took a copy for your benefit, think- 
 ing you might like to glance over it. Come in, and you may 
 have that pleasure." 
 
 The carriage stopped before the Severn gate as she spoke, 
 but Madeleine hesitated. "I hardly think I have time," she 
 said. " I hardly think I care — " 
 
 " Oh,^:?ray come in ! " said Rosalind, anxiously. " I want your 
 advice about my dress for the comedy. I must look my prettiest, 
 you know, and mamma has lent me all her point-lace. It is love- 
 ly on my green silk, and I want your emeralds, Madeleine." 
 
 " Of course 3'ou can have them," said Madeleine. " Shall I 
 get them for you now ? " 
 
 " If you will be so kind," answered Rosalind, springing from 
 the carriage. 
 
 They entered the house together, and went up to Madeleine's 
 room. Here the latter unlocked the drawer of a small cabinet 
 and took out a casket containing her mother's jewels. The set 
 of emeralds which Rosalind wished to borrow was the hand- 
 somest among them — so handsome, indeed, that Madeleine 
 seldom wore it. She had a fine sense of the fitness of things, 
 and she knew — what many people seem not to know — that 
 jewels are only appropriate at certain times and under certain 
 circumstances. 
 
 " How lovely ! " said Rosalind, sHpping the ear-rings into 
 her ears and running to a mirror. "Fancy Helen Champion 
 with such a tint next Tier complexion ! One should certainly 
 be obliged to Nature when she has given one a delicate skin ! 
 Thank you very much, Madeleine ! And now I will get you the 
 poem." 
 
 Before Madeleine could reply, she left the room, and in a 
 moment came back with a sheet of folded paper in her hand. 
 
202 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 "Here it is!" she said. "Take it and read it at your leisure 
 — keep it, also, I beg, for Z don't want it ! To think of all that 
 nonsense about Helen Champion, one of the most ordinary girls 
 in the world ! Gordon ought to blush with shame ! But I was 
 determined you should know about it, and, if you take my ad- 
 vice, you will write at once and discard him." 
 
 " Thanks for the advice," said Madeleine, slightly smiling. 
 She took the paper and looked at it doubtfully for a moment. 
 " You are sure there is no breach of confidence in your showing 
 me this ? " she said. 
 
 " Breach of confidence ! " repeated Rosalind. " What non- 
 sense ! I tell you Helen shows it to anybody ; and I scribbled 
 off that copy before her eyes. You certainly have the most 
 absurd scruples, Madeleine ! " 
 
 " It is better to have too many than too few," said Made- 
 leine. 
 
 She slipped the paper into her muff, however, put away the 
 casket, locked the cabinet-drawer, and turned to go. " Mary 
 will be anxious," she said. " I promised to be back soon. Ro- 
 salind, I wish that it was worth while to speak to you .seriously 
 once more — " 
 
 Rosalind put her hands over her emerald-hung ears. " I 
 don't mean to be impolite," she said, " but it is really not worth 
 while at all. I know what I am about. If you want to speak 
 seriously to anybody, devote your attention to Gordon." 
 
 In this way they parted ; and when Madeleine found herself 
 in the carriage, alone again and driving out toward the Lodge, 
 she drew from her muff the paper which Rosalind had given 
 her, and opened it. The following verses were copied thereon, 
 in that very large and almost illegible " English hand " which 
 has become so fashionable of late ; 
 
 LA BELLE ODALI§QUE. 
 
 Half reclined on silken cushions, 
 
 Veiled in mellow, golden light, 
 With a smile so sweetly gentle, 
 
 And with eyes so darkly bright, 
 
"LA BELLE ODALISQUE." 203 
 
 "With an air of tender softness 
 
 On the lovely, downcast face, 
 Yet a spell of subtile passion 
 
 In the languid Southern grace I 
 
 With an arm upon the sofa, 
 
 Ivory-white and rounded fair, 
 And a slender hand caressing 
 
 The dusk curls of raven hair ; 
 With a smile on lips half parted. 
 
 While the fringed Uds droop low, 
 And a charm of pensive beauty 
 
 On the smooth, broad, Grecian brow I 
 
 With a royal grace of motion 
 
 Waves the fan within her hand, 
 Trained as any queenly sceptre 
 
 To the gesture of command ! 
 And behold a dewy rose-bud 
 
 Glowing blushfully above 
 The warm heart-beats of a bosom 
 
 Thrilled with happiness and love ! 
 
 Who may master, my empress ! 
 
 The deep secrets of your grace ? 
 Who may read the rare enigmas 
 
 Hidden in your haunting face ! 
 What your arch-enchantments whisper, 
 
 And what fateful meaning hes 
 In the depths of star-like lustre 
 
 Dawning from your midnight eyes ? 
 
 'Neath the shade of drooping lashes 
 
 What gay gleams of light beguile ! 
 Who can say what magic dweUeth 
 
 In your swift, bewildering smile ! 
 All your tones are rife with music, 
 
 Rhythmic rills of silvery sound. 
 Rippling through the dreamy softness 
 
 Of the perfumed air around. 
 
 Oh, the whirl of captured senses I 
 Oh, the pulse-beats swift and strong I 
 
204 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 What to me the rush of dancers ? 
 
 What to me the glittering throng ? 
 Fettered by your eyes' dark splendor, 
 
 I confront you charmed and dumb ; 
 Wondering what strange fate shall crown you, 
 
 Siren ! in the days to come ! 
 
 If Madeleine's lip curled over this effusion, let no one blame 
 her, or fancy that it curled from jealousy of the woman so be- 
 rhymed. Indeed, the flattery with which every line was redolent, 
 struck her almost absurdly. This to Helen Champion! She 
 smiled as her hand dropped the paper into her lap — a smile of 
 faint amusement dashed with a scorn that with many women 
 would have passed into cynical bitterness. It stopped short of 
 bitterness with Madeleine, yet Lacy would scarcely have been 
 gratified thereat if he had read her thoughts. These thoughts 
 were not angry or contemptuous, but they simply faced for the 
 first time a consciousness which had before this dawned upon 
 her — a consciousness that the man whom she loved, the mxan she 
 had promised to marry, was no high ideal, no stainless knight, 
 no sublime demi-god at whose feet she could offer incense, but a 
 mortal very full of faults, and (worse still in the eyes of a wom- 
 an !) full of weaknesses. 
 
 There are few passions to which such an hour of awakening 
 does not come, and let us own that there are few that stand the 
 test of the revulsion of feeling which inevitably follows. The 
 love which draws together the rank and file of mankind, partakes 
 very little of the nature of an idealizing sentiment, therefore to 
 this love no such disenchantment is possible. But to the few 
 who are exalted — whether for their own good or not, who can 
 Bay ? — above this level, the passion of love must be an idealizing 
 sentiment, or else it is degradation. Yet to how many the hour 
 comes when the veil of romance is rent asunder and the clay 
 feet of the idol stand confessed ! Who blames Love then, if he 
 turns and flies ? But there are some rare natures in which he 
 only changes his guise — changes from passion to forbearing ten- 
 derness. Such a nature was Madeleine Severn's. Not a weak 
 
"LA BELLE ODALISQUE." 205 
 
 nature clinging like a reed to that which has shaken it off, but a 
 nature rock- like in its constancy and truth. 
 
 As she sat, with the poem lying in her lap, gazing absently 
 out of the carriage-window at the landscape flitting past — the 
 bare fields, the brown woods, the curling white smoke of the 
 Carlisle mills in the distance — she was asking herself sadly what 
 she had better do. She put herself aside, she would not listen 
 either to her pride or her heart, as she pondered the question. 
 There was no one to whom she could appeal. Basil, in a differ- 
 ent spirit, would have echoed Itosalind's advice, and urged her 
 to discard the man who thus paraded his devotion to another 
 w'oman. But Madeleine held her pledge as something which 
 had not been lightly given and could not be lightly broken. No 
 one would ever say to her : 
 
 " I think you hardly know the tender rhyme 
 Of * Trust me not at all or all in all.' " 
 
 As she entered the Lodge, she encountered Mrs. Ingram in 
 the hall. " Mary grew tired, and has been taken up-stairs," said 
 that lady, " but Mr. Lacy is in the library, and has been waiting 
 for you for some time." 
 
 The speaker was not very observant, or she might have no- 
 ticed the start which Madeleine gave at the sound of that unex- 
 pected name. It was the last she had any idea of hearing, and 
 she stood still for a moment, undecided whether to go in at once, 
 or to take a little time to consider what she should say. But 
 what good purpose would consideration serve ? surely none, and 
 so, turning, she entered the room. 
 
 Lacy had seen the approach of the carriage, and w'hen she 
 opened the door, he advanced quickly to meet her with both 
 hands extended. 
 
 " My Madeleine," he said, eagerly, " do not judge me until 
 you hear me I " 
 
 " Is there any need for me to judge you at all ? " asked Made- 
 leine with gentle coldness. She allowed him to take her hands, 
 but she looked at him with a glance w^iich stopped any warmer 
 
20G A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 •demonstration. After all, her-pride had been keenly wounded, 
 and she would have been something more than a woman if she 
 had showed no sign of it. 
 
 "Have you not the right to judge me?" said Lacy, "and 
 are j'ou not exercising that right now ? Madeleine, are you an- 
 gry with me, or are you contemptuous of me ? An ordinary 
 woman might be both ; but you — tell me, is it only that foolish 
 conversation which you overheard that makes you look at me 
 with eyes which are not like your own ? " 
 
 " What does it matter ? " asked she, a little wearily. She 
 drew her hands away — not impatiently, hut decidedly — and going 
 to the firejDlaee sank down into one of the deep chairs always 
 placed there. She was inexpressibly tired, and though her tears 
 did not usually lie on the surface, she felt just then as if it would 
 be a relief to let them jflow. It all seemed so hopeless, why waste 
 words over it ? Palaces may rise from their ruins, but who can 
 build up again a shattered trust ? 
 
 Her apathy alarmed Lacy more than an avalanche of re- 
 proaches could have done. He followed and stood before her. 
 
 "Madeleine," he said, "is this kind? is it just? I can im- 
 agine all that you have heard, but I did not think you would 
 condemn me before I had spoken in self-defense ! " 
 
 " I do not condemn you," said Madeleine, quietly. " It is 
 natural enough, I suppose. I only beg you to tell me this tiling 
 frankl}^, do you wish to be released from j^our engagement ? " 
 
 " Great Heaven ! " he said, vehemently, " what have 3"ou 
 heard ? What madness is this ? Do I wish to be released ? Let 
 me ask another question : why should you imagine such a thing ?" 
 
 She felt a strange disinclination to words, and having the 
 paper containing the poem stillin her hand, it seemed an easy 
 way to answer him — at least it embodied many things difficult 
 to utter. She extended it, therefore. " There is one reason 
 why I might think so," she said. 
 
 He received and opened it. Certainly he had not expected 
 to find what he did within. The blood leaped in a torrent to his 
 face, and for an instant he stood speechless. Then he recovered 
 
"LA BELLE ODALISQUE." 207 
 
 himself, and, crumpling the sheet angrily in his hand, flung it on 
 the glowing coals. 
 
 "And you have given a moment's consideration to that piece 
 of consummate folly ! " he said. " Madeleine, I did not think 
 such a thing possible ! I thought you so far above the class of 
 women who are suspicious and exacting, that it never occurred 
 to me to hesitate in writing that absurd bit of flattery, to fulfill a 
 promise and gratify Miss Champion's vanity I " 
 
 " It is not only that," said Madeleine, forced to express her- 
 self, and watching the shriveled black paper on the fire. "I 
 should despise myself if I were jealous or exacting, but it seems 
 that what I overheard to-day — most accidentally — is very com- 
 mon, that you have been devoting yourself to Helen Champion 
 until every one in Stansbury is talking of it, and — I cannot bear 
 to saj" such things ! " she broke off abruptly. " Gordon, let it 
 end. You know all, more than all that I mean." 
 
 " I know," said Gordon, " that I am a great fool, and that I 
 have probably amused myself more than I ought with the vanity 
 of an uncommonly silly woman ; but my folly has not yet reached 
 the point of giving up you, Madeleine, the good angel of my life. 
 My darhng, can you not forgive me?" — again he held out his 
 hands — " if I had thought for a minute that such a thing would 
 cause you pain or annoyance, do you not know that I could 
 never have been guilty of it ? But I fancied your trust so per- 
 fect—" 
 
 " It is ! " she cried, interrupting him with sudden impetu- 
 osity ; " it is ! I could not believe that you meant any wrong, 
 any thing unworthy of yourself, any thing unkind to me, yet — 
 yet — it was of you that I thought when I asked if you did not 
 wish our engagement ended." 
 
 " Never ask me such a thing again ! " said he, quickly. " It is 
 frightful ! I feel as if the solid earth had shaken under my feet. 
 A hundred Helen Champions are not worth such a shock ! And 
 you — how pale you are ! " He knelt in front of her to look into 
 her eyes. "Is it Zwho have made you look so? How can I 
 forgive myself ! But do you forgive me ? Tell me so ! " 
 
208 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " Is it necessary for me to tell you so ? " she said, with her 
 caressing smile. " Do j'^ou not know it ? " 
 
 But, as she spoke, her eyes inv-oluntarily went past his face 
 to the shriveled fragment lying on the fire. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A MODE OF COMPROMISE. 
 
 The business which detained Mr. Devereux from the social 
 gathering at Mrs. Champion's w^as not merely the excuse w^hich 
 too often passes current under that name. He had received a 
 telegram early in the day from Mr. Stringfellow, telling him 
 that he would be in Stansbury that evening, and, if an appoint- 
 ment with a lawyer is not business, what can possibly come 
 under that head ? On a train which reached Stansburv at 7.45 
 p. M., Mr. Stringfellow arrived, therefore, and an hour later his 
 client and himself sat together over a bright fire in the room of 
 the former, with a bowl of punch on a table between them. 
 This punch Mr. Stringfellow had mixed wdth his own hands, and 
 he was now doing full justice to it. He looked, indeed, as if he 
 were in the habit of doing justice to such refreshments of the 
 inner man ; not that there were any signs of vulgar intemperance 
 about him, but he bore every stamp of the habitual hon vivant. 
 His ruddy face was full and jovial, though his small gray eyes 
 were keen and piercing ; his pronounced aquiline nose was also 
 ruddy, but his cleanly -shaven cleft chin w^as quite Napoleonic. 
 In society he was remarkably popular, being a genial host and 
 pleasant companion, a giver of good dinners and a lover of good 
 wines ; at the bar he was esteemed an acute lawyer, and an honest 
 man withal, as men go. This gentleman now glanced with some 
 disapprobation at his companion, who, leaning back indolently, 
 with the firelight flickering over his face, seemed rather inclined 
 to trifle with a half-drained glass of punch. 
 
A MODE OF COMPROMISE. 209 
 
 " You are like your father, very like your father, Arnold," he 
 said. " You are even like him in that " — he indicated the glass 
 of punch — " I knew no man of his generation who drank so mod- 
 erately ; of course he did drink, like a gentleman, but 'pon my 
 life I don't believe he cared much more for it than a woman 
 might. Give him his choice, and he always took light Rhenish, 
 or something of that kind. Bless my soul, how much you re- 
 mind me of him as you sit there now ! " 
 
 " I suppose I am like him," said Devereux. " At least I 
 know that I deserve no credit for being temperate — I have never 
 felt any temptation to be otherwise. I also prefer light wines — 
 though I esteem myself a judge of all. I have cultivated the 
 accomplishment as an accomplishment. One should not be at 
 the mercy of a wine-merchant, nor offer one's friends poor vint- 
 age whatever else may be lacking in one's mhiage. You must 
 not fancy that I do not appreciate your punch, my dear Mr. 
 Stringfellow," he added. " It is excellent ! " and, as a practical 
 commendation, he drained his glass. 
 
 " It is made according to a receipt which I may call an heir- 
 loom in my family," said Mr. Stringfellow, helping himself to 
 another supply. " Though a great deal of diplomacy has been 
 used to obtain it, neither my father nor myself has ever given 
 it to any one. My grandfather, who was a sea-captain, brought 
 it home from one of his voyages — quite the most valuable thing 
 that he did bring. Take some more, Arnold, don't be afraid of 
 your head ! It would scarcely hurt a kitten ! " 
 
 " I am not at all afraid of my head," replied Devereux, truth- 
 fully — having tested that organ too often not to know its capaci- 
 ties. " But no more just at present, thank you ; will you have 
 a cigar ? I can recommend these." 
 
 Mr. Stringfellow took one of the offered cigars, bit off the end, 
 lighted it, drew two or three whiffs, and nodded approval. " Uu 
 commonly good ! " he said. Then warmed by the fire and the 
 punch, he stretched out his legs before him on the hearth-rug, and 
 looked benignly at his companion. " Well," he said, " you have 
 been in the field for a month now, I believe : how goes the cam- 
 paign ? " 
 
210 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 Devereux shrugged his shoulders lazily. "It scarcely goes 
 at all," he said. " The invincible obstinacy of Miss Carlisle's law- 
 yer and agent foiled all my attempts at compromise, as I Avrote 
 you." 
 
 " So much the better ! " said the lawyer, with an air of satis- 
 faction. " You were a — hem ! — very foolish ever to m.ake such 
 an oifer. I told you so when you came here. Quixotism is a 
 very fine thing in its place, my dear boy — and you inherit that 
 too, from your father — but quixotism in business matters is devil- 
 ishly out of place ! I told you, when we parted, that the only 
 sensible way to compromise would be to marry Miss Carlisle. 
 Have you thought at all of that ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Devereux, quietly, " I have thought of it." 
 
 "You have, eh ? And have you induced the lady to think 
 of it also ? " 
 
 "I might have done so, perhaps, but I have lacked oppor- 
 tunit3\ She is an invalid, and has been very ill for two or three 
 weeks." 
 
 " Hem ! " said Mr. Stringfellow, in a tone of strong disap- 
 proval. " Sick women are the very deuce ! My first wife was 
 an invalid, and I learned that to mv cost. Miss Carlisle is blind 
 besides, is she not ? On the whole, with your chance of winning 
 the lawsuit, I don't know that I would advise you to compro- 
 mise in that way." 
 
 " You think there is no doubt of my winning the suit ? " 
 
 " No doubt in the world. The case will be decided in your 
 favor next week." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Devereux, in a musing tone. He took the cigar 
 from between his lips, and emitted a cloud of light-blue, curling 
 smoke that formed a fantastic haze about his head. " You will 
 think me more of a Quixote than ever, I am afraid," he said, 
 *' when I tell you that such an assurance gives me the strongest 
 possible reason for endeavoring to compromise, or rather to fuse 
 Miss Carlisle's interest and my own in the manner of which we 
 have spoken." 
 
 " You mean out of regard for her, I suppose ? " 
 
A MODE OF COMPROMISE. 211 
 
 " Yes, out of regard for her. Is it not the best tbmg I can 
 do as matters stand ? " 
 
 " That depends," said Mr. Stringfellow, cautious^. " If she 
 were an ordinary woman, I should say that it was the best thing, 
 but blind ! and an invalid ! By George, you are more of a Quix- 
 ote than I gave 3^ou credit for being, if you can stand all that ! " 
 
 " It is precisely because she is not an ordinary woman that I 
 think of it," said Devereux, in his careless, indolent voice. "I 
 have altogether passed the age of sentiment — if I ever had such 
 an age, nothing would astonish and, on the whole, bore me more 
 than to find myself involved in a grande passio7i. But certain 
 requirements of my taste must be satisfied in the woman whom 
 I marry. As I grow older, I find myself becoming critical and 
 fastidious to an uncomfortable degree. An ordinary woman wdth 
 the dowry of a princess would not tempt me." 
 
 " Then Miss Carlisle— ? " 
 
 " As I have said, is not an ordinary woman. She interests 
 and pleases me exceedingly. I feel sure that I can make what 
 the French call a mariage de raison with her, and find it thor- 
 oughly satisfactory, even though she is blind and an invalid." 
 
 " A very odd taste ! " said Mr. Stringfellow, shaking his 
 head ; " a very odd taste, indeed ! I should ■ have fancied you 
 would have wished to marry a woman of great beauty and fash- 
 ion — one who would make a sensation in the world." 
 
 " You think so because I have been in the train of such women 
 ever since my boyhood. But can you not imagine that one may 
 have a surfeit of even such excellent things as beauty and fash- 
 ion ? You understand me well enough to believe that I am not 
 affecting hlase puppyism when I say that I know such women 
 thoroughly, and have altogether ceased to be attracted or enter- 
 tained by them. They have palled on my taste — if, indeed, they 
 ever suited it." 
 
 " Odd ! " said Mr. Stringfellow, still shaking his head " But 
 convenient, at least, in the present instance. And Miss Carlisle, 
 herself? Vanity apart, can you not tell what kind of an im- 
 pression you have made upon her?" 
 
212 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " Vanity apart — for, indeed, what need is there of vanity ? — 
 I think that she is inclined to like me," said Devereux, with un- 
 moved quietude. " But her illness came at an unfortunate time 
 — ^just when I had decided on this step — and, no doubt, I shall 
 have to make my impression over again. Besides this, I have to 
 face the disadvantage of being disliked and distrusted by her 
 closest companion and nearest friend." 
 
 " Not a woman, surely ? " 
 
 " A woman, certainly — why not ? " 
 
 " I thought women were alwaj^s your friends." 
 
 " There is no rule without its excei3tions. Miss Severn is not 
 my friend." 
 
 " Miss Severn ! " repeated Mr. Stringfellow. " I am told that 
 Champion is engaged to a Miss Severn. No doubt this is the 
 same, and she is merely taking his side against you. Women 
 are always partisans." 
 
 " Very true ; and your reason would be quite satisfactory but 
 for the slight fact that the Miss Severn who is engaged to Cham- 
 pion is not the one of whom I speak." 
 
 " Not — eh ? Then who is the one of whom you speak ? " 
 
 " She is sister to Mr. Champion's Jianceey and cousin to Miss 
 Carlisle." 
 
 " Then she is doubly pledged to oppose you ; and may prove 
 dangerous if she belongs to the class called designing." 
 
 Devereux could not restrain a smile. Madeleine's face rose 
 before him — the delicate, noble features, the dark, eloquent eyes. 
 " No one could possibly think that she belongs to that class," 
 he said. "But her prejudices against me may be strong, never- 
 theless." 
 
 " You ought to devote yourself to conciliating her, if her influ- 
 ence is really great," said Mr. Stringfellow, comj^lacently. " But, 
 after all, why should she be prejudiced ? Any one might see that 
 you are acting, and have acted, with most uncommon regard fo] 
 Miss Carlisle." 
 
 Devereux did not choose to enter into the possible or prob- 
 able grounds of Madeleine's prejudice. He let the subject drop; 
 
A MODE OF COMPROMISE. 213 
 
 and so, for a minute, there was silence. It was Mr. Stringfellow 
 who spoke first. 
 
 " I suppose, since jou have been here, you have seen old 
 Burnham — the witness to your grandfather's handwriting ? " 
 
 " T have seen him only once," Devereux answered. " Then, 
 though his mind was perfectly clear, his health seemed very 
 feeble." 
 
 " He must not die before he gives his evidence," said Mr. 
 Stringfellow, hastily. " That would never do ! We must go to 
 see him to-morrow. How far does he live from here ? " 
 
 " Eight or nine miles, perhaps." 
 
 " Well, we must drive out. In the morning, say — have you 
 any engagement for the morning ? " 
 
 " I am sorry to answer yes — I have been foolish enough to 
 become entangled in some ridiculous amateur theatricals, and 
 there is a rehearsal in the morning." 
 
 " The afternoon, then — are you free for the afternoon ? " 
 
 "Entirely so. We will go after dinner, if the weather is 
 good." 
 
 The next morning, at the rehearsal, Rosalind noticed that 
 
 Devereux seemed a little distrait — a very little, for he was too 
 
 thoroughly accustomed to the social habitude of concealing what 
 
 he felt, to betray, in any marked degree, the real absence of his 
 
 mind. It was an unusual state w-ith him, for he generally 
 
 kept his mind well under control ; but, since Mr. Stringfel- 
 
 low's words the night before, his thoughts were running very 
 
 much on Mary Carlisle. Not as a lover's thoughts run on the 
 
 object of his choice — that was not to be expected — but as a 
 
 man thinks of something which puzzles and disquiets him. It 
 
 was not any consideration of Mary herself which puzzled and 
 
 disquieted Devereux, but a doubt which he could not decide, 
 
 whether he should or should not speak to her definitely before 
 
 the suit came off in the courts. He wished very much to do so 
 
 before that time, for reasons which will be at once apparent. If 
 
 things were already settled between them, the decision of the 
 
 court would not matter ; but if things were not settled, and U 
 
 10 
 
214 A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 the decision were given in his favor, he felt instinctively that 
 Mary Carlisle would greatly distrust his reason for addressing her, 
 and would set it down unhesitatingly to pity for her changed 
 condition. Yet, to speak to her at once on such a subject would 
 seem premature, if not presumptuous. Then a recollection of 
 Madeleine's warning suddenly came to him. What if he should 
 endanger her life, or kill her ! On the whole, Mr. Devereux had 
 various considerations to revolve ; and his slight absence of mind 
 at the rehearsal was not Yerj remarkable. 
 
 When the important matter was over, he glanced at his watch. 
 It was only twelve o'clock — fully time for a visit to the Lodge — 
 and he felt that it was imperative that he should see Mary. Her 
 manner would tell him, better than any reflections of his own, how^ 
 far he might venture to speak openly. He felt that he could rely 
 on his judgment, as a man " in love " can never do. Much as he 
 liked and admired the gentle blind girl, his heart beat no whit 
 quicker at thought of her, nor sent up any mist to cloud and con- 
 fuse the cool, steady brain. This fact did not make him pause 
 for a moment in his resolution to ask her to be his wife. One or 
 two fever-fits of passion in his early youth had cured him of all 
 desire to drink again of the cup of Circe. 3Iariage de raison 
 commended itself to his philosophical soul as the thing to be most 
 desired, and certainly reason, kindness, and good taste, were all 
 on the side of a marriage with j\Iary Carlisle. 
 
 With these admirable dispositions he approached the Lodge. 
 The mellow November sunshine was lying over the house, the 
 soft November haze was draping all the distant landscape. The 
 atmosphere had the Indian summer deliciousness — a warmth 
 without heat — in its golden stillness. Devereux remembered the 
 last day he had been there — the falling rain, the lowering sky 
 outside ; within, the hushed house, and Madeleine's cold, proud 
 face. He smiled a little to himself, and wondered if she would 
 see him again, and send him away without a glimpse of Miss 
 Carlisle. 
 
 In answer to his summons at the door, Albert appeared and 
 ushered him into the drawing-room. Here he was left for a few 
 
A MODE OF COMPROMISE. 215 
 
 minutes in suspense, wliicli did not prove very irksome, until the 
 servant reappeared saj-ing that Miss Carlisle would receive him. 
 Thereupon he was conducted across the hall and admitted to 
 that pleasant, anomalous apartment known as the library. 
 
 Fate had befriended him. Mary was alone. She was re- 
 clining in a deep chair, dressed very much as he had seen her 
 first, in soft pale blue. Her fair, delicate face, sharpened by 
 illness, was turned toward the door, and there was something 
 inexpressibly touching in the sightless eyes and sensitive lips 
 which made Devereux's heart melt with a sensation very closely 
 akin to tenderness; indeed, it was such tenderness as he might 
 have felt for a frail, attractive child. He advanced and took 
 her hand. " How glad I am to see you well again ! " he said. 
 
 The faint color flickered into her cheeks, the lips smiled, the 
 blue eyes met his own with their pathetic introspective regard. 
 *' You are very kind," she said, gently. " Yes, I am well again, 
 that is, as well as I shall ever be, I suppose. I have never had 
 strong health : I know that I must never expect it." 
 
 " Why not ? " he asked ; involuntarily speaking as gently as 
 herself. " Do you not think, if you went to a warmer climate, 
 perhaps — " 
 
 She shook her head, shrinking into the depths of her chair. 
 " I could not leave home," she said. " I have never done so — 
 I think I have taken root. AYhy should a mild climate help me? 
 I have no disease which it could cure." 
 
 " A mild climate helps almost all diseases," said Devereux. 
 *' Then change of air — " 
 
 But again Mary shook her head. " I am sure there is no bet- 
 ter air anvwhere than that which one breathes here," she said. 
 " Is it not pleasant to-day ? Perhaps it is because I have been 
 sick that it seems to me so delightful." 
 
 " I scarcely think so. I have not been sick, and it seems de- 
 lightful to me. Do you know, by-the-way, that I have been 
 suffering great self-reproach during your illness ? The last day 
 that I was here I remained too long, and so became accountable 
 for part at least of your suffering." 
 
21G A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " Why do you think such a thing- 9 " she asked. " Did any 
 one tell you so ? " 
 
 " Miss Severn told me that j'ou were ill because you had been 
 over-excited." 
 
 "All, yes ! over-excited. But you had nothing to do with it 
 — at least 1 mean that you could not imagine I would be excited 
 by that which would be no excitement at all to any one else." 
 
 " I should have remembered that you are not like other peo- 
 ple." 
 
 "No," she said, eagerly, "you must not blame yourself! I 
 assure you it was not the excitement of your visit which caused 
 my illness. I should have been ill in any event. I am confident " 
 (very positively) " of that." 
 
 " You are very good to reassure me," he said, watching* the 
 play of expression over the mobile face, the soft lights and shad- 
 ows which chased each other across it, and the tremulous mo- 
 tion of the flexile lips. Dared he speak ? This was what he was 
 thinking, and, while he thought it, Mary went on : 
 
 " And what have you been doing during these weeks Avhich 
 have seemed to me so weary ? Surely you have not spent the 
 time in rehearsing the play of which I have heard so much ? " 
 
 " I have spent more of it in that way than I should like to 
 consider, if there had been any thing else for me to do," he 
 answered. " But when I was not shooting there was nothing- 
 else. You may remember that I shocked you by confessing 
 when I was here last that I am not very much of a reading- 
 man." 
 
 " You did not shock me, but I thought that it was strange," 
 said Mary. " We always think it strange when others do not 
 like what we like." 
 
 " Yesterday my lawyer arrived — Mr. Stringfellow, of whom 
 you have heard me speak," Devereux continued, plunging head- 
 long into the subject which he saw no means of approaching 
 carefully, though he wished to do so. " Will you forgive me if I 
 draw your attention again to the case at issue between us, which 
 will probably be decided next week ? " 
 
A MODE OF COMPROMISE. 217 
 
 *' Do you think it is at issue between usf or between our 
 lawyers ? " she asked, smiling. " I hope you are not disquieting 
 yourself on my account. You cannot tell how little interest I feel 
 except for others. But it will be a terrible blow to poor Basil 
 if the case goes against me ! " she added, gravely. " And this 
 reminds me, Mr. Devereux, that I have a great favor to ask of 
 you." 
 
 " Surely you know that you have only to ask, that I will do 
 any thing which lies in my power for you," he said, earnestly, 
 touched afresh by the sweet face turned toward him. 
 
 " It is this, then," she said : " If the decision is given in your 
 favor, and the property becomes yours, "will you not retain Basil 
 in his present position ? I should not make such an appeal if he 
 were not the most honest and faithful of men, or — or, if you had 
 not showed so generous a disposition." 
 
 "Do not let us discuss such a jDossibility ! " he said, impetu- 
 ously ; " I cannot bear, I will not bear to think of despoiling you 
 of your inheritance ! There must be some means — " He rose 
 suddenly, very much to her astonishment, and walked away. In 
 truth, he scarcely knew what he was doing. A most unusual 
 agitation seemed to possess him — an agitation which he had 
 never felt in the presence of those women of the world of whom 
 Mr. Stringfellow had spoken. Should he risk all that he de- 
 sired by sjDeaking now ? or should he risk still more by wait- 
 ing ? He had to decide this, and besides to take into considera- 
 tion all the danger connected with excitement. As he stood by 
 the window debating these questions, he did not perceive that, 
 after a minute's hesitation, Mary rose and came to hin:!. He did 
 not hear her light footstep on the thick carpet, nor was he aware 
 of her presence at his side until she spoke. 
 
 "You are considering me," she said, with the frankest sim- 
 plicity. " Pray do not ! In any case I shall not suffer, ^^ou" may 
 be sure of that. But I could not help thinking of Basil. He did 
 so much for papa, and he has done so much for me." 
 
 In her pleading, she involuntarily extended her hand and laid 
 it on his arm. The opportunity which he desired seemed to 
 
218 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 come to Devereux without his seeking. He took that hand in 
 his own — took it not passionately, as a lover might have taken 
 it, but with almost hesitating gentleness. To him, as to Basil 
 and Madeleine, there seemed a sacredness about Mary Carlisle. 
 
 " It is not worth while to speak of these things," he said. 
 " There is no certainty that the decision of the court will be in 
 my favor. You know how anxious I have been to compromise 
 my claim, and how persistently your friends have refused to 
 entertain such an idea — but — but has it never occurred to you 
 that there might be one mode of compromise in which your 
 agent and your lawyer would have no voice, which would rest 
 altogether with yourself — a compromise which would make it 
 a matter of indifference to us in v/hose favor the court gave its 
 decision ? " 
 
 He spoke with the utmost quietness to which he could modu- 
 late his voice, fully mindful of the danger of exciting her, yet 
 he felt a throb of keen anxiety when he saw the start which she 
 gave, the quiver which ran over her from head to foot, and he 
 was haunted afterward by the inexpressible mingling of wist- 
 fulness and doubt on the face turned toward him. 
 
 " ^\Tiat do you mean ? " she faltered. " I do not think I 
 quite understand — " 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, do not excite yourself ! " he said, hur- 
 riedly. " I mean only this, that, if you could think of such a thing 
 as marrying me, the whole matter would be settled. God knows 
 I have very little to offer you," he said, with a tone of genuine 
 humility in his voice, " and I am aware that you know very little 
 of me, and that this may seem to you very presumptuous ; but 
 still, if you would consider — " 
 
 He broke off abruptly as she retreated from him with a low 
 cry, clasping her hands with a sudden motion over her heart. 
 The gesture dismaj-ed him. What had he done ? 
 
 " I shall never forgive myself if you allow what I have said 
 to agitate you ! " he exclaimed. " I only ask you to take such 
 a thing into consideration, not to decide on it now. If you can 
 only tell me that you will think of it — " 
 
THE EVE OF BATTLE. 219 
 
 " But why should I tell you so ? " she asked, in a tone of 
 keen pain, as he paused. " Why should I think of it ? You only 
 propose it because you are sorry for me ; because you believe 
 that I shall be poor ! " 
 
 " You are mistaken," he said, quickly. " I would not insult 
 you by such a proposal if I had no better reason for it than 
 that. Besides, there is no certainty that you will lose any 
 thing. It may be I who will lose every thing, and then, be 
 branded perhaps, as a fortune-hunter. But do not let us talk of 
 interest, let us put that aside. In speaking as I have done, I 
 think of you, not of that which is at issue between us. I cannot 
 tell you how charmed I was when I saw you first, and that im- 
 pression has never left me. I do not expect you to feel toward 
 me in the same manner ; I only ask you to let me try to win 
 your heart, and to take into consideration the thought of marry- 
 ing me. Will you do this ? " 
 
 She was silent for a minute, a troubled expression on her 
 face, her fingers lacing and unlacing nervously. Then without 
 a word she turned awav and went back to the fire. Devereux 
 followed, and when she sank into her seat took one of the 
 slender, trembling hands and tenderly kissed it. 
 
 " Do not trouble or disquiet yourself to answer me now," he 
 said. " I can wait. All that I ask is that you will sufier me to 
 plead my cause when j'ou are able to hear me." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE EVE OF BATTLE. 
 
 When Devereux left the Lodge he felt that he had gained a 
 great deal, and had every reason to hope for final success. 
 Mary had promised to take his proposal into consideration, and 
 the manner of this promise had been more than its matter. He 
 felt satisfied that he was acting with wisdom and discretion, and 
 
220 A QUESTION OF HONOR 
 
 he had been more than ever attracted and pleased by the gentle 
 sweetness of the girl he hoped to win. It would not matter 
 now in whose favor the suit was decided, though of course he 
 entertained a not unreasonable desire that the balance of for- 
 tune should be on his side. Few men with any genuine man- 
 hood in them fancy the idea of playing the part of Prince 
 Consort, and Devereux fancied it even less than most men, that 
 strain of Quixotism in his nature which had brought him to 
 Stansbury, and made him Mary Carlisle's suitor, asserting itself 
 on this point with marked distinctness. More than once in his 
 past life he had allowed opportunities of the kind, which his 
 friends had esteemed really providential, to slip by unheeded. 
 
 That there was any danger of the suit going otherwise than 
 in his favor, his friend Mr. Stringfellow would not for a moment 
 admit. As they were driving that afternoon, on their way to 
 visit Mr. Burnham, who was so important a witness in the case, 
 that gentleman expressed himself again with great decision. 
 
 " The case will undoubtedly go for you," he said, as they 
 passed the Carlisle Mills, "and a very fine property you will 
 come into ; I don't know a finer anywhere ! And to think of 
 that lease having been laid aside and forgotten for so long I " 
 
 " The property was almost valueless when it was leased," 
 said Devereux. " That accounts for it, I suppose, together with 
 th.e fact of my mother, who was sole heiress of her father's es- 
 tate, having m^arried and gone away. And you think," touch- 
 ing the horse meditatively, " that the decision will certainly be 
 rendered in my favor ? " 
 
 " I am not a betting-man," said Mr. Stringfellow, " but I 
 would take odds, fifty to one, on the point. In fact, I am confi- 
 dent of it, and I si^ncerely hope that old Burnham is as clear in 
 his head as he was when I saw him eighteen months ago. That 
 length of time sometimes makes a great difference in one of his 
 age — confound Champion and his miserable quibbles and delays ! 
 He has fought off the case for two years, in order that Burnham 
 might die. But Burnham, luckily for us, is not dead." 
 
 " He was very feeble when I saw him three or four weeks 
 
THE EVE OF LATTLE. 221 
 
 ago," said Devereux. " I don't know that I would advise you 
 to count too confidently on his testimony." 
 
 " Oh, he will be all right when he is wanted," said Mr. String- 
 fellow, who was plainly bent on regarding every thing as cheer- 
 fully as possible. "He has the right stuff in him, that old 
 fellow ! I saw it at once. He has good stamina to his consti- 
 tution, and doesn't mean to die while he is needed." 
 
 The speaker was, however, forced to retract a good deal of 
 this sanguine view of things when he saw " Old Bui-nham," 
 who was really, as Devereux had said, very feeble. But this 
 feebleness related altogether to the body, not at all to his mind. 
 The clearness of his intellect was something remarkable when 
 one considered that he was, as his son proudly stated, eighty- 
 nine on his last birthday. 
 
 " Archie's right," said the old man, with some exultation in 
 his uncommon age. " If I live to see Christmas I shall finish 
 ray ninetieth year. I haven't such use of my limbs as I should 
 like, but, thank God ! my memory's as clear as ever. I remem- 
 ber your grandfather well " (nodding to Devereux), " and I re- 
 member all about the lease you want to prove. Tom Shelton 
 had been renting the property for some time when General 
 Mansfield gave him a lease for fifty years. That was in 1815. 
 I remember the year as if it were yesterday." 
 
 " And you remember seeing the contract of lease," said Mr, 
 Stringfellow briskly, " which was signed by both the lessor and 
 lessee?" 
 
 "Yes, I remember it," answered the old man, nodding his 
 white head. " There was a duplicate ; General Mansfield kept 
 one and Shelton the other. I saw Shelton's." 
 
 " I wish we could see it," said Mr. Stringfellow. " It would 
 strengthen our case amazingly. Well, General Mansfield died, 
 his only child married and went away, and Shelton after holding 
 the land for twenty-odd years — long enough to give a title on 
 the strength of possession — sold the property and moved West." 
 
 " Just so, just so," said Mr. Burnham, tapping on the floor 
 with his stick, while a small grandson stood by his knee and 
 
222 A QUESTION OF HONOH. 
 
 gazed, with his finger in his mouth, at the strangers, at the ener- 
 getic, rubicund kiwjer, and the quiet gentleman who watched 
 the scene with hizy, almost uninterested, eyes. " He moved 
 West, and nobody in these parts has ever heard of him from that 
 day to this. I wasn't living here at that time. I went out to 
 Mississippi — which was what you might call real frontier country 
 then — with one of my sons, and I never came back till just be- 
 fore the war. The land had passed through a good many hands 
 in the mean time, and at last had come to be owned by Mr. Car- 
 lisle. He was building factories at a great rate, and I never 
 thought of the lease till I heard about the lawsuit." 
 
 "And you don't know anybody else in the country round 
 here who might remember it ? " asked Mr. Stringfellow, 
 
 The old man shook his head. " I'm alone of my generation," 
 he said. " I know nobody else. If you had come and asked me 
 the same question ten years ago, I might have given you a dif- 
 ferent answer, but war and trouble have killed off the old men 
 very fast. I'm the last of my generation, and I shall go soon." 
 
 " You mustn't think of such a thing before j'ou have given 
 your testimony," said the lawyer. " Bless my soul ! I don't see 
 any reason why you should die for ten or fifteen years yet — you 
 are hale and hearty ! " 
 
 " Not so much so as you think, perhaps," said Mr. Burnham, 
 " I'm not what you might call sick, but I'm weakly — very weak- 
 ly, of late. But I'll try and get into court to give my testimony. 
 Do you think the case will be tried next week ? " 
 
 " It certainly will be, unless the other side manage to have 
 it put off again ; and I don't think they can do that," replied 
 Mr. Stringfellow. Then he turned to the son — a stout, middle- 
 aged farmer sitting by. " To-day is Saturday. You'd better 
 bring your father into Stansbury to-morrow, had you not ? " he 
 said. " The case will be called early in the week, and we had 
 better have him on hand." 
 
 " That's what I meant to do," answered the j-ounger Mr. 
 Burnham. " I've a sister married in Stansbury, and I thought 
 I'd take him in to her to-morrow if it's a fine day. The old man 
 
THE EVE OF BATTLE. 223 
 
 is right — he has been giving way uncommonly of late," he added, 
 in a lower tone. " If you put off your case again, I'm inclined 
 to think you won't have him for a wdtness." 
 
 "It shall not be put off! " said Mr. Stringfellow. 
 
 " You can't tell that," said Devereux, after they had taken 
 their departure and were driving away; " Cliampion may suc- 
 ceed in havins: it deferred ao;ain." 
 
 "I don't think so," replied the other. "He has exhausted 
 his excuses for delay, and must come to trial. He has showed 
 great ingenuity in staving matters off so loDg, but the tug of 
 war must take place next week." 
 
 It chanced that on this same day Basil Severn appeared in 
 ]VIr. Champion's office, and, finding the latter alone, at once 
 plunged into the subject of the lawsuit. 
 
 " As sure as you live we have made a mistake ! " he said. 
 " The more I think of it, the more certain I am that we ought to 
 compromise the matter. UiDon my word when I think of the 
 case coming off next week, and of the danger of Mary's losing 
 almost every thing she has by our obstinacy, I feel nervous as a 
 woman ! " 
 
 "I think you must be neivous as a woman to talk in that 
 fashion," said Champion, coollj'", looking up from his writing. 
 " I have told you all along that the case will be decided in our 
 favor, and I tell you so again. If you choose to sacrifice Miss 
 Carlisle's property by a compromise, however, I suppose it is 
 not yet too late to do so. No doubt Mr. Devereux and his law- 
 yer will grasp eagerly at such a proposal — but you must excuse 
 me from having any thing to do with it." 
 
 " There is old Burnham ready to swear every thing necessary 
 for making out their case," said Basil, with the most sincere 
 anxiety and perturbation on his face. 
 
 " Old Burnham is in his dotage," said Champion, contemptu- 
 ously. " The contract of lease which they produce is invalid. 
 That is what I maintain, and what I shall prove. You must of 
 course act according to your own judgment, but, if I were in 
 your place, I would not surrender an inch. Compromise is the 
 
224 A QUESTION or nOXOPt. 
 
 very thing they \yant, and the very thing at which they are aim- 
 ing with all their blustering talk. I know Stringfellow of old ; 
 and as for that fellow Devereux — " 
 
 " You are prejudiced against him," said Basil. '* So was I 
 at first, but I think now that he means well on the whole." 
 
 " He means to compromise his claim if he can, and, failing 
 that, to marry Miss Carlisle," said Champion, bending his black 
 brows. " A more insolent puppy, or fortune-hunter, never 
 lived ! " 
 
 " I wish to Heaven I knew what to do ! " said Basil, with 
 energy. " The responsibilitj' falls on me, and, in case we lose the 
 suit, I shall never forgive myself." 
 
 " Now look here ! " said Champion, with decision. " That is 
 nonsense. We must all accept responsibilities in this world, do 
 the best we can according to our honest judgment, and leave the 
 rest to — Providence," he said — thinking that form of expression 
 as good as any other. " If we could realize Adam's ambition, 
 and be as gods knowing good and evil, of course it would be 
 more convenient ; but, that being impossible, we must be pre- 
 pared to make mistakes sometimes, and bear the consequences 
 philosophically. In my opinion, we shall not lose the suit — but, 
 if we do, I shall not regret having advised you to stand by your 
 colors ! " 
 
 " I am afraid you don't put yourself exactly in my place when 
 you give that advice," said Basil. 
 
 " If I were in your place I should not need it," replied the 
 other, dryly. 
 
 There was a little more talk of this description, and then 
 Severn took his departure, no whit easier in mind than when he 
 came. He had described his condition accurately when he 
 spoke of being nervous as a woman over the approaching trial. 
 What was it best to do for Mary's interest ? That was the 
 question which tormented him. It certainly seemed too late to 
 compromise, now at the eleventh hour, yet more and more his 
 judgment turned toward compromise. Perhaps he might have 
 disquieted himself less if he had known the result of Deve- 
 
THE EYE OF BATTLE. 225 
 
 reux's morning call at the Lodge ; or perhaps his disquiet might 
 have taken another form, and he would have thought that 
 Mary's happiness was in greater jeopardy than her fortune. 
 
 This certainly was Madeleine's opinion when she heard — as 
 she soon did — all that had passed in the course of Devereux's 
 visit. It is not saying too much to declare that she was aghast. 
 She knew that it was likely to occur, but she had not looked 
 for it so soon — so suddenly. A pang of pity and indignation 
 seized her heart. The man rose before her with all his debon- 
 naire grace, as she had seen him last, smiling on Rosalind's beau- 
 ty, and that he should have come immediately from that shrine 
 to oifer his empty heart and impoverished fortunes to Mary Car- 
 lisle, seemed to her almost too much to be borne. But what 
 was to be done ? Should she warn the latter by declaring all 
 that she knew and much more that she suspected, of her suit- 
 or's unworthiness ? No one could doubt that Madeleine pos- 
 sessed moral courage in no common degree, yet she shrank from 
 this. Not only because she feared, most naturally, that she 
 would be speaking in vain, but because she could not bear to 
 dash with pain the happiness shining on the blind girl's face. 
 Her heart melted over this happiness — which, indeed, had in it 
 many elements of pathos — almost as a mother's might have 
 done. So hopelessly cut off and debarred from all the pleas- 
 ures of youth had Mary always been, that it seemed little less 
 than a miracle that this cup of delight should at last be held to 
 her lips. Could any hand have dashed it away or infused bit- 
 terness into it ? Assuredly not Madeleine's. When the story 
 was hinted rather than told, she put her arms around the fal- 
 tering speaker as if she had been indeed her sister. " JVly dear, 
 dear Mary, God bless you ! " she said. It was all that she 
 could say — at least for some time. But the tender benediction 
 was full of sweetness to the listener. 
 
 Unconscious, meanwhile, of the bold move which her sworn 
 vassal — for so she esteemed Devereux — had ventured to make, 
 Rosalind was arranging all her plans for the future with great 
 satisfaction to herself. She found that possessing two strings 
 
226 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 to her bow was an agreeable excitement, and developed all her 
 diplomatic talent, besides offering very substantial benefits in 
 prospective. James, it is true, had become very unmanageable 
 of late, and more than once she had a twinge of fear lest she 
 might have committed herself too far with Devereux ; but on 
 the whole she had succeeded in keeping matters very well bal- 
 anced between the two. She entertained no doubt whatever of 
 her ability to manage the d^noi'anent entirely to her satisfac- 
 tion. Devereux, she felt sure, only waited for the successful 
 termination of his lawsuit to declare himself, while nothing was 
 easier than to make Champion demand his freedom — when she 
 was ready to give it to him. His patience had reached its far- 
 thest limit, she knew — a little more provocation and it would 
 end alto2:ether. 
 
 Qn this somewhat tangled web of different hopes, fears, de- 
 sires, and intentions, the sun of Saturday went down, and, as 
 Rosalind watched the pageant of sunset from the ivy-encircled 
 window where she had seen Devereux first, she said to herself 
 " Another week will end suspense." 
 
BOOK ni. 
 
 WAEF AND WOOF. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 basil's mixd is relieved. 
 
 We all know how weeks, months, even years, often pass, 
 carrying us with them down the stream of time, without a sin- 
 gle event of importance coming to stir the placid current of 
 monotonous life. Then, again, this life seems suddenly full to 
 overflowing, crowded to the brim with momentous occurrences 
 — occurrences, perhaps, which revolutionize all the familiar 
 world around us — and which may put untold possibilities of 
 happiness or sorrow into the space of a few days. There are 
 such tidal periods in almost every existence, and something like 
 this came to those interested in the lawsuit and all that was 
 likely to arise from it. 
 
 That next week to which Rosalind looked forward as the 
 end of suspense came as brightly and serenely — beautiful No- 
 vember weather, all blue haze and mellow sunshine — as if it had 
 been freighted with no such important meaning. On Sunday 
 Mr. Burnham was brought in by his son to his married daugh- 
 ter's house, and here Mr. Stringfellow found him on Monday 
 morning, when he called, on his way to court, to inquire into 
 his condition. That condition was by no means so satisfactory 
 as it might have been. The old man was very much shaken by 
 his unusual journey, and his daughter looked grave when she 
 admitted the lawyer into the room where he lay in bed. " Fa- 
 
228 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 ther's an old man and not well enough to be worried in this kind 
 of waj'," she said, in a tone of strong disapproval. " I shouldn't 
 be at all surprised if this business would be the means of kill- 
 ing him. He was excited and restless all night, and this morn- 
 ing he's as weak as a baby." 
 
 " What on earth was there to excite him ? " demanded Mr. 
 Stringfellow, in a tone of great disgust. " All that he is asked 
 to do is to keep quiet and be ready to go into court and give 
 his testimony when it is called for. There's nothing in that to 
 make him restless, I'm sure." 
 
 " There wouldn't be any thing in it to make you restless, 
 perhaps," said Mrs. Warren, who was known to all her neighbors 
 and friends as being decided of character and sharp of tongue, 
 " but it's been years now since father's done any thing but sit 
 in the chimney-corner at George's and smoke; so when you 
 come to talk of such a thing as lugging him into court — " 
 
 " I don't talk of such a thing at all, madam," said Mr. String- 
 fellow, whose forte was not patience. " I am not in the habit 
 of lugging people into court. They come when the law sum- 
 mons them — and the law has summoned your father. Now, I'll 
 go in and speak to him." 
 
 " The less you say the better, in my 023inion," remarked 
 Mrs. Warren, as she opened the door. 
 
 There was not much to say, and Mr. Stringfellow left very 
 soon, feeling a little uneasy. He did not like old Burnham's 
 appearance, and he said to himself that the sooner the case 
 was over and Iris testimony given, the better. That cumbrous 
 machine w^hich we call the law moves slowly, however, and 
 there were several cases on the docket to be disposed of before 
 that of Devereux vis. Carlisle could be called. 
 
 The plaintiff in this case, meantime, troubled himself very 
 little concerning it. He went daily to the Lodge without men- 
 tioning again the subject on which he had touched, and devoted 
 himself to Mary with all the graceful gallantry which he had ac- 
 quired during years of social success. Of the result it is scarcely 
 w^orth while to speak. Madeleine, looking on, saw plainly enough 
 
BASIL'S MI^-D IS RELIEVED. 229 
 
 how entirely Mary was suiTenderiDg her heart, and that, when- 
 ever Devereux chose to put his fate to the touch, it would be all 
 that he could ask. Sunday and Monday passed in this manner, 
 and short as the time was Mary seemed to expand like a fiower, 
 gaining color and fragrance with ever}^ hour. Her rapid im- 
 provement astonished every one who saw her. Even Mrs. In- 
 gram — usually the most obtuse of mortals — perceived it, and Dr. 
 Arthur fairly opened his eyes when he called. " You have done 
 wonders for your patient. Miss Severa," he said, turning to 
 Madeleine. " I never saw her rally so quickly before." 
 
 " I do not think I have had any share in the rallying, doctor," 
 replied Madeleine ; but Mary impulsivel}'' put out her hand. 
 
 " You have ! you have ! " she said. " I should never have got 
 well but for you." 
 
 " Take care that you don't get sick again, then," said the 
 doctor. "Remember — no excitement! And I think you had 
 better begin to take a little exercise." 
 
 It was on Devereux's arm that this exercise was first taken, 
 that afternoon. With him Mary walked around the lawn and 
 through the garden. Natm-e was at her loveliest, her pensive 
 beauty seemed to hold the world in a spell, the air was like an 
 elysium, the smoky haze wrapped all the distant landscape in a 
 blue dimness. Devereux, who had a very epicurean element in 
 his composition, thought that the soft autumnal beauty — beautj' 
 without the passionate fervor of summer, or the virginal grace of 
 spring — seemed in subtile harmony with his state of feeling, with 
 the quiet pleasure he experienced in Mary's society, and the re- 
 pose of a well-satisfied conscience. 
 
 While these two were pacing along the garden-walks, Made- 
 leine passed out of the Lodge and took her way down to the 
 mills. It was a pleasant walk across the fields, and, if her mind 
 had been a little more at ease, she would have enjoyed it ex- 
 ceedingly. But, in her present mood, there was a sadness in the 
 still loveliness of the afternoon which almost oppressed her. As 
 she paused for a few minutes by a stile, and looked beyond the 
 brown fields and blue woods to the distant horizon, she made a 
 
230 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 picture that a painter would have liked to idealize. But there 
 was no painter to catch the unconscious grace of the slender fig- 
 ure, the unconscious pathos of the quiet face — 
 
 " The mouth with steady sweetness set, 
 And eyes conveying unaware 
 The distant hint of some regret 
 That harbored there." 
 
 Only Basil, coming around a curve of the path, saw her and 
 suddenly started. 
 
 " Madeleine ! " he said, " what odd chance brings you here ? 
 I was just on my way to the Lodge to see you." 
 
 " Were you ? " said Madeleine, starting in turn at the unex- 
 pected address. " Well, we have met half-waj^, for I was coming 
 to the mills to see yow." 
 
 " For any particular reason ? " asked he, pausing in front of 
 her, with the stile between them. 
 
 '• For no more particular reason than I suppose was bringing 
 you to see me," she answered, smiling. " Shall we walk ? or will 
 you sit down here ? It is very pleasant, and see what a pretty 
 bit of landscape is yonder ! " 
 
 Basil looked at the landscape absently as he accepted a seat 
 on the stile. There was a shadow on his face which Madeleine 
 was quick to observe. She drew closer, and laid her hand on his 
 arm. " Something is troubling you," she said ; " what is it ? " 
 
 "Only the old story," he answered. " I was coming to talk 
 it over with you once more." 
 
 " Do you mean about the lawsuit ? " 
 
 " Yes, about the lawsuit. It haunts me night and day that 
 Mary may lose every thing because I have listened to Champion 
 and been obstinate about a compromise. Madeleine, it is not too 
 late even yet. Tell me what you think. Shall I take the re- 
 sponsibility of compromising? Champion is as strong as ever 
 against such a step ; but it seems to me — " 
 
 He was interrupted here, much to his surprise, by a low 
 laugh from Madeleine, not a very mirthful laugh, it is true, yet 
 
BASIL'S MIND IS RELIEVED. 231 
 
 one which had a certain strain of amusement in it. " Excuse 
 me," she said, as he looked at her. " But j^ou spoke of this 
 once before, do yoa remember ? and have you forgotten what I 
 told you then ? " 
 
 " You said that you thought there might be no need of a com- 
 promise — that you believed that Devereux wished to marry 
 Mary. I believed it too, at first, as 3'ou may recollect, but of 
 late—" 
 
 " Well, of late ? " 
 
 " He has seemed to think only of flirting with Rosalind, till, 
 upon my word, I believe that, if he wins the suit, she will marry 
 him." 
 
 " I do not think she will have the opportunity," said Made- 
 leine, quietly ; " and as for you, dear Basil," she added, with a 
 slight smile, " don't disquiet yourself any more. Let the suit 
 end as it may, Mary's interest is secure, for Mr. Devereux has 
 asked her to marry him." 
 
 " Has he indeed ! " said Basil. Two months before, he would 
 have received such an announcement with indio-nation : now an 
 expression of absolute rehef came over his face. *' Then the load 
 is off my shoulders," he said, " and a heavy one it has been ever 
 since I began to look into the matter for myself! Up to that 
 time I had simply taken Champion's word for every thing. But 
 when Devereux put his view of the matter before me, and when 
 I examined registers and questioned old Burnham, my heart 
 fairly sank into my boots." 
 
 " Then you think the case will certainly be decided in Mr. 
 Devereux's favor ? " 
 
 " I am unable to see how it can possibly end otherwise, though 
 Champion stands as firmly as ever by his opinion that we shall 
 be successful. But, if Mary has accepted him, it hardly matters 
 how the ease goes." 
 
 " I did not say that she has accepted him, only that he of- 
 fered himself. He has not received her answer yet, but there is 
 little doubt of what it will be. My poor Mary ! It almost breaks 
 my heart to see her — she is so happy ! " 
 
232 A QUESTION OF HONOK. 
 
 " Wli J should that break your heart ? " asked Basil, with a 
 smile. '' Surely hap^jiness is a good thing — as well as one of 
 the rarest things on earth — and Mary has never had much of it." 
 
 " For that reason I am sorry — oh, sorry to absolute pain — to 
 look at her now," said Madeleine. "Don't you understand? It is 
 nut as if she had been like other people, but she has been so cut 
 off from the ordinary lot of women, and now for this to come, and 
 for her happiness to have no real foundation ! O Basil, don't 
 you understand ? " 
 
 " I think I do," said Basil. " You mean that Devereux is 
 not worthy of her. Granted, with all my heart — but, if my 
 opinion of the pending suit is a right one, he cannot, at least, be 
 charged with being a fortune-hunter." 
 
 " But who knows that your opinion is right," said Madeleine, 
 " or who knows how he may betray Mary's trust at last ? I have 
 no faith in him — none whatever ! " 
 
 " Take care you don't run into prejudice," said her brother. 
 " You gave me that advice once on the same subject, and now 
 I repeat it. Extreme opinions are generally mistaken opinions. 
 I think the man is honest and a gentleman. Let him have 
 sought Mary for what reason he may, honor will keep him 
 straight." 
 
 " I hope so," said Madeleine. " It is the best thing we can 
 hope, now." 
 
 After this there was a minute's silence, which was broken 
 presently by Basil's saying, abruptly : " I suppose it w^ould be 
 premature to mention any thing of this in Stansbury ? " 
 
 " Altogether premature," she replied. " Do not mention it 
 to any one. The aifairis yet in uncertainty. Mr. Devereux, when 
 he declared himself, said that he would not press Mary for an 
 answer. He has not done so, and perhaps," added Miss Severn, 
 with unaccustomed cvnicism, "if the lawsuit is decided in his 
 favor, he never may." 
 
 " In the name of Heaven, why should you think such a thing ? " 
 demanded Basil, considerably startled. He was so much in the 
 habit of relying on Madeleine's opinion, that he could scarcely 
 
BASIL'S MIXD IS RELIEVED. 233 
 
 realize that she might be misled by prejudice as well as other 
 people. " You must misjudge him ! " said the young man. " No 
 one could be so dishonorable. He would have to answer to me 
 if he were — but vou must be mistaken." 
 
 " I may be," said Madeleine. " But I cannot like or trust him. 
 Perhaps it is because trouble seemed to come when he came," 
 said she, clasping her hands in her lap, and looking again toward 
 the misty horizon. 
 
 " But he is hardly accountable for that if he did not bring, or 
 mean to bring it," said Basil, to whom it occurred that Devereux 
 had nothing to do with Lacy's conduct, or Miss Champion's 
 heartlessness. " Rosalind, now — he certainly had a share in that 
 annoyance ; but, after all, was not Rosalind herself greatly to 
 blame ? With the best (or the worst) intentions in the world, a 
 man cannot possibly flirt with an engaged woman, unless she has 
 a mind to flirt with him. " 
 
 " That is true," said Madeleine, answering his remark ; and 
 she sighed a little — one of those sighs which indicate, but do not 
 relieve, a heavy heart. " It is easy to make trouble — the least 
 sensible person in the world can do that — but how to end it often 
 puzzles the wisest." 
 
 "I don't count myself among that class," said Basil, "but it 
 puzzles me. However, such things are not helped by dwelling 
 on them. What will be will be. After all, there is no better 
 philosophy than that. Now, Madeleine, when are you coming 
 home ? I did not say any thing as long as Mary needed you, but 
 she does not need you now, and I miss you." 
 
 " I am coming to-morrow," said Madeleine. " You are right — ■ 
 Mary does not need me any longer." She hesitated a moment, 
 then added, " What is Rosalind doing ? " 
 
 " Going to rehearsals, and preparing theatrical costumes, as 
 far as my knowledge extends," replied Basil. " She expects to 
 ' rob the world of rest ' in a certain green silk, of which I have 
 heard a great deal." 
 
 " Is that theatrical matter to go on indefinitely ? " asked 
 Madeleine. " I wish it were over." 
 
^34 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " So do I," said Basil, rising, " and you may be sure that, 
 wlien the phiy has been performed, it will be over as far as I am 
 concerned. If it had not been that it would have seemed disoblig- 
 ing, and like going back from my word, I should have followed 
 Champion's example, and left the business long ago." 
 
 " How one reads the character even in trifles ! " Madeleine 
 thought, as she rose, too, and looked at the erect figure and open 
 face before her. Rather than "go back," as he phrased it, from 
 any thing to which he had pledged himself, rather than disoblige 
 others, or be swayed solely by considerations of self, there were 
 few sacrifices Basil would not make. That he had made no small 
 sacrifice in this instance, she knew well. A constraint about the 
 mouth, a pained look in the eyes, told her all he had sufi"ered, and 
 was suffering yet. 
 
 After a few more words they parted, Madeleine going back 
 to the Lodge, Basil returning to his counting-house, and pres- 
 ently — when the day's work was over — mounting Roland and 
 returning home. The intelligence which he had heard regarding 
 Mary bore him company all the way ; indeed, it had not left his 
 mind since Madeleine had told him of it. Ever since then, he 
 had felt a sense of relief from responsibility, and yet a distinct 
 consciousness of impending trouble, doubt, difficulty. This was 
 not altogether on Miss Carlisle's account. He would have been 
 somethins: more than man if he had not also considered the 
 matter in a personal light. What change it would make in his 
 fortunes, he could only dimly forebode, but that such a change 
 might be great, he could easily imagine. On this point, how- 
 ever, he would not allow his mind to dwell — at least, he en- 
 deavored to prevent it from doing so. " Sufficient unto the 
 day is the evil thereof!" he said to himself — falling on that 
 well-worn proverbial currency which serves us all in time of 
 need. 
 
 When he reached home, dusk had fallen, the atmosphere ha^ 
 grown slightly chill, and a fire shone out cheerfully from the 
 sitting-room, across the hall and portico, when he approached the 
 house. What a friendly, welcoming beacon such a light is, and 
 
BASIL'S MIND IS RELIEVED. 235 
 
 with what eloquence it speaks of rest and comfort, and all tlie 
 pleasures of home ! It was no wonder that it drew Basil like a 
 magnet, yet, when he entered the room, he was sorry for haying 
 yielded to the attraction, for, before the fire sat Rosalind, with a 
 flush on her fair cheeks deeper than could have been caused by 
 the leaping blaze, while Champion stood on one end of the 
 hearth-rug, resting his arm on the corner of the mantel-piece, 
 with an expression of settled determination on his grave, dark 
 face. Basil felt a sensation of storm in the atmosphere, and was, 
 therefore, uncomfortably conscious of being de trop^ but he 
 avoided an abrupt retreat — that sure resource of awkwardness 
 — and made the best of matters by coming forward. 
 
 " Good-evening, Champion," he said. " I am glad to see 
 that you have got away from the court-house, and that dreary 
 office of yours for a little while. I hope you mean to stay to 
 tea ? " 
 
 " On the contrary, I must go back to that dreary office, as 
 you call it, in a few minutes," answered Champion. " I have a 
 terrible press of business on hand. But I am glad to meet you — 
 I hope you have set your mind at rest about that lease. The 
 case will probably be called for trial on Thursday, and I am 
 more confident than ever that the result will be in our favor." 
 
 " Yes, my mind is quite at rest — I leave the matter alto- 
 gether in your hands," said Basil, smiling in a manner which the 
 other did not altogether understand. Rosalind looked up at her 
 brother in surprise. She had seen a great deal of his anxiety re- 
 garding the lease, and had even heard a hint or two of compro- 
 mise ; which had s^one far to streno-tben her belief that Devereux 
 would succeed in the end. Now to hear Basil speak like that, 
 something surely must have happened to reassure him ! This 
 thought, like a flash, passed through her mind, even while Basil 
 went on addressing Champion : " Very likely you are right, you 
 certainly ought to know your trade better than I do. At all 
 events, a man can only act as seems to him best, and accept the 
 consequences." 
 
 " Exactly what I told you the other day," said Champion. 
 
23G A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " It is better to heed wisdom late than never," said Basil, 
 with the same odd smile. He turned, as he spoke, toward the 
 door. " I must go and change my boots," he said. " I'll find 
 you, I suppose, when I come back." 
 
 *' That depends entirely upon how^ long it takes you to change 
 your boots," returned Champion. 
 
 Severn, who was in the act of leaving the room, did not hear, 
 or at least did not answer this remark; and after his departure 
 silence reigned for a minute ; the only sounds which broke the 
 stillness being the subdued crackling of the fire, and the ticking 
 of a clock on the mantel. The silvery chime of the latter struck 
 six before Champion spoke, for Rosalind remained silent. 
 
 " You say — or you imply — that I am harsh and domineer- 
 ing," he said, and his tones, though low and quiet, had a certain 
 vibrating ring which made them strike sharply on the soft firelit 
 stillness. " That may be true enough. I do not deny it. But 
 you knew my character when you engaged yourself to me as 
 well as you can possibly know it now. You knew that I dis- 
 dained jealousy, but that I would not tolerate any lightness of 
 conduct — guch as the world classes under the head of flirtation — 
 in the woman I expected to make my wife. I have borne more 
 from you than I ever expected to bear from any woman. But 
 mj'' forbearance has reached its farthest limit. Your name is the 
 theme of every idle tongue in Stansbury. People say that I am 
 merely held in leash until you are secure of your other lover. 
 Whether this be true or not, the time has come when you must 
 choose between him and me — your flirtation or your engage- 
 ment must end ! " 
 
 His lips closed firmly over the last words, the clear, decided 
 voice ceased, but its echo still rang so distinctly in Rosalind's 
 ears that she could almost have affirmed that he continued re 
 peating, " Your flirtation or your engagement must end ! " It 
 will be seen tliat this was exactly the issue wdiich she had de- 
 sired and intended to bring about ; but it came too soon, and 
 made such a total bouleverseinent of her plans, that she was 
 thrown into horrible uncertainty with regard to what it was best 
 
BASILS MIND IS RELIEVED. 237 
 
 to do or say. She really possessed a diplomatic talent, however, 
 besides a profound conviction that a bird in the hand is worth 
 very much more than even a grander and more desirable bird in 
 the bush. She also knew^ Devereux's reputation, and, though she 
 did not seriously believe that he was trifling with her, she was 
 not blind to the knowledge that such a thing might be. At all 
 events, he had not declared himself, and his fortune was not se- 
 cured ; therefore it was unquestionably her best policy to mollify 
 and retain Champion. It did not take her more than a minute 
 to balance these considerations. Then she looked up, with the 
 hrelight shining on her bright eyes and her lovely flusbed face. 
 
 "You are unjust and unkind," she said, "more unjust and 
 more unkind than I ever thought you would be ! And what 3'ou 
 say insults me. I have no flirtation with any one. If gossips 
 choose to talk, can J help that ? But I never fancied that you 
 would listen to them." 
 
 " Rosalind," said Champion, drawing in his breath, " how 
 can you venture to say to me that you have no flirtation with any 
 one, after what I have heard and seen ? Do you mean to tell 
 me that you have not encouraged the attentions of that puppy 
 Devereux ? " 
 
 " I mean to tell you exactly that," answered Rosalind, who 
 knew that matters were desperate ; that she must throw truth to 
 the winds and make out her case as best she could. " I have 
 never encouraged Mr. Devereux's attentions, never ! It was not 
 my fault that we were thrown together by the theatricals. If 
 you blame anybody for that, it must be Helen. I do not know 
 whether he likes me or not, but I do know that he has never 
 been more attentive to me than politeness would have required 
 him to be to any woman under the circumstances. You talk of 
 not being jealous, but if this is not jealousy — " 
 
 " You are mistaken," said Champion, as she paused, " it is 
 
 not jealousy but self-respect, and a determination not to suffer 
 
 you to lower me, if you choose to lower yourself, by trifling with 
 
 a man whose character is notorious as that most contemptible 
 
 of contemptible things — a male flirt." 
 
 11 
 
238 A QUESTION OF IIOXOR. 
 
 " But I have not trifled with him ! " cried Rosalind, really 
 frightened now by the angry sternness of his tone. If he leffi 
 her once, she knew that she could never hope to Avhistle him back 
 again, and what if Devereux should be only flirting ! 
 
 Champion uttered a short laugh. " May I venture to inquire 
 what is 3^our definition of trifling ? " he said. " If it does not 
 include flirtation patent to every one on every possible occasion, 
 tUe-d-tete walks and drives, pictures given — " 
 
 " Pictures ! " gasped Rosalind. Her heart seemed to stand 
 still. Who had betrayed her ? It was the last thing, she knew, 
 that Champion would forgive. His ideas were old-fashioned in 
 their fastidiousness — especially on this point. She had often 
 heard him say that no woman should ever give a likeness of her- 
 self to any man who was not a near relative or accepted lover. 
 " What do you mean ? " she asked, falteringly. " What pictures 
 have I given or received ? " 
 
 " I heard accidentally of one," he answered, speaking with 
 difficulty, for it irked his pride bitterly to be constrained to make 
 such complaints as these, "which has passed into Mr. Devereux's 
 possession. If this is so, Rosalind, if you have given him a 
 proof of trust which you never gave me — " 
 
 " I have done nothing of the kind," interrupted Rosalind, 
 driven farther and farther over the borders of falsehood. " I 
 had a vignette taken and set in a locket, but it was for you " 
 (this was true in a certain sense !), " and I meant it for jouv 
 birthday. I haven't it with me now, or I would show it to you. 
 I lent it to Madeleine, and she took it out to the Lodge. Mr. 
 Devereux may have seen it there, but as for its being in his pos- 
 session — " 
 
 "Then it is false? — you are sure that it is false?" said 
 Chtimpion, watching her keenly, and enraged with circum- 
 stances, with her, and with himself, that he should be constrained 
 to doubt her for a moment. 
 
 " Sure ! — how can I help being sure ?" she asked, intensely 
 conscious of the flush which burned on her face. " If you do 
 not br^lieve me — " 
 
DEFEAT OX THE EVE OF VICTORY. 239 
 
 But be interrupted her impetuously. " Do not say such a 
 thino- as that ! All would be at an end between us indeed if I 
 did not believe you ! But people would not originate such re- 
 ports if — if you had not given them reason to do so." 
 
 " I have been foolish and volatile, no doubt," she said, almost 
 meekly. "But I was always that, you know, and one cannot 
 change one's character in a day. You ought to be more patient 
 w4th me ; you ought to believe that I do not mean any harm or 
 wrong to you ! " 
 
 She rose as she spoke, and came toward him holding out her 
 hand, the rose-radiance of the firelight falling on the tints of 
 her beautiful face, the exquisite lines of her graceful figure. 
 " See ! " she said with a smile, "you have been unkind and un- 
 just, yet I ask you to forgive me for all the pain I have thought- 
 lessly made you suffer." 
 
 Does any one need to be told how Champion answered? 
 The pain of which she spoke, the smouldering resentment, the 
 angry pride, seemed to vanish as he clasped her, fbr the first 
 time in many days, to his heart, and kissed the lips which had 
 just uttered their first unequivocal lie. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DEFEAT OX THE EVE OF YICTORT. 
 
 The next day Madeleine left the Lodge, and came back to 
 Stansbury after a month's absence. This was Wednesday. 
 There was to be a final dress-rehearsal that night of the im- 
 portant play, and the next night — as all the good people of 
 Stansbury were informed by handbills and placards — the long-, 
 deferred performance would take place. Rosalind was very 
 much occupied, and her sister saw little of her. In truth, that 
 young lady had no desire to have her wishes and intentions 
 sounded, and she feared that Madeleine might attempt to do 
 
240 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 something of the kind. The scene with Champion the evening 
 before had warned her what a dangerous game she was playing, 
 but she was still determined to play it to the end. The stakes, 
 she thought, were w^orth a little risk. If Fortune would only be 
 kind, if Devereux would only come into his own — w^hat a per- 
 fect life stretched before her ! Surely the price she was paying 
 was not too heavy for that. 
 
 While she was considering these things, and adding a few 
 last stitches to the irresistible green silk that was destined to 
 dazzle the audience which would assemble to see her play the 
 emotional, charming coquette, of the sparkling comedy Lacy had 
 translated and adapted from the French, Devereux was startled 
 by the overwhelming intelligence, brought to him by a tall, 
 overgrown boj'', who announced himself as Johnny Warren, that 
 old Mr. Burnham had a stroke of paralysis. The young man 
 felt almost as if he suffered a stroke of the same kind himself, 
 as he listened. Surely no calamity is harder than to suffer de- 
 feat on the eve of an assured victory ! Devereux did not know 
 until that moment how much he had built on success, how little 
 he had anticipated any thing else. 
 
 But the blow onlj^ stunned him for a minute. Before the 
 boy ceased speaking he was altogether himself again. He wrote 
 a line to Mr. Stringfellow and sent it to that gentleman, then he 
 accompanied the bearer of ill-tidings to the house w^here the 
 old man lay — helpless, speechless, and distorted. Mrs. Warren 
 received him like an animated glacier, and introduced him to 
 the bedside with something which bore a remote resemblance 
 to grim triumph. " That is what I said would come to pass, and 
 it has come ! " said she. " I hope you are all satisfied now." 
 
 *'Mr. Devereux has reason to be any thing but satisfied," 
 said the doctor, who was standing by. Then he turned to that 
 gentleman with an expression of sincere regret. " I am heartily 
 sorr}^," he said. " I wish I could give you any hope of the pa- 
 tient's rallying." 
 
 " Is there no hope, then ? " asked Devereux. 
 
 ** None whatever. He will never speak again." 
 
DEFEAT ON THE EVE OF YICTOKr. 241 
 
 When Mr. Stringfellow arrived — and lie came in haste — lie 
 was more than aghast, he was outraged by the malignancy of 
 fate, and by his own culpable carelessness. " I ought to have 
 taken his testimony down, to be used in case of his death," he 
 said. " But I saw no reason to anticipate any thing so sudden 
 as this. I perceived on Monday that he was giving way very 
 fast, but bless my soul ! how was I to imagine that just on the 
 eve of the trial — x\rnold, my poor fellow, I shall never forgive 
 myself, but unluckily that won't help you." 
 
 " Don't worry over it ! " said Devereux, for he saw that the 
 other's distress was genuine. " It cannot be helped. Kismet ! 
 as the Arabs sslj — it is fate ! You should not blame yourself for 
 one small oversight, after all that you have done. No one cculd 
 anticipate this." 
 
 " Perhaps he may get over the attack," said Mr. Stringfellow 
 eagerlj^ — but the doctor, to whom he looked appealingly, shook 
 his head. 
 
 "No one ever gets over the third stroke of paralysis," he 
 said. " Mr. Burnham has had the warnings before." 
 
 " But he m.ay rally enough to sign a paper ? " persisted the 
 lawyer desperately. 
 
 " He will never rally," repeated the doctor. " From the 
 state in which he now is, only one change awaits him — that of 
 death." 
 
 After this decision, there was nothing for ]Mr. Stringfellow 
 and his client, but to leave the Warren mansion and betake 
 themselves, with what spirits they might, back to their hotel. 
 They said very little as they walked down the street together. 
 Both knew that the lawsuit was virtually ended, and that the 
 Carlisle Mills, and woods, and fields, would never pass into Dev- 
 ereux's possession — at least, not in the manner on which they 
 had so confidently reckoned. That they might, however, come 
 to liim in another manner, suddenly occurred to Mr. Stringfellow 
 in the midst of his deep dejection, like an angel's whisper of 
 comfort. 
 
 " What an excellent thing it is that you arranged matters 
 
242 A QUESTION OF fiONOR. 
 
 with the heiress ! " he exclaimed. " For once QL.ixotism is its 
 own reward ! My dear boy, I would rather have lost every other 
 case I have than this: but since it is to be lost — and that 
 througli no fault of ours, though my carelessness is in a measure 
 to blame — I congratulate you most heartily on your prospect of 
 coming to your rights by marriage instead of law ! " 
 
 " I don't know that I care to be congratulated," said Deve- 
 reux in an indifferent tone. The events of the last hour had 
 changed the aspect of every thing for him. He, too, had thought 
 of Mary Carlisle, but the thought had given him no such com- 
 fort as it afforded to his friend. On the contrary, a sudden sense 
 of rebellion against the position in which he had placed himself, 
 came over him. It had been one thing to be the means of gen- 
 erously caring for the interest and shielding the life of the blind 
 girl who had so strongly apjDcaled to his compassion — but it was 
 quite another thing to receive from her fortune and considera- 
 tion, and to be esteemed by her friends and the world in general 
 a successful schemer and fortune-hunter. This cud of bitter 
 fancy he had been revolving in his mind when Mr. Stringfellow 
 spoke, so it will be seen that he was in no mood to receive con- 
 gratulations suavely. 
 
 He did not go to the Lodge that afternoon. He felt that he 
 could not do so. While the taper of life still burned dimly in 
 old Burnham's breast, all did not seem ended. Perhaps the 
 doctor might be mistaken — perhaps there might be a faint flicker 
 of reviving consciousness before the light went out into dark- 
 ness. Devereux knew that it was absurd to hope for this, yet 
 he did hope despite reason, and he felt that he could not ap- 
 proach Mary Carlisle again until every thing was settled — one 
 way or another. The case would be called in court to-morrow. 
 When it was decided against him, he would go and tell her that 
 he resigned all hope of winning her heart. If conscience whis- 
 pered that perhaps he had already won that heart, he closed his 
 ears. Like many a man before, he was intent chiefly on saving 
 his own pride. 
 
 He spent the afternoon — Mr. Burnham's stroke had occurred 
 
DEFEAT ON THE EVE OF VICTORY. 243 
 
 at mid-day — in his own room, smoking a great deal, reading a 
 little, thinking much. With all hope of succeeding in the law- 
 suit stricken awaj, w^hat prospect was before him with his ruined 
 fortunes, his idle habits, his luxurious tastes ? He had never 
 made a farthing: in his life — how was he to beg-in to do so now ? 
 He smiled grimly as the question occurred to him. No lily of 
 the field ever bloomed with less knowledge how to toil than 
 this impoverished, fine gentleman. He had good abilities, but 
 they were altogether neglected and untrained, and he knew the 
 world well enough to be aware that whatever is untrained is 
 useless. A feeling of despondent hopelessness, and a scorn of 
 himself and his own life, rose within him, as he sat by the fire 
 gazing into the red embers dreamily. " I am a cumberer of the 
 ground!" he thought. "Why do I live? I do nothing for 
 mankind, either individually or collectively — no human being 
 gains any thing from my life, neither is it necessary for any 
 one's comfort or happiness. I exist simply because I do exist — 
 that is all that can be said for me, and I promise to be very much 
 of a burden to myself when it becomes necessary for me to sup- 
 port myself." 
 
 It must not be supposed that Mr. Devereux was in the habit 
 of reflectino; on his life and the conditions of it in this manner. 
 Very likely he had never done such a thing before in the course 
 of his thirty years. But just now thought for his future was 
 thrust upon him as an imperative necessity, and he was in a 
 measure unstrung and rendered morbid by the abrupt revulsion 
 from certain hope of success to absolute knowledge of failure, 
 through which he had passed. Those who have ever suffered 
 such a blow know that, however bravely and composedly it may 
 be borne, it seems for a time to unhinge every thing. 
 
 As the afternoon was merging into twilight, Mr. Stringfellow 
 made his appearance, and announced gloomily that old Burnham 
 was sinking rapidly. " I have just been to see him," he said. 
 " There is no hope whatever of his lasting through the night. 
 As for any thing like consciousness or speech, that is entirely 
 out of the question. I never knew such luck before ! " said the 
 
244 A QUESTION or HONOR. 
 
 despondent gentleman, smking into a chair. " The devil must 
 certainly have a hand in it ! Champion has accomplished all 
 that he has been aiming at, and he will walk over the course 
 triumphantly to-morrow ! " 
 
 " Jf the luck is unalterable, we can at least bear it philosoph- 
 ically," said Devereux, laying his hand on the other's shoulder. 
 "i\^ quid niinium, cupias ! That has been my motto ever 
 since I was old enouo-h to realize that the worst enemies of a 
 man's comfort are his own desires. You have said more than 
 once that I felt too little interest in the fight you have been 
 making for my fortune — now I wish that I had felt even less, 
 and I wish that you, my kind friend, had felt none at alk" 
 
 " I don't wish any thing of the kind ! " replied Mr. String- 
 fellow, testily. " Confound such cold-blooded philosophy ! The 
 man who does not desire any thing is half dead — and I wish to 
 Heaven you could be roused to desire something very strongly ! 
 It might be the making of you ! " 
 
 " Be more charitable in your wishes," said Devereux, with a 
 slight laugh. " I consider myself very well made already." 
 
 " If looks were all, j^ou are right enough," returned the law- 
 yer dryly, but with a gleam of partial regard in his keen gray 
 eyes. " I hardly know how I should manage to bear up under 
 this blow at all, if it were not for your forethought with regard 
 to the heiress ! " he went on, after a short pause — his mind, as 
 was natural enough, returning to Mr. Burnham's highly incon- 
 siderate conduct in proposing to go out of the world so suddenly 
 — "but, all things considered, it is certainly the most fortunate 
 thing possible that j^ou should have put matters on a right foot- 
 ing with her before the result of the suit was definitely known." 
 
 "I am not so confident-of its being fortunate," said Deve- 
 reux, turning away and pacing the room — a cigar between his 
 teeth, his hands in the pockets of his coat. " Every one will 
 think that I anticipated losing the suit, and so addressed her 
 ^vhile there was stiU apparently a chance for me. Now, if that 
 were so, it would have been such an underhanded trick." 
 
 *' But it was not so ! " interrupted Mr. Stringfellow with en- 
 
DEFEAT ON THE EYE Oi<^ VICTORY. 245 
 
 erg}', rising and standing with liis back to tlie fire, so as to face 
 the shadowy figure moving to and fro. " Xo one with any sense 
 could think such a thing for a moment ; and as for dwelling on 
 what prejudiced fools might say — I should tell them at once to 
 go to the devil ! You are morbid and upset — that is what is 
 the matter with j^ou," pursued the gentleman more mildly ; " and 
 no wonder, I am sure ! Such a blow — coming so unexpectedly 
 — might knock any one down. We'll talk no more about it — 
 and try to think as little as possible ! There's that infernal din ! " 
 — this complimentary term referred to the tea-bell — " let us go 
 down, and after tea we'll have some punch and a game of whist 
 to raise our spirits. I see Hawley and Roberts here. They are 
 both first-rate players." 
 
 "I am sorry that I can't join you," said Devereux, '*but 1 
 am obliged to attend one of those troublesome rehearsals to- 
 night. If ever I am caught in such an absurdity again ! — " 
 
 " Pshaw ! let the rehearsal go ! " 
 
 " And have my non-appearance and its probable cause can- 
 vassed by every gossip in Stansbury — I don't think I am a cow- 
 ard, but my courage is not equal to that. No, I must face the 
 music, and take care that no one can say that my heart is broken 
 by the loss of ray last stake for fortune." 
 
 " Not the last, I trust," said the lawj^er, hastily. " You have 
 a still better one left." 
 
 " Do you think so ? " asked Devereux. " Tastes differ 
 greatly." 
 
 Stansbury was not a very small place, so old. Mr. Burnham's 
 illness made no stir, nor, indeed, was heard of outside the small 
 circle immediately interested in the event. A rumor of it 
 reached Champion in the course of the afternoon, however, 
 which he immediately took pains to verifj'-, and finding it quite 
 true, sent the following hastily-scrawled note to Basil : 
 
 " Set your mind altogether at rest. Old Burnham has had a 
 stroke of paralysis. The other side will probably ask for a de- 
 lay to-morrow, and the case will eventually end in a nonsuit. 
 
 " J. C." 
 
24:6 A QUESTION OF HONOK. 
 
 It chanced that there was some delay in the delivery of this 
 missive, and Rosalind was not at home when it was received. 
 She had gone out immediately after tea. " I want to call and 
 see Laura Gresham," she said — this was the young lady who 
 took the second part in the comedy — " before I go to the thea- 
 tre. Tom Gresham can escort us both, so you need not trouble 
 about calling, Basil ; but, pray, be punctual at the rehearsal." 
 
 Basil did not say, " Confound the rehearsal ! " — for which act 
 of abstinence he deserved a great deal of credit — but he made 
 no haste in his movements, notwithstanding this adjuration. He 
 was established in a low chair before the sitting-room lire, smok- 
 ing, very much at his ease, a short, black pipe — to which neither 
 ]\Irs. Severn nor Madeleine objected — when Champion's note 
 was brought. He took in its contents at a glance, then tossed 
 it into his sister's lap. 
 
 " Fate fights for us ! " he said. " See there ! " 
 
 Madeleine read, and was shocked. " How dreadful ! " she 
 said. " You and Mr. Champion are glad that this old man has 
 a stroke of paralysis ! " 
 
 " Not at all," answered Basil. " We are only glad that, 
 since he has the stroke, it redounds to our advantage. There is 
 no harm in that." 
 
 " Ah ! I am not sure — it seems very heartless ! Mr. Cham- 
 pion writes in an exulting tone. Poor man ! I wonder if he 
 will oblige you both by dj'ing ? " 
 
 " I hope not," said Basil, cheerfully. " Unless it is the third 
 stroke, it is not necessarily fatal, you know. He may recover 
 and live some time longer." 
 
 " And give his testimony at last." 
 
 " Perhaps so; but I begin to have faith in Champion's opin- 
 ion again. You see he says the case will eventually end in a 
 nonsuit." 
 
 " What is a nonsuit ? " asked Mrs. Severn, looking up from 
 the note which Madeleine had handed to her. 
 
 While this matter was being discussed in the Severn domes- 
 tic circle, Rosalind was taking her way to the theatre, in pro- 
 
DEFEAT OX THE EVE OF VICTORY. 247 
 
 found unconsciousness of the blow impending over her. Even • 
 when she reached there no one among the assembled company 
 gave her any information regarding a matter which (in her own 
 opinion) concerned her so vitally. Devereux was rather late, 
 but presently he came, in full evening dress — so handsome, so 
 distinguished-looking, so easy in bearing, so graceful in manner, 
 that Rosalind's heart thrilled with admiration almost akin to 
 the tender passion. She knew that she was looking beautiful in 
 her shining green silk, point-lace, and emeralds ; so she swept 
 across the stage and tapped him on the arm with her fan, after 
 the manner of the French coquette she was soon to enact. 
 
 " Why are you so late ? " she asked, as he turned toward 
 her — he had been speaking to Tom Gresham, who now discreet- 
 ly moved away — " I have been wondering what detained you, 
 and fearing that perhaps you meant to play deserter at the 
 eleventh hour. I know you are tired of the whole affair, and, 
 honestly, I do not blame you ; but there is no help for it now ! 
 "What would become of me if I had to act without my chief 
 lover ? " 
 
 She looked at him with a challenge in her eyes which the 
 dullest man must have read, and the coldest would have been 
 likely to accept. Devereux was neither dull nor cold, and just 
 now he felt sufficiently reckless of consequences — sufficiently in 
 need of some moral stimulant — to be willing to flirt to the top 
 of her bent with this enticing Hebe. 
 
 " You need not fear that I will desert while I have that part 
 to sustain ! " he answered, in that tone of half jest, half earnest, 
 which can be rendered exceedingly effective by one who under- 
 stands the art of doing so. " If you should depose me now, 
 I will not answer for what desperate thing I might do." 
 
 " I have no idea that you would be desperate under any cir- 
 cumstances," said she, meeting his gaze with a thorough con- 
 sciousness of the admiration it imreservedly expressed. " You 
 are so completely a man of the world — so cool, so quiet ! I 
 fancy you have taught yourself to have no emotions which are 
 not altogether comfortable and agreeable." 
 
248 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " x\nd you have not learned better than that in all the weeks 
 that we have known each other," said he, with a great deal of 
 meaning in his voice. " How strange ! I fancied that you 
 had learned to know me better, perhaps, than I cared to be 
 known." 
 
 Now, this was rather enigmatical, but Rosalind, reading it 
 in the light of her own wishes, thought that it implied much 
 which was agreeable to her. She was scarcely to blame for 
 this. Devereux's voice sank (through force of habit) to a very 
 tender cadence — one which might have misled even a less sus- 
 ceptible listener. 
 
 " I should not w-ish to know any thing which you did not 
 care for me to know," she replied. " But I have been so frank 
 with you, and let you see so many of my little absurdities, that 
 you should not regret any knowledge that I may have gained of 
 your character." 
 
 "My character is open for you to read as much as you 
 choose, or can," he answered ; " but feelings, hopes, wishes — 
 one likes to keep them as much as possible to one's self. That 
 is, it is generally one's best wisdom to do so." 
 
 " Why ? " asked Mademoiselle Circe, softly. " Is not sym- 
 pathy a good thing ? " 
 
 " As far as it goes, yes ; but it does not go very far." 
 
 " PerhajDS you are mistaken about that : perhaps it w^ould 
 go quite as far as the feelings, hopes, and wishes, are concerned. 
 
 He glanced at her keenly, as she stood before him, trilling 
 with the glittering fan in her hand — beautiful, self-possessed, 
 and beguiling. It began to dawn upon him that she had anoth- 
 er end than flirtation in view — it was borne to him with a swift 
 sense of amazement, what manner of game she was playing. 
 " She thinks me worth casting her nets about in earnest ! " he 
 said to himself. " Shall I let her think so a little longer ? It 
 will be instructive to see in what manner she will take the 
 truth." 
 
 So, for the rest of that evening Rosalind was gratified by as 
 much incense as one small head could bear without absolute 
 
DEFEAT ON THE EYE OF VICTORY. 249 
 
 giddiness. Never had Devereux been more gallant, more atten- 
 tive, more charming. Thej acted their parts with such grace 
 and spirit — with so much seductive coquetry on one side and so 
 much impassioned ardor on the other — that even the other mem- 
 bers of the company applauded warmly. " If only you will do 
 as well to-morrow night ! " they cried. 
 
 " As if there was any danger we should not ! " said Rosa- 
 lind, scornfuil3\ 
 
 " To-morrow night I shall have a favor to ask of you in 
 memory of our pleasant association," said Devereux, as he 
 wrapped her cloak around her after the rehearsal. She had re- 
 luctantlv declined his attendance, for Basil was waitino;- to take 
 her home. 
 
 " That sounds quite solemn and formidable — like a farewell 
 speech, or something of that kind," answered she, with a peal 
 of laughter which might have been empty if it had not been so 
 sweet. " I hope you do not mean that our acquaintance is to 
 end as well as our association ? " 
 
 " That will be for you to say," he answered, pressing the 
 small gloved hand which she held out to him. 
 
 " There is not much danger of its doing so, then ; pleasant 
 acquaintances are not so common in Stansbury that one can 
 afford to give them up. Good-night." 
 
 The soft salutation lingered on his ear, the lustrous eyes 
 looked into his own, then with a rustle of drapery, a faint rush 
 of delicate fragrance, she was gone, 
 
 Devereux followed almost immediatelv, and on the street 
 paused a moment to light his usual companion — a cigar. It 
 chanced that he was standing under a gas-lamp, so that his face 
 was. distinctly visible, and a negro boy, who was advancing lei- 
 surely along the pavement, walked directly up to him and pre- 
 sented a scrap of folded paper with one hand, while he touched 
 his cap with the other. 
 
 " Mr. Stringfellow tol' me to give you that, Mr. Devereux," 
 he said. 
 
 "Is it you, George?" said Devereux, recognizing a servant 
 
250 ^ QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 from the hotel. He took the paper and opened it. Within 
 three words were penciled — he read them easily by the light 
 of the street-lamp : 
 " Burnham is dead." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE Ej!^D of the SUIT. 
 
 FoETUNATELT for the peace of Rosalind's slumbers, Basil 
 said nothing of Mr. Burnham's stroke on their way home. He 
 forgot that she had not heard that important intelligence, and 
 for himself he was thinking of something else. It had pleased 
 Miss Champion to be unusually gracious to him that evening, 
 and, like many a lover before, his passion fed upon very frugal 
 cheer indeed. He could not know that this graciousness had 
 its birth in vexation with Lacj'', who had been exceedingly 
 changed during the last week. What woman, when she has 
 been slighted by the man she prefers, does not soothe her 
 wounded self-love by encouraging another, if possible, before 
 his eves ? And what man is so wise that he has not, at some 
 period of his life, suffered himself to be tormented by the ca- 
 price of a coquette ? Miss Champion was a blunderer in the 
 art which she attempted to practise — she understood none of 
 those fine shades of reserve and evasion which heighten coquetry 
 as a veil adds to beauty — and when she encouraged at all she did 
 so with the most unmistakable emphasis. If any one wonders 
 why Basil Severn should have fancied such a woman, it is only 
 possible to answer in Byron's not very complimentary words : 
 
 ..." Curious fool, be still ! 
 Is human love the growth of human will ? " 
 
 Is it not rather the growth of human circumstances, of illu- 
 sion, of association, of Heaven only knows what, a very mid- 
 summer madness often, to which the cured subject afterward 
 looks back in disgusted amazement ? 
 
THE END OF THE SUIT. 251 
 
 But wbo believes this when the madness has drugged the 
 mind, and filled the veins like fever ? " To be wise and love 
 exceeds man's strength," said he of the golden tongue three 
 hundred years ago, and men have not increased in wisdom since 
 Shakespeare's day. Basil was a shade more sensible than his 
 fellows, inasmuch as he knew himself, in plain language, to be a 
 fool ; but the knowledge did not make him resolute to break 
 his chains. His folly could hurt no one but himself, he thought, 
 a little doggedly ; and so he sat (metaphorically) at the feet 
 of his dark-eyed enchantress, and listened to the frivolous 
 words which dropped from her lips as if she had been, indeed, 
 the siren that Lacy called her. 
 
 As for Lacy, it is not too much to say that he was heartily 
 sick of the echo of his own absurd verses. It had seemed a 
 very slight thing to go from the presence of a pretty woman, 
 with the whirl of champagne in his head, and, sitting down at 
 midnight, dash off an hnpromptu bit of rhymed flattery, over 
 each line of which he had smiled in a manner that would not 
 have gratified Miss Champion if she had seen him. But it was 
 not a slight thing to one so sensitive to the least breath of 
 ridicule, and who held so superciliously aloof from Stansbury 
 notoriety or praise, for these verses — which, to himself he said 
 contemptuously, did not merit the name of poetry — to be can- 
 vassed on the street-corners, and discussed in drawing-rooms. 
 People had scarcely noticed his most artistic efi'orts when they 
 came forth in print — his personal unpopularity having nearly, if 
 not quite, balanced the pride of possessing a " poet " in their 
 midst. But when he began to write vers de soci^ti, and ad- 
 dressed the first of these effusions to Helen Champion, there 
 was a flutter in many dovecotes. " Oh, if he would only write 
 something to me 1 " sighed more than one young lady in the 
 bosom of her family ; but men chiefly laughed. " Lacy is not 
 too much of a poet to have an eye to substantial charms," they 
 said. " La Belle Odalisque — what the deuce does that term 
 mean, by-the-by ? — has bright dollars as well as bright eyes." 
 
 But when, in addition to this unpleasantness, Lacy found 
 
252 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 that Madeleine was roused out of her gentle forbearance even 
 to the point of offering him his freedom, he began to consider 
 that amusement and folly had gone too far. He had not the 
 least desire to give up his engagement. Moments of petulant 
 doubt and depression came to him with regard to Madeleine, as 
 with regard to everybody and every thing else; but, these 
 apart, she was still to him the supreme good of his life — the 
 star shining above all his clouds with steady, serene lustre. He 
 felt dimly that the deteriorating change at work within him 
 must go farther yet, that he must sink immeasurabl}'' below his 
 present level, before he could willingly suffer her to pass out of 
 his life. So, in an impulsive fashion common with him, he 
 ceased to offer homage at Miss Champion's shrine as abruptly as 
 he had begun to do so ; and, disgusted alike with her and with 
 himself, lapsed into his normal condition of social unpleasant- 
 ness. The revenge she took was one not calculated to affect 
 him deeply. If Basil Severn could have been multiplied tw^en- 
 ty times, she might have flirted desperately with each one of 
 the twenty without wakening a thrill of jealousy in Lacy's 
 breast. He was profoundly and unaffectedly indifferent, and, 
 recognizing this, Miss Champion went home on the night of 
 the dress-rehearsal in a very bad humor indeed. 
 
 The next morning Basil announced at breakfast his intention 
 of going to the court-house. " I understand that old Burnham 
 died last night," he said, breaking an egg, " and I am anxious to 
 hear what Stringfellow will have to say." 
 
 There was a sharp clang on the other side of the table. Rosa- 
 lind, who had entered a few minutes before, dropped her spoon 
 unheeded into her coffee-cup. She looked at her brother in con- 
 sternation, the color dying out of her face. 
 
 "What do you mean?" she asked, after a second's pause. 
 "TFAois dead?" 
 
 " Old Burnham — Giles Burnham," her brother replied. " The 
 principal witness, indeed, I think the only witness, on whom 
 Devereux's lawyer relied to make out his case." 
 
 " So he is dead — poor man ! " said Mrs. Severn, in a tone of 
 
THE END OF THE SUIT. . 253 
 
 kind compassion. " But, then, he must have been quite old — 
 ninety, at least, I should think. One must expect to die when 
 one reaches that age. I forgot that you were not here last 
 night, Rosalind, when Basil received a note from Mr. Champion, 
 tellino- him that the old man had a stroke of paralysis," she went 
 on, addressing her daughter. " He wrote as if it quite ended 
 the case. Indeed, I believe he said that you might dismiss all 
 anxiety — did he no^ Basil ? " 
 
 " I think he did," answered Basil, composedly mixing salt 
 and pepper in his egg. 
 
 Rosalind was speechless. Only Madeleine, sending one swift, 
 penetrating glance to her face, understood the meaning of the 
 pallor which had come over it, of the choking motion in the round 
 white throat. When the girl spoke, her voice sounded hard and 
 not like her own. 
 
 "Why did you not tell me this last night?" she asked, ad- 
 dressing Basil. " You might have supposed I felt some interest 
 — if it was important." 
 
 " Upon my word, I never thought of it," he answered, look- 
 ing up in some surprise. " It did not concern you at all — I had 
 no reason to suppose that you felt much interest." 
 
 What could Rosalind say ? Not concern her ! It seemed 
 incredible that any one should beheve such a thing ; that they 
 should not hiow how it concerned her ! She tried to go on 
 with her breakfast as if nothing had happened, but there was 
 a sound as of many waters in her ears. The blow stunned 
 her almost more than it had stunned Devereux the day before. 
 He had realized it, and rallied from it ; but to her it appeared 
 like a hideous nightmare, something too dreadful, too overwhelm- 
 ing to be true ! 
 
 After a while she recovered sufSciently to be able to trust 
 her voice to speak. " Does this end — every thing ? " she asked. 
 " Will the case go against Mr. Devereux, now ? " 
 
 " Champion says that it will," her brother replied. "He is a 
 lawyer, and ought to know. I suppose Stringfellow will still 
 make some sort of a fight, however." 
 
264: A QUESTION OF HOXOU. 
 
 *' And you think it honest to take advantage of — of such a 
 thing?" said Rosalind, in a tone which trembled despite all her 
 efforts at self-control. " What is it but a mere accident ? — and 
 you know what the witness would have testified if he had gone 
 into court ! " 
 
 " But we don't know what would have been the result of his 
 testimony," said Basil. "Wlien people go to law, they must 
 make out their case to the satisfaction of th6 court, or else suf- 
 fer defeat. One yields no chivalrous advantage to one's adver- 
 sary. If we had killed old Burnham to put him out of the way, 
 that would have been decidedly unfair, but, since he has died a 
 natural death, we are not accountable for the loss of his testi- 
 mony — and certainly we cannot pretend to be sorry." 
 
 '• It looks quite like the finger of Providence," said Mrs. Sev- 
 ern, piously. 
 
 " People always believe that Providence is on their side ! " 
 cried Rosalind, stung beyond endurance. " But, for my part, 
 I am like Napoleon. He said that it was on the side of the 
 heavy artillery. I think that it is on the side of heavy money- 
 bags." 
 
 " My dear ! " said her mother. " You don't remember what 
 you are saying ! " 
 
 " Champion would be touched if he knew how deep an in- 
 terest Rosalind takes in the success of the case for which he 
 has labored so long and so faithfully," said Basil, rising from 
 table. 
 
 This recalled Rosalind to a sense of her imprudence. The 
 chord of self was touched, which, instead of passing in music 
 out of sight, returned a decided warning. She said nothing 
 more, but, as soon as breakfast was over, she went to her own 
 .room, and shut herself in with her bitter disappointment. 
 
 How bitter this disappointment was, it is hardly possible to 
 express. Last night she had been so certain of accomplishing 
 all she desired, that the revulsion now seemed almost more than 
 she could bear ! To be coolly told that hope was over, and that 
 the loss of it did not concern her I She wrung her hands to- 
 
THE EXD OF THE SUIT. 255 
 
 g-ether with a passionate sense of impotent despair. Devereux's 
 words, looks, and tones, came back to her, together with all the 
 dreams she had built on them. Was it not enough to break 
 her heart, she said to herself, that not one of these dreams 
 would ever be realized ; that all the gay, sumptuous, delightful 
 life she had planned receded away forever, and left her with no 
 alternative but that of marrying James Champion ! 
 
 The gentleman who plaj^ed the part of pis alley- in this grati- 
 fying fashion was, meanwhile, indulging a restrained but very 
 positive triumph over the discomfiture of his adversary. If he 
 did not exactly affirm, like ]\Irs. Severn, that the finger of Provi- 
 dence was in old Burnham's death, he felt something equivalent 
 to that, and, when Basil appeared in his office, he met him with 
 a congratulatory shake of the hand. " I told you every thing 
 would come right ! " he said. 
 
 It is, perhaps, superfluous to remark that the same event, 
 regarded from different points of view, often presents a totally 
 different aspect. It was not surprising, therefore, that the state 
 of affairs which seemed altogether right to Mr. Champion ap- 
 peared wholly and depressingly wrong to Mr. Stringfellow and 
 his client. They bore a brave front before the little world of 
 gossif) around them, but to each other they showed plainly the 
 despondency which possessed them. "I might as well end the 
 matter at once," said the lawyer, mournfully. " There is no good 
 in prolonging the suit. It will only increase the costs, which 
 are heavy enough now. We have not the remotest chance of 
 ever establishing the claim." 
 
 " End it, by all means," replied Devereux. " I supposed, of 
 course, that you intended to do so." 
 
 When the case was called in court an hour later, Mr. Strinoc- 
 fellow rose, therefore, and stated that he was not ready for trial, 
 owing to the sudden and wholly unexpected death of the only 
 witness to the contract of lease, by whose testimony he expected 
 to make out his case. Then he paused, cleared his throat, and 
 fumbled for a moment nervously with some papers on the table 
 before him. Champion shot an exulting glance at Basil : the 
 
256 A QUESTION OF HO^OR. 
 
 other lawj-ers looked up curiously. Old Burnbani's dramatic 
 death, just at the time his evidence was needed, had given the 
 case an interest which it had not before possessed to the legal 
 mind. They wondered if Stringfellow meant to ask that the 
 trial of the case be delayed, in order that he might endeavor to 
 collect other proofs. Stringfellow had no such intention, and, 
 while they wondered, he addressed the court again, stating that 
 he never expected to be ready for trial, since there was no other 
 evidence he could procure in order to establish the validity of 
 the lease. This ended suspense, the court directed a judgment 
 of nonsuit to be entered, the next case on the docket was 
 called, and the lawsuit which, for two years, had cost Basil 
 Severn so much anxiety and Champion so m uch labor, was finally 
 terminated. 
 
 Absolute certainty on the point having been attained, Deve- 
 reux felt that he must go to the Lodge. The manner in which 
 he shrank from this step was probably natural enough, and, since 
 excuses for procrastination are never lacking when procrastina- 
 tion presents itself in the light of a desirable thing, he decided 
 to wait until afternoon in order that Miss Carlisle might hear 
 the news of her good fortune before he presented himself. " Of 
 course Severn will take it to her at once," he thouo-ht. 
 
 He was right. Basil left the court-house as soon as the de- 
 cision of the court was given, and, with the light of victory on 
 his face, went home. When he entered the sitting-room, he 
 found Lacy with Madeleine. The latter sprang up at sight 
 of him, and, before he could utter a word, her arms were round 
 his neck, 
 
 " I see ! " she cried. " The decision is in Mary's favor — and 
 I am so glad for your sake ! She does not care, but I am glad — oh, 
 very glad — that you have kept the trust Mr. Carlisle gave you ! " 
 
 " Yes, it is all right," said Basil, as plainly as a man could 
 iSpeak who was in process of being choked. "And I am glad, 
 too, though none of the credit belongs to me. The case has 
 ended in a nonsuit, as Champion predicted. I must go at onc<3 
 and let Mary know." 
 
MARY'S ANSWER. 257 
 
 " Accept my warmest congratulations ! " said Lacy, offering 
 his hand as Madeleine drew back. " You have had micommon 
 luck. What a fortunate thing it is that you were so firm in your 
 refusal to compromise ! " 
 
 " Champion deserves the credit for that, also," said Basil, 
 laughing, as he crossed the floor and rang the bell. "' Tell Dick 
 to bring out my horse immediately," he said, when Ann an- 
 swered it. 
 
 Sitting forlorn and disconsolate at her chamber- window, 
 Rosalind saw him mount and ride away, and she knew instinc- 
 tively on what errand he was bound. His face was offensively 
 bright, his manner offensively triumphan-t, she thought. " After 
 all, it was only an accident ! " she said to herself, and then hot 
 tears rose again in her eyes. Only an accident ! and it had 
 altered the whole course and meaning of her life ! 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 maey's axswee. 
 
 " That will do, Jessie," said Miss Carlisle, in her soft, languid 
 voice. " Stir the fire a little — I think the room is chilly — and 
 then you may go." 
 
 " And leave you all by yourself, Miss Mary ! " said Jessie, 
 in a tone of remonstrance, as she looked at the delicate face 
 lying on the cushions she had just arranged. '^ I don't think 
 that's a good notion. When you stay by yourself so much, 
 you get moped-like. It's true I'm not the best of company, bul 
 almost any company is better than none ; and Mrs. Ingram ha? 
 gone to town." 
 
 " I should be very unkind if I wanted better company than 
 yours, my dear old Jessie," answered Mary. " But just now 1 
 don't want any at all. I have a great deal to think about — I 
 suppose you have heard the news Basil brou£?ht me ? " 
 
258 A QUESTION OF IIOXOR. 
 
 " I met Mr. Basil when he was coming in the gate," replied 
 Jessie, " and he stopped me to tell me that he had won the suit. 
 ' Good news, Jessie ! ' he says, and I says, ' Thank the Lord ! ' 
 for I knew in a minute what he meant. Of all villainy," pur- 
 sued Jessie, " robbin' an orphan is the worst ! They thought 
 because you was fatherless and helpless they could do what 
 they jDleased, but the Lord raised up friends for you, and thank- 
 ful I am to Him ! " 
 
 " You must not talk in that way," said Mary. " Nobody was 
 trjung to rob me. If my father had lived, the suit w^ould have 
 been brought all the same. But I am certainly grateful for the 
 friends God has given me," she added with an accent of unmis- 
 takable sinceritv. 
 
 After Jessie had stirred the fire and left the room, the young 
 heiress lay perfectly quiet on her sofa-cushions ; fair and fragile 
 as a pale china rose, her long lashes sweeping her cheek, and 
 her lips closed with that expression of gentle serenity which is 
 generally an index of pleasant thoughts. And Mary's thoughts 
 were very pleasant. Yet in their pleasantness Basil's news 
 played only a subordinate part. Notwithstanding the undoubted 
 clearness of her intellect and strength of her character, she had 
 the simplicity of a child where worldly matters were concerned, 
 and it did not oocur to her for a moment that any thing had 
 happened which might alter her relations to Devereux. That 
 her inheritance was still her own was agreeable to her chiefly 
 that she-^and not the law — might give it to him, and that her 
 generous desire to prove her own disinterestedness might be 
 gratified. Poor Mary ! as Madeleine called her, she knew little 
 of the world outside the cloistered home in which she had 
 spent her life, and absolutely nothing of that other, subtler world, 
 the heart of man. It is only when we come in contact wdth the 
 blind that we realize how necessary is sight^ even for many things 
 which belong: to the moral rather than to the material order. 
 
 The pretty Swiss clock over the mantel had ticked away an 
 hour, the stream of gold lying on the carpet had shifted a little, 
 and still the girl laj' motionless, wrapped in a trance of calm 
 
MARY'S ANSWER. 259 
 
 happiness. Slie felt no anxiety that the man of whom she Avas 
 dreaming did not come — that he had not come for tAvo days — 
 her thoughts were busy picturing all that it was in her power to 
 bestow on him. What she would receive in return, obtained 
 from her scarcely a moment's consideration. That instinct of 
 unselfish tenderness which is strong in almost all women — or at 
 least in a sufficient number of the sex to constitute a large ma- 
 jority — was peculiarly strong in Mary Carlisle. The disturbing 
 influences of passion had no abiding-place in her soul, and her 
 pure, serene countenance mirrored truthfully the purity and 
 serenity of the spirit within. 
 
 As the cuckoo darted out from the clock, announcing the 
 lapse of time, she stirred with her first movement of any thing 
 like impatience. It was not impatience, however, but expecta- 
 tion, as the manner in which she turned her head over her 
 shoulder, in the attitude of one listening, plainly showed. She 
 had not remained in this position a moment before the sound 
 of the door-bell echoed through the stillness of the house. She 
 smiled then — a smile that said more plainly than words, " He 
 has come ! " 
 
 He entered the room a minute later. And, when she heard 
 the step now grown familiar to her ears, she rose, with both 
 hands extended — an impulsive greeting due altogether to instinct 
 and not at all to premeditation. 
 
 " I am so glad that you have come ! " she said. " Why have 
 you staid away so long ? " 
 
 For once her blindness was her best friend, since it veiled 
 from her the doubt, irresolution, hesitation on Devereux's face 
 as he advanced. Had she seen his expression, she could scarce- 
 ly have spoken with such simple sweetness — yet it would have 
 been impossible for the most consummate woman of the world 
 to have thought of any thing better to say. 
 
 He took the hands she ofi'ered, and lifted them to his lips be- 
 fore he answered, bending his head without any thought of 
 efi'ect — for there was only the mocking-bird in his cage to see — 
 like a cavalier in a picture. Then he said, " T will tell you pres- 
 
2G0 A QUESTION OF HONOK. 
 
 ently why I bave staid away — but first let me thank you for this 
 kind welcome." 
 
 " \Yhy should you thank me ? " she asked, as she sank back 
 on her couch, and he drew a chair close to her side. " Do j'ou 
 not cheer my solitude by coming ? It is I, then, who should be 
 grateful." 
 
 " Do not speak of such a thing ! " said he, hastily. " I can- 
 not tell you how deeply I feel, how warmly I shall always re- 
 member the kindness with which you have, from the first, re- 
 ceived and treated me." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " she asked — a cloud of doubt falling 
 across her face as she turned it toward him. " Why should j^ou 
 speak in this manner ? Something has come over you like a 
 change : I feel it in your voice. What is it ? " 
 
 " Do you not know what it is ? " he answered — determined 
 to say at once what he had come resolved to utter. " Have you 
 not heard that the suit in which our interests were opposed has 
 been decided in your favor ? " 
 
 " Yes, I have heard it," she replied, " but what of that ? You 
 speak as if it were a matter of great importance. To me it seems 
 of very little." 
 
 " Do not misunderstand me," he said ; " do not think that I 
 am not honestly glad, on your account, that it has ended in this 
 manner. But naturally it alters every thing for me. I told you 
 onco — here in this very room — what my circumstances were. 
 When I spoke to you later of hopes that I now feel it necessary 
 to put aside, I counted too confidently, perhaps, on success. 
 Instead, failure has come, and now I have absolutely nothing 
 which it ig possible to ask a woman to share. Stop a moment 
 and hear rae out ! " — as she opened her lips quickly to speak — 
 " I scarcely fear that you will misjudge me far enough to think 
 that I anticipated such a result as this when I spoke to 3^ou five 
 days ago, but there are others who may tell you that I did. 
 Pray do not believe them. Pray let me keep the thought that I 
 have won j^our faith, though Fortune denies me the right to win 
 your heart." 
 
MARY'S AXSWER. 261 
 
 She uttered a low, startled cry — strangely like tlie one lie 
 had heard from her lips when he spoke on this subject before — 
 and raised herself quickly to an upright position. He was 
 frightened by the manner in which her color came and went, 
 and by the trembling of the fragile hands that clasped themselves 
 together. 
 
 " I suppose I am very stupid," she said, " but I hardly think 
 I understand 3*ou — I hardly think you mean that this decision is 
 to make an end of — of all you spoke of the other daj^ ? " 
 
 If ever Devereux felt himself in a horrible quandary, it is 
 safe to say that this was the moment. He saw what manner of 
 influence he had gained over the mind and heart of the girl be- 
 fore him, and his position, which would have been a difficult one 
 with any woman, was rendered ten times mere difficult by the 
 peculiar circumstances which surrounded Mary Carlisle — by the 
 pathos of her blindness, by the danger of her illness, and by the 
 charm of her character. He hesitated, and those who do not 
 understand the movements of a generous, impulsive, rather un- 
 selfish, and wholly undisciplined nature, will probably think him 
 altogether weak and vacillating, when it is recorded that already 
 he felt the resolution with which he had entered, wavering. 
 That resolution had been to firmly renounce all attempt to win 
 the heiress's hand ; yet when he saw the startled pleading of her 
 face, the childlike quiver of her lips, his heart misgave him. 
 Could he draw back ? Would not the consequences be more 
 disastrous than if he accepted the situation in which his own 
 premature folly (so, in the light of old Burnham's death, he now 
 regarded his off"er) had placed him ? If Mary could have seen 
 the troubled look in his eyes, she might have understood the 
 meaning of his hesitation better than she did. As it was, she 
 suddenly extended her hand. 
 
 "You are only trying me," she said. "I feel sure of that. 
 You do not mean any thing so unjust. What ! you were willing 
 to offer me the fortune when you thought it would be jours — 
 and now you are not willing to take it when it is mine I Was I 
 right the other day, then ? — was it only pity that you felt for 
 12 
 
262 A QUESTION OF IIOXOR. 
 
 me ? And now — now that you think I shall not need money— 
 you are ready to go and leave me ? " 
 
 " It is you who are unjust ! " said Devereux, speaking almost 
 mechanically in the tuiimlt of his thoughts. "Pardon me for 
 saying that you do not comprehend — you do not realize how in 
 the eyes of the world I should seem to have taken advantage of 
 your generosity to make my fortune secure in the event of either 
 losing or gaining the suit." 
 
 " No, I do not comprehend," said she, slowly. " I do not 
 realize how it can be so important to you in what manner the 
 eyes of the world regard you. If I believe that you never meant 
 any thing of the kind— is not that enough ? It only concerns 
 you and me — not the world." 
 
 "The opinion of the world is something that no man can 
 afford to disregard," he said. "It is embodied in many ways. 
 Y"our friends, for instance — " 
 
 "I have no friends for whom I care except the Severns," in- 
 terrupted she, " and Basil, who was here an hour or two ago, 
 told me he felt sure the case would have gone in your favor, but 
 for the death of your witness." 
 
 " Yes," said Devereux, " I think it would — but he died, and 
 that ended the matter." 
 
 " It should not have ended it, however," said she, with a 
 glow coming over her face. " It was not honest. If that man's 
 testimony would have made the property yours, it ought to be 
 yours as much as if he had given it. That is how I feel. But 
 I did not mind it," she added, " when I thought it would be 
 yours in any event ; only now — now — " 
 
 Her voice trembled and ceased. Involuntarily one hand 
 went to her heart, as she leaned against the back of the couch 
 on which she was sitting. She was like a child in the ignorance 
 of her blindness, yet a chord of the woman stirred within her, 
 auvi she felt that she had said as much as it was possible to say. 
 The rest must come from Devereux ; the decision rested with 
 bim — would he go or stay ? 
 
 If the moment of silence which followed was one of suspense 
 
MARYS ANSWER. 263 
 
 to her, it was certainly one of conflict and doubt with her com- 
 panion. To a man of less subtile perceptions, all that she was 
 feeling might not have been so fatally clear — but he not onh' 
 understood all that she implied, but he read all that she thought 
 as if her mind had been a crystal pool. In that moment he felt 
 that he could not do the thing on which he had resolved when 
 he entered — he could not, to save his own pride, leave this wom- 
 an whose heart he had won. " It would be brutal ! " he said to 
 himself. " I should be haunted by the look of her face as long 
 as I lived ! God knows, no one could hate more desperately to 
 bear the brand of a fortune-hunter, but — one must think of honor 
 before all things." 
 
 So, when he spoke, it was with all his usual gentleness in 
 his voice — the gentleness she had learned to know so well. " I 
 cannot bear to give you pain by discussing this matter," he said, 
 " but you must understand that the decision of the court is ir- 
 revocable. The property is yours — nothing can possibly take it 
 from you — and you must not say again that it ' ouglit ' to be 
 mine." 
 
 " Why should I not say it if it is true ? " she asked. " Do 
 you know that you are cruel to talk like this ! How can I make 
 you comprehend ? — I am blind — I am a woman — " 
 
 She could say no more. With a gasp, she lay down on the 
 scroll end of the couch, and buried her face in the cushions. Her 
 heart beat with a vibrating thrill which made itself felt in every 
 fibre of her body, and her whole frame visiblj' shook with agita- 
 tion. With a sensation of absolute dismay Devereux saw this, 
 and Madeleine's warning flashed upon him. He felt that this 
 excitement must be ended at once, and, bending forward, he 
 touched lightly the quivering form. 
 
 " Forgive me ! " he said. " I did not mean to be cruel — I 
 would do any thing sooner. You are right, after all. It does 
 not matter what others say of me, so that you believe in my 
 honesty and faith. And if you do believe in it, and if you will 
 let me ask again the question I asked five days ago — " 
 
 She lifted her face abruptly — so abruptly that the motion 
 
264 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 took him altogether bj surprise — and caught quickly the hand 
 which had touched her. 
 
 "Stop!" she said, hastily — almost passionately — "stop a 
 moment and listen to me. I do not know much of the world, 
 but perhaps there is some way in which you could take this 
 property that I believe to be rightfully ^^ours, without — without 
 me. If so, it might be better. I am sick, I am blind, I should 
 only encumber you — but if you would take the fortune — " 
 
 This was more than Devereux could bear — it ended his last 
 shred of hesitation. The lis^ht of self-devotion on the Wind 
 girl's fair, spiritual face, seemed to shame his own consideration 
 of self. With a sudden motion he drew her to his heart. 
 
 " I will take yow," he said, " and thank God for the gift of 
 one so tender and trusting — but do not mention the fortune 
 again. That is more than I can bear. I have no longer concern 
 or interest in it. I almost wash that I had never laid claim to 
 it." 
 
 "Do not wish that," said she. "It cannot have been mere 
 chance that drew our interests and our lives together. God 
 must have meant that we should know and — and love each other. 
 See, too, how it smoothes every thing — as you said five days ago ! 
 Does it matter now how the suit ended ? Ah, if you would only 
 feel with me that it does not ! " 
 
 " Should you have felt that if it had ended otherwise ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes, yes, a thousand times yes," she answered ; " only I 
 might have doubted a little if you did not merely pity me. 
 Perhaps I might doubt it yet, if I stopped to weigh and measure 
 all that you have said. But I cannot do that. You would not 
 be unjust enough to seek to win me if you did not care for me 
 a little, and I — I love you, and I am quite happy." 
 
BEHIND THE SCENES 265 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 BEHIND THE S C E jS" E S . 
 
 f 
 
 As Rosalind made her toilet in the dressing-room of the 
 theatre that evening, it was with a grave face and an anxious 
 mind. She had quite decided what it was that Devereux had 
 on the night before declared his intention of asking her, and she 
 felt that the necessity for avoiding him was very great indeed. 
 The suit having been abominably and unjustly decided against 
 him, there was " no good " in entangling herself any further. 
 Champion would not endure much more trifling — if indeed any 
 at all. "It is easier to avoid trouble than to cure it," she 
 thought. " I must keep out of Mr. Devereux's way." 
 
 In accordance with this resolution, therefore, she kept care- 
 fully to her dressing-room — delaying her toilet by various de- 
 vices — until it was time for her appearance on the stage. Then 
 she turned to Madeleine, who had obligingly acted as lady's- 
 maid, and begged that she would keep with her. " I have a 
 particular reason," she said impressively, "for the request. I 
 will tell you about it afterward." 
 
 " It may be impossible for me to keep with you all the time,"-^ 
 said Madeleine, "but as much as possible I will — Here! let me 
 pin your train a little farther back." 
 
 They went out together, and the first person whom they met 
 was Devereux. Rosalind strove desperately to be as usual in 
 her manner, but the effort was a depressing failure. Her disap- 
 pointment was too recent, too acute — and at sight of him all its 
 bitterness revived ! When he spoke, she could almost fancy 
 that she had been dreaming, so entirely was his manner un- 
 changed. Yet it was impossible for her to respond to its ease 
 and lightness. Never before, she said to herself, had she been 
 so awkward and so constrained. Naturally this knowledge did 
 not tend to make her less so, and when — suddenly looking up — 
 she caught his eyes bent on her, full of a certain amused intelli- 
 
2G6 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 geiice, her sense of discomfiture was complete. They were 
 standing at the wings, waiting for her cue, and at that moment, 
 to her great relief, it came. With cheeks flushed deeply, and 
 almost ungraceful haste, she swept past him to the stage. At 
 another time she mio;ht have been nervously conscious of the 
 
 CD •/ 
 
 critical Stansbury eyes ranged before her, but now she scarcely 
 gave them a thought. 
 
 " She has very little of that self-consciousness which is usu- 
 ally the bane of amateur actresses ! " said Devereux, following 
 her with his eyes. 
 
 " She is alwaj^s self-possessed," answered Madeleine, quietly. 
 She glanced at him as she spoke — trying to read the riddle of 
 his handsome, careless, yet impassive face. It was not remark- 
 able that, under the circumstances, she should have felt no small 
 degree of curiosity regarding that flirtation which had been so 
 patent to all observers, between Rosalind and himself. How far 
 had it gone ? Had it passed over the somewhat indefinite 
 bounds which divide flirtation from absolute love-making ? Had 
 they in any manner " understood " each other ? Rosalind's 
 mode of receiving the news of the end of the lawsuit had cer- 
 tainly inclined her to think so, yet there was the stubborn fact of 
 Devereux's offer to Mary Carlisle. Had he been playing fast 
 and loose with either — or both ? 
 
 Every one feels the magnetism of a steady, intent gaze, and 
 before long Devereux's eyes left Rosalind to meet the dark, 
 quiet orbs bent on him. What soft, serene lustre they pos- 
 sessed ! — not liquid wells of beguiling light like some other eyes 
 he knew, but crystal depths in which a man might be sure of 
 finding absolute truthfulness, perfect trust, and quiet repose. 
 So he reflected, while he said, with a smile : 
 
 " I wish I might venture to ask of what j^ou are thinking. 
 Miss Severn." 
 
 " I wish I might venture to tell you," said Madeleine, in her 
 frank voice. " If I thought it could serve any good end, I 
 would ; but I fear that is impossible." 
 
 He was surprised and interested. " Why should it be im- 
 possible ? " he asked. " If I can do any thing for you-—" 
 
BEHIXD THE SCENES. 267 
 
 But she interrupted liim by shaking her head. " Not any 
 thing," she said. " I was not thinking of myself. There is 
 nothing you can do for me. I was thinking of — others, and 
 wondering — shall I really tell you what I was wondering, Mr. 
 Dev^ereux ? " 
 
 " If you will be so kind," answered Devereux, altogether at 
 a loss for her meaning, and puzzled by her manner. 
 
 Then on the impulse of the moment she spoke, 
 
 " I was wondering," she said, " where the amusement of the 
 hour ends, and the earnestness of life begins, with a man like you." 
 ■ " The amusement of the hour ! " he repeated, thoroughly 
 surprised. Then a tide of warm blood sprang to his face. 
 Madeleine's glance — almost unconsciously — passed to Rosalind, 
 and he grasped all that she meant. He hesitated. What 
 could he say ? No man with a fragment of chivalry in his na- 
 ture cares to exculpate himself at the expense of a woman. 
 " It is my luck ! " Devereux thought. It certainly had been 
 his luck before. Women had always had a habit of distinguish- 
 ing him by their attentions, and he was never able to pass the 
 sirens with closed ears. 
 
 "I think you misjudge me, Miss Severn," he said, after 
 a while, a little diffidently. " I am not so thorough an epicurean 
 as you fancy. The amusement of the hour is not by any means 
 the first consideration with me." 
 
 " It may not be the first consideration," answered Made- 
 leine, a httle coldly — she thought to herself: "He is quite right ! 
 Interest is plainly his first consideration!" — "but at least it is 
 enough of a consideration to make you careless of — of things 
 that ought to be regarded." Then, having said this, she sud- 
 denly remembered how little right she had to call ]\Ir. Devereux 
 to account for his shortcomino;s, and she blushed. " Excuse 
 me ! " she added, quickly. " I am presumptuous — I have no 
 possible right to speak so to you." 
 
 " Let us take it for granted that you have a right," said 
 Devereux, with unmoved courtesy, " and pray be good enough — " 
 
 " What on earth is engrossing you two ? " demanded Basil, 
 
268 A QUESTIOif OF HONOR. 
 
 suddenly appearing, plaj-book in hand. " Didn't you Lear 
 your cue ? " (this to Devereux). " The play is waiting on 
 you." 
 
 " By Jove ! " said that gentleman, starting. " I had forgot- 
 ten all about the play. What is my speech ? " 
 
 Basil gave it to him, and the next instant he made his ap- 
 pearance before the audience that had good-naturedly waited in 
 silence during a dismal interlude of two minutes. 
 
 " What came over the fellow ? " Basil asked his sister. 
 " They all seem on their heads to-night. Things are going off 
 shockingly." 
 
 " And Mr. Lacy has not been seen or heard of ! " said Miss 
 Champion, at that moment making her appearance, with a crim- 
 son scarf draped becomingly over her head. " I should not be 
 surprised if he did not come at all — it would be just like him ! 
 O I — Madeleine, are you here ? I'm sure I beg pardon. But 
 perhaps you know something of Mr. Lacy's whereabouts ? " 
 
 " I have not seen him since this morning," answ'ered Made- 
 leine, " but no doubt he will be here in time." 
 
 " He is not due till the after-piece," said Basil. 
 
 " I wish he was not due at all," said Miss Champion, who 
 had plainly lost her temper. " I don't pretend to understand 
 the caj)rices of poets, being only a plain mortal myself!" 
 
 " I don't think you need fear that Gordon's caprices w^ill 
 make him late," said Madeleine, with a slight strain of hauteur 
 in her voice. Then she walked away. 
 
 " I suppose I have provoked her," said Miss Champion, look- 
 ing after the retreating figure. " Of course I am sorry, but no- 
 body can deny that Gordon Lacy is literally made up of caprices. 
 He does not know his own mind two consecutive days. I detest 
 that kind of person ! Now, when I make up my mind, it is 
 made up for good. Nothing ever changes me." 
 
 " Are you quite sure of that ? " asked Basil, looking at her 
 with his honest, steady eyes. The SjDanish proverb did not at 
 that moment occur to him, which says that a wise man changes 
 his mind, a fool never. When do uncomplimentary proverbs. 
 
BEHIND THE SCENES. 269 
 
 or reflections, occur to a man who listens to nonsense from the 
 lips of a woman with whom he fancies himself in love ? 
 
 " Oh, quite sure," replied the young lady, who belonged to 
 that large class whose imagination is not vivid enough to antici- 
 pate any change in themselves. " What I decide to do I al- 
 w^ays accomplish in the end, no matter what obstacles interfere, 
 and that is the way I like a man to be." 
 
 " But it is hard to persevere without hope," said Basil, who 
 had not the least idea that the sharp edge of her w^ords was 
 due to Lacy's defection. " With hope a man might accomplish 
 any thing, but w^ithout — " 
 
 " Is there any need for him to be without ? " asked she, 
 laughing, and casting down her eyes, conscious of the length 
 and blackness of their lashes. 
 
 It was certainly no time or place for a declaration, but Basil's 
 love-fever had reached a point when he knew that he could not 
 endure suspense and trifling any longer. Whatever his fate 
 might be, he must know it. 
 
 " May I have hope, then ? " he asked, quicldy. " I have 
 long wished to ask you that. You know how I love you — is 
 there any hope for me ? " 
 
 " Merc}^, Mr. Severn ! — how you startle one ! " said Miss 
 Champion, who did not look by any means exceedingly amazed. 
 " Is it possible you expect me to answer such a question as that 
 now — and my head full of the play ? " 
 
 " Severn, Severn ! " said Tom Gresham, advancing from the 
 front of the stage to the side-scene, " where the deuce is that 
 fellow who ought to come on and say that my mother is ill and 
 has sent for me ? " 
 
 " Where, indeed ? " said Miss Champion. *' It is Frank 
 Urquhart you mean — what has become of him ? " 
 
 " He can't get on his boots," said a voice from the green- 
 room. " His feet are swelled." 
 
 " Confound his boots ! " said Gresham. " Let him come on 
 without them. — Severn, for Heaven's sake — " 
 
 Basil did not need the adjuration. He darted away in search 
 
270 A QUESTION OF KOXOR. 
 
 of the delinquent Frank, who was vainly and agonizingly trying 
 to draw on his long, red-topped postillion boots. " I can't get 
 them on, Mr. Severn ! " he affirmed, half crying — for had not 
 the dream of appearing before the Stansbury public in these 
 boots been the delight of his life for three long weeks ? — " 1 
 went duck-shooting to-day, and my feet — " 
 
 " You young rascal, don't you know that everybody is wait- 
 ing ? " said Basil, wrathfully. " Put on your other boots, and 
 come along ! " 
 
 But with one final despairing tug the boots came on, and 
 Frank was spared that dreadful alternative. He seized the whip 
 held out to him and fled. 
 
 A minute later, Gresham came off highly indignant. " I 
 could hear the people laughing in front ! " he said. " They knew 
 as well as I did that there was some hitch, and that I was there 
 behind time. I believe the thing is going to be "St. fiasco after all 
 our rehearsals. There are Miss Rosalind and Mr. Devereux — 
 everybody knows how well they acted last night ; to-night I'll 
 be hanged if they are much better than two sticks ! " 
 
 This was, unhappily, true. Rosalind and Devereux were 
 not doing themselves credit — the former played constrained!}^, 
 the latter absently. They were both conscious of the fact, and, 
 when they met in the green-room at the end of the first act, the 
 gentleman made his apologies. 
 
 " I fear — indeed, I know — that I am supporting you very 
 badly," he said. " Pray excuse me. I told you that I feared I 
 should murder the part." 
 
 " It is I who am murdering mine^'' said Rosalind. " I think 
 you do very well — though not so well as last night, certainly. 
 But one cannot always be at one's best." 
 
 " That is very true," said he. " But there is no reason why I 
 should be at my worst — unless, indeed, it is a case of magnetism." 
 
 Rosalind knew well what he meant, but she made no attempt 
 to answer, as she would have done twenty-four hours before. 
 She only said, quietly, " If magnetism explains bad acting, some 
 one must surely have subjected me to it." 
 
BEHIND THE SCENES. 271 
 
 " You are not your usual self to-night," said Devereux, cu- 
 rious to know the exact meaning of the change in her. He 
 could not believe that it was indeed — as he had first suspected 
 — owing to his own altered prospects. After all, it did not con- 
 cern her greatly whether he was eligible or non-eligible as a 
 matrimonial parti. Her reserve and constraint must have some 
 other meaning, and*he decided to discover what it was. They had 
 the green-room very much to themselves just then — the curtain 
 being down, and the rest of the company on the stage, engaged 
 in a general hubbub. 
 
 " Am I not ? " said she, evasively. " I do not feel very well. 
 I have had a headache all day. But perhaps you are like one of 
 Charles Reade's characters, and entertain a 'rooted distrust' of 
 feminine headaches. I should not blame you. We often make 
 them cloaks for other things." 
 
 " Has yours to-day been a cloak for any thing else ? " 
 
 " No, mine was genuine — I have it yet. I wish this tire- 
 some business was over. How foolish we were to be entrapped 
 into it ! " 
 
 " I do not regret my share of the foolishness," said Devereux, 
 not very truthfully. " It has given me many pleasant hours which 
 would else have been dull ones." 
 
 No answer, no swift, upward glance of the lovely, blue-gray 
 eyes. " If I utter one word, there is no telling icliat he will say ! " 
 thought Rosalind. " Where is Madeleine ? She promised to 
 keep with me. If, by some ill-chance, James should come, he 
 would be certain I was flirting ! " 
 
 " I told you last night," said Devereux, sinking his voice a 
 little, " that I meant to ask a favor of you to-night, in memory 
 of our pleasant association. May I ask it now ? " 
 
 " I am afraid I must beg you to defer it," said she, quickly. 
 " Is not that the curtain going up ? Excuse me ! — I must see 
 Madeleine for a moment. O Gordon ! — is that you ? " 
 
 " I have some reason for believing so," responded Lacy, into 
 whose arms she very nearly ran, as she turned abruptly. He 
 wore a light overcoat over the faultless costume of &ir Edward 
 
272 ^ QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 Ardenty and looked out of sorts, and altogether unlike that very 
 gay and gallant cavalier. " Is Madeleine here ? " he asked. " I 
 want to see her." 
 
 " She ought to be here," said Rosalind, in an aggrieved tone. 
 " I was just going in search of her. Perhaps she is in the dress- 
 inG:-room. I will see." 
 
 The two men, left together as she passed away, had very 
 little to say to each other. " The play is going on heavily, isn't 
 it ? " asked Lacy. " I have just arrived, but it strikes me the 
 company seem rather demoralized." 
 
 " I think the first rehearsal was better, on the whole," replied 
 Devereux. 
 
 The second act was in progress by this time, and the latter 
 was summoned on the stage at that moment. Almost immedi- 
 ately afterward, Madeleine appeared. " I was arranging Rosa- 
 lind's costume for the third act," she said. " So, you have come 
 at last, Gordon ! I am glad of it — Miss Champion has been very 
 uneasy for fear j^ou did not mean to come at all." 
 
 *' I was almost tempted to stay away," he replied. " Made- 
 leine, my darling, such horrible luck ! — Come out of this uproar 
 a little, and let me tell you." 
 
 " What is it ? " asked she, slipping her hand into his arm, as 
 they made their way to a corner. " Nothing very terrible, since 
 you are here." 
 
 " Ah, I am not sure of that. It is something terrible when 
 one's hopes and toil go for naught. My publishers are bank- 
 rupt." 
 
 " O Gordon ! " 
 
 " It is a fact. I saw a newspaper rumor to that effect a few 
 daj's ago, and I wrote at once for information. The mail this 
 evening brought me the news. They owe me heavily, and I 
 shall probably obtain but a moiet}'- of the amount — if that." 
 
 " How sorry, how sorry I am ! " she said, with a quiver in her 
 voice — for she knew how deeply this blow struck. " Forgive me 
 for speaking so lightly — I know this is terrible, after all your 
 labor ! Can nothing be done ? " 
 
BEHIND THE SCENES. 273 
 
 " Nothino: whatever. I must share with the rest of their 
 creditors, What castles in the air it ends ! — How much farther 
 off it puts jou ! Now I must begin afresh, with what hope I 
 may." 
 
 " With all hope I " said she, earnestly. " You have a name, 
 which JOU did not have before, greater art, and a more facile 
 power of working. Ah, Gordon, have faith in yourself!" 
 
 " I have not the least — not one grain ! " said he, impetuously. 
 " I am unstable as water, shifting as sand. If it were not for you, 
 Madeleine, God only knows where I should drift. But icith you, 
 I feel strong ; you give me repose, faith, patience. Promise 
 me that this shall make no difference — that you will wait and 
 trust — " 
 
 " Gordon ! " said Madeleine, in a tone of keen reproach. She 
 lifted her hand and laid it over his lips. " Hush ! " she said. 
 " How can you wrong me by such words ? Can you think it 
 would make a difference ? Can you think I shall not wait and 
 trust — to the end ? " 
 
 " Did some one tell me that Lacy was here ? " asked a voice 
 near at hand. " By George ! — here he is ! Sir Edward Ardent^ 
 you fascinating dog, Mrs. CMllington wishes to speak to you." 
 
 " Stay here till I come back," said Lacy to Madeleine, with 
 an impatient contraction of the brows. " I shall not be gone 
 long. It is impossible that Miss Champion can have any thing 
 of importance to say to me." 
 
 Whether she had any thing of importance to say or not, Miss 
 Champion managed to detain her unwilling knight some time, 
 and Madeleine had left her corner to arrange some stray locks 
 of Miss Gresham's hair, when Devereux next came off the stage. 
 He waited till that young lady was summoned away, then he 
 addressed Miss Severn. 
 
 ■" Pardon me for neglecting to tell you earlier," he said, " that 
 I saw Miss Carlisle this afternoon, and she asked me to say that 
 she will send her carriage for you to-morrow morning, and that 
 she hopes you will go to the Lodge. She wishes very much to 
 see you." 
 
274 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " Of course I will go," replied Madeleine. She glanced up 
 quickl}'', and something reminded him of the look she gave him 
 once before, in this very place. " I hope Mary is well," she 
 added. 
 
 " She was quite well when I left her," Devereux answered. 
 " But I have feared since that she may have been too much ex- 
 cited. I am glad, therefore, that you are going to her." 
 
 " But you should not have excited her," said Madeleine, al- 
 most indignantly. " I warned you — I told you that it was no 
 slight danger you incurred ! Her life hangs on a thread." 
 
 " I regretted as much as possible the necessity for exciting 
 her," he answered, " but it was something unavoidable. I was 
 forced to speak of the business which was ended to-day." 
 
 " There is nothing very exciting in discussing a lawsuit," said 
 Madeleine, regarding him suspiciousl3\ 
 
 " True — but the discussion of a lawsuit may lead to the dis- 
 cussion of other matters. It did so with us." 
 
 " And it might have led to consequences much more serious," 
 she said, feeling slightly ruffled by his cool self-possession. 
 
 " I should have been inexpressibly sorry," said he, quietly, 
 " but I could not have blamed myself — neither, I think, could 
 you blame me, if you knew all the circumstances — though you 
 are a severe judge." 
 
 " I ! " said Madeleine, coloring. " You are the first person 
 who ever thought so." 
 
 " Perhaps I am the first person w^ho ever had reason to think 
 so. At all events you cannot deny, Miss Severn, that you are 
 disposed to judge me severely." 
 
 " I have not the faintest reason to judge you at all, Mr. Deve- 
 
 reux." 
 
 "That, if you will excuse me, is an evasion which I hardly 
 expected you to make. Be frank, please — frank as you were an 
 hour ago when we were interrupted — and tell me what it is that 
 prejudices you so deeply against me. One or two things I know, 
 and those things I should like to explain if you will give me an 
 opportunity to do so." 
 
BEHIND THE SCENES. 2?5 
 
 His limpid eyes met her own — eyes which looked as if can- 
 dor ought to dwell in them — and between surprise and hesita- 
 tion, Madeleine felt at a loss what to say. It was a relief that 
 she was spared the necessity of saying any thing, for Champion 
 ap23eared at that moment and came up to her. 
 
 " I am afraid Rosalind is not well," he said, after exchanging 
 a stiff salutation with Devereux. " I have been watching her 
 for some time, and I have come to propose that she shall go 
 home immediately after the play. My mother's carriage is at 
 the door." 
 
 " Probably she will be glad to do so," answ^ered Madeleine. 
 "I do not think she is very well. Here she comes to answer for 
 herself." 
 
 Rosalind answered for herself to the effect that she would be 
 very glad to go as soon as her part ended. '" I am sick of the 
 whole thing," she said. " I — I have made a complete fool of my- 
 self ! Are not people laughing at me, James ? I give you my 
 word, I feel hysterically inclined." 
 
 " Everybody says that you are looking exceedingly pretty," 
 replied Champion, who had tact enough to administer the only 
 consolation in his power. 
 
 "Oh, that is nothino;!" said she. "The w^oman who would 
 not look pretty in point lace and emeralds, had better go and 
 hang herself. But I thought I should make a great success as 
 an actress, and I have been no better than a stick. Last night 
 I did act splendidly — you ought to have seen me last night, 
 James ! " Here she stopped and colored — strongly conscious 
 that it would not have afforded James any great satisfaction to 
 have seen her last night. 
 
 "Once is enough for me," said Champion, with disgust. "I 
 have had enough of seeing other men j^laying at making love to 
 you. I will never tolerate such a thing again — not for a mo- 
 ment." 
 
 " I shall never ask you to tolerate it," said Rosalind, who felt 
 very much depressed. 
 
 In this manner the comedy proceeded, and, after many mis- 
 
276 A QUESTION OF HONOK. 
 
 adventures, finally ended. "The Morning Call" went off with 
 a little more spirit, but if the appreciation of the audience had 
 been tested by vote, it is likely that the opinion would have 
 been unanimously returned that the long-expected dramatic en- 
 tertainment was a decided failure. Questioned respecting the 
 cause of this, after it was all over, Tom Gresham delivered his 
 mind as follows : 
 
 " The cause of the failure," said he, '' was flirtation — or what- 
 ever else you might choose to call the dramatic entertainment 
 behind the scenes." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 EOSALLND MAKES A BEQUEST. 
 
 The events of this night did not altogether end with the 
 ending of the play, for Madeleine. Lacy accompanied her home, 
 and remained an hour or more discussing his affairs in all their 
 details, and receiving consolation. That the cheeks of his con- 
 soler were pale, and her eyelids heavy, did not occur to him — 
 such trifles rarely occur to the masculine mind when it is well 
 entertained. If the price of a virtuous woman is above rubies, 
 what gem shall represent the value of a considerate man ? He 
 is certainly one of the rarest of phenomena, and, let us add, 
 one of the most agreeable. But among the characteristic virtues 
 of the stronger sex, unselfishness has not yet taken its place ; 
 and Lacy was no more inconsiderate than the majority of his 
 fellows. Besides, Madeleine gave no hint of her weariness. 
 When he went away at last, however, she sat looking into the 
 dying embers on the hearth — almost too tired to rise and go up- 
 stairs. Then it occurred to her that Basil had not yet come in, 
 and she leaned her head against the deep back of her chair, think- 
 ing that she would wait for him. So leaning she fell into a 
 light sleep, and waked suddenly to find Basil standing over her. 
 
 "Why, Madeleine," he was saying, "what are you doing 
 
ROSALIXD MAKES A EEQUE8T. 277 
 
 here? Don't you see how late it is? You had better goto 
 bed." 
 
 " I thought I would wait for you," said Madeleine, rising. 
 *' What makes you so late ? Where have you been ? " 
 
 She looked up in his face, and, as she looked, something 
 struck her — some change there. His eyes were shining, his lips 
 under their brown mustache slightly smiling. When happi- 
 ness touches us, it leaves an impress that not even the most 
 careless glance can mistake — and Madeleine's glance was not 
 careless. 
 
 " Basil ! " she said, quickly, " what is it ? Something has 
 happened to make you glad." 
 
 He laughed as he bent and kissed her — laughed with a sound 
 which reminded her, for the first time in many years, of his boy- 
 hood. 
 
 " What a close observer you are ! " he said. " I don't know 
 whether or not any thing has happened to make me glad — that 
 is, I don't know that there is any reason in my being glad. But 
 all the same, you are right — I am ! " 
 
 " Why ? " she asked, breathlessly. " You are not going to 
 be glad and not tell me what it is about ? Where have you 
 been ? What has happened ? " 
 
 Basil did not answer. He was e-vddently averse to speaking 
 — even to her. It was not only that some things are too in- 
 tangible to be put into speech, but he had always with regard 
 to his deeper feelings been shy as a girl. That some deep feel- 
 ing was stirred now, Madeleine perceived, and suddenly com- 
 prehension flashed upon her. 
 
 " Basil," she cried, " you have been with Helen Champion, 
 and she has said or done something to make you glad ! O my 
 dear, my dear, don't let her play with you ! don't let her amuse 
 herself by breaking your heart ! " 
 
 Many a man would have answered such an appeal sternly, 
 for, v.'hen the thrall of Circe is over them, m.en generally care 
 little how deeply they wound those who have always been most 
 tender and true. But Basil did not belong to this class. He 
 
278 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 saw liis sister's love shining in her passionate eyes, and he 
 knew that nothing which Helen Champion had yet given him 
 could equal the value of the affection which had been his stay 
 through life. So he made answer quietly, but kindly : 
 
 " I think you are a little unjust, Madeleine ; or, at least, a 
 little prejudiced. Why should you take it for granted that Miss 
 Champion means to amuse herself by breaking my heart ? You 
 wrong her by such a suspicion, and you wrong me. I shall 
 never sink into a plaything for any woman's caprice." 
 
 *' Has she promised to marry you, then ? " asked Madeleine^ 
 eagerly. She did not believe that Helen had given such a prom- 
 ise, or that, if she had given, she meant to keep it, yet she would 
 have found it difficult to explain the cause of her settled incre- 
 dulity. 
 
 A flush came over Basil's face. " Not — exactly," he replied, 
 " but I have every reason to hope." 
 
 " What does that mean ? " asked Madeleine. " O Basil, re- 
 member — " 
 
 He lifted his hand with a silencing gesture. " Hush ! " he 
 said, gently, " you don't understand — you cannot tell. There is 
 no definite engagement yet — that would be premature — but I 
 have not only every ground for hope, but every ground for cer- 
 tainty. You must not ask me to say more. I am pledged not 
 to do so. I only say this to you — in confidence." 
 
 Madeleine did not speak when his voice ceased. She sat, 
 with her hands clasped in her lap, gazing into the fireplace at 
 the red coals, the soft gray ashes. If her heart was full of bit- 
 terness, who can blame her ? She saw the end as clearly then 
 as she ever saw it afterward — for she had not lived with closed 
 eyes up to the year of grace 1870. She knew — as who, alas ! 
 does not know ? — how man}^ women in these days seem to hold 
 their honor at less than a farthing's value, how lightest of all 
 light things is that promise given and held which stands charged 
 with so much meaning: in the sio-ht of God and man, and how 
 careless — nay, even how ruthlessly cruel — are those who should 
 remember that she who, for pleasure or triumph, tramples on a 
 
ROSALIXD MAKES A REQUEST. 279 
 
 human heart with all its infinite capacities for suffering, has 
 often a sterner account to render than he whose hands are red 
 with the blood of his brother. O for some voice brave enough 
 and strong enough to reach the multitude of ears now closed by 
 vanit}'', frivolity, aod heedlessness, and preach to them the old 
 evangel which tells how a woman's chief jewels are purity, ten- 
 derness, and truth ; how she should be gentle and yet strong, 
 gracious in her courtesy, considerate in her kindness, and firm 
 in her constancy ! Nothing is more true than that she who 
 lowers herself in man's esteem, lowers for the time her whole 
 sex with her. The instinct of reverence for womanhood is 
 planted deep in every true man's heart, and, so long as women 
 are worthy of honor and respect, honor and respect will never 
 fail them. But when instead come scoffing and contempt, 
 the hour which is dark for man is darker still for them. With 
 their own hands they have torn the crowns from their brow, 
 and descended from the thrones where God himself placed 
 them. 
 
 These thoughts came to Madeleine, as they had come often 
 before — not connectedly, but tumultuously and dimly, with the 
 sharp pang of personal sorrow stirring through them. She knew 
 Basil's nature so well — knew it by its very likeness to her own — 
 and she felt that there was no material in him for the light and 
 careless lover who is fit subject for a coquette's amusement. But 
 there was nothing to be said or done. He must " dree his weird," 
 as the Scotch say; and learn, as many a man has learned before, 
 
 " How much is wasted, wrecked, forgot, 
 On this side heaven ! " 
 
 " God bless you, dear ! " she said, presently, rising and lay- 
 ing her hand on his shoulder. " You know I wdsh you all happi- 
 ness — you know there is nothing I would not do to win happi- 
 ness for you I I hope Helen will be true. If she plays you false, 
 it will be hard for me to forgive her ! " 
 
 " Wait until she has played me false before you speak like 
 
280 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 that," said Basil, smiling. " Now God bless you, and good-niglit 
 It is time you were in bed." 
 
 But Madeleine was not destined to attain that desirable 
 place of rest for some time yet. She had scarcely entered her 
 own chamber, and turned up the gas dimly burning hy the side 
 of the toilet-table, when without any warning the door sud- 
 denly opened, and Rosalind — attired in a blue dressing-gown 
 with a cloud of brown curling hair about her shoulders — stood 
 on the threshold. 
 
 " I beg your jDardon for not knocking," she said, advancing, 
 after closing the door behind her, " but I thought mamma might 
 hear, and want to know to-morrow why I was wandering about 
 this time of night. What kept you down-stairs so long ? I have 
 been waiting and waiting for you ! I thought Gordon was never 
 going, but he left an hour ago, and still you did not come." 
 
 " I have been talking to Basil," said Madeleine. " Why are 
 you not asleep ? You must be tired." 
 
 " I am tired, dreadfully tired ! " answered Rosalind, sinking 
 into a chair. " I have not been to bed, either, for I dared not lie 
 down lest I should fall asleep and not hear you when you came 
 up-stairs." 
 
 " And why were you anxious to hear me ? " asked Made- 
 leine, who was tired herself, and naturally averse to conversation 
 at such an hour of the night. 
 
 " Because I have something important to say," replied Rosa- 
 lind. " I want to say it to-night and be over it. There is no 
 telling whether or not I shall have an opportunity to speak to 
 you privately to-morrow." 
 
 " It is very likely that you will not, since I am going to the 
 Lodge in the morning." 
 
 " To the Lodge ! — are you ? " said Rosalind, starting in a 
 manner which that very simple and common occurrence did not 
 seem to warrant. "Do you think you will stay long?" she 
 asked, quickly. 
 
 " I cannot tell. It depends upon how much Mary needs oi 
 wants me," answered Madeleine. 
 
ROSALIND MAKES A REQUEST. 281 
 
 The other was silent for a moment — looking down with brows 
 slightly drawn together as she traced with the point of her slip- 
 pered foot a pattern on the carpet. Then, without glancing up, 
 she said, abruptly, " Do you think you are likely to meet Mr. 
 Devereux there ? " 
 
 " Where ? — at the Lodge ? " said Madeleine. " It is very 
 likely ; but why do you ask ? " 
 
 " That is wiaat remains to be told," answered Rosalind, with 
 a faint sigh. " But tell me first why does he go there ? Do you 
 think that he will marry Mary now that the fortune is hers ? " 
 
 " I would rather not speak of that," said Madeleine — who felt 
 just then as if she could not do so — " Mr. Devereux's hopes or 
 intentions do not concern either you or me." 
 
 " Do not be too sure of that," replied Rosalind ; and despite 
 her honest (because selfish) anxiety, a smile of gratified vanity 
 dimpled the corners of her mouth. "Perhaps Mr. Devereux's 
 hopes and intentions concern me very much — that is, if I choose 
 to let them do so." 
 
 " Rosalind," said her sister, in a tone of pain, " I should be 
 sorry to hear that, although bound by your honor to one man, you 
 have been trifling with another." 
 
 " Call it what you like," said Rosalind, who saw no further 
 good in secrecy, and who knew that she could trust Madeleine to 
 the last extremity. " What I mean is the simple fact that, if Mr. 
 Devereux had won his suit, I should have married him." 
 
 " And you — you are not ashamed to say so ! " cried Made- 
 leine, shocked, revolted, yet not surprised. " Call it what I like ! 
 What can I call such conduct but utter want of principle ? I sus- 
 pected, I feared, but to know — " She stopped short, not because 
 words failed her, but because she felt how useless they were. 
 Who can explain the fine essence of honor and faith to those who 
 are morally obtuse ? It would be less waste of time to talk ol 
 light and color to the blind. 
 
 " Why should I be ashamed ? " demanded Rosalind, quietly, 
 " Self-preservation is the first law of nature, and to do the best 
 that one can for one's self — is not that self-preservation ? It is 
 
282 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 not worth while to discuss the matter, but I certainly meant to 
 do the best for mvself. Of course it is all over now. I know 
 too much of poverty to think for a moment of marrjdng a ruined 
 man — and Mr. Devereux, no doubt, will console himself with 
 Mary Carlisle." 
 
 " Don't mention her ! " said Madeleine, with sudden and most 
 unwonted passion — passion so unwonted, indeed, that her com- 
 panion looked up amazed at the startling energy of those words. 
 "Have you no sense of contempt for the part you have played, 
 and that which you were willing to play ? " she went on, with 
 a ring of scorn in her voice which vibrated even through Rosa- 
 lind's indifference. " Think for a moment of all that we owe to 
 Mary ; think of her darkened life, her generous heart ! Then 
 think that you were ready to profit by her great loss, to break 
 faith with the man who had been true to you for so long, to 
 — Ah, I cannot speak of it all ! It is too much — too much ! " 
 
 " If I had imagined that you were going to indulge in hero- 
 ics," said Rosalind, " I should have been more guarded in my 
 admissions. Consider my conduct what you please, I know that 
 I have only acted as any one else would have acted in my place. 
 To come to the point — for all this is pure waste of time — I 
 want you to understand that I now intend to marry James 
 Champion, and that it is necessary for me to see as little as pos- 
 sible of Mr. Devereux." 
 
 " Why should it be necessary for me to understand any thing 
 about it?" asked Madeleine. 
 
 " Simply because you may do me a great service, if you 
 will," her sister answered. " I see that you are about to say 
 that -you will not, but wait and hear me out. I take it foi 
 granted that you wish me to marry James Champion." 
 
 " You take too much for granted," said Madeleine, in whom 
 indignation still burned hotly. " As far as I know any thing 
 about Mr. Champion, he is an honorable man. I should, there- 
 fore, wish him better fortune than to marry a woman who has 
 acted so deceitfully ! " 
 
 A flood of bright crimson sprang to Rosalind's fair face. It is 
 
ROSALIND MAKES A REQUEST. 283 
 
 one of the strangest traits in this strange, complex human nature 
 of ours, that we shrink from hearing that characterized which we 
 do without compunction. f 
 
 " I did not come to be lectured," she said, rising haughtily. 
 " Mj affairs are my own altogether. I am sorry I thought of ask- 
 ing your assistance. Good-night." 
 
 She crossed the floor before Madeleine uttered a word. It 
 was only when her hand touched the doer that the elder sister's 
 voice sounded. 
 
 " Stay a moment," she said. " I spoke too severely — for 
 courtesy. Excuse me. Let me hear what you came to say." 
 
 Rosalind had her own reasons for accepting this n^vj slight 
 apology. Madeleine's assistance just then was almost absolutely 
 necessary to her. She turned and walked back. But she did 
 not sit down ag-ain — which to Madeleine seemed an encouraaino^ 
 si2:n. 
 
 "I came," she said, " to ask you to assist me out of a difliculty 
 in which I find myself. Of course it is my own fault that I am 
 in it; but that, unluckily, does not help matters. As I have 
 already said, I intend now to marry James Champion ; but he is 
 jealous and suspicious of my flirtation with Mr. Devereux, and 
 if he has the least idea that I was ever seriously entangled with 
 him, he — James, I mean — will certainly break ofi" the engage- 
 ment. Very likely you are ready to say that it would serve 
 me right if he did, but would it serve any good end besides ? 
 I should be left on Basil's hands for Heaven only knows how 
 long. Helen Champion would spread the story to the four winds 
 — and should you like all Stansbury to hear and talk of it ? 
 People have always said that the Severns kept their word. For 
 the sake of family pride, I thought you might help me to keep 
 mine." 
 
 " Family pride is a good thing in its way," said Madeleine, 
 "but there may be other things to consider." Then she paused 
 to consider those things. As it chanced, they all seconded 
 Rosalind's appeal. Champion's long attachment, Mary Carlisle's 
 engagement, Basil's entanglement — all would be more or less af- 
 
284 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 fected if that of which Rosalind spoke came to pass. " What do 
 you wish me to do ? " she asked, after a minute. " I cannot 
 assist you In any further deception, but if you simply wdsh to 
 draw back — " 
 
 " That is all," said Rosalind. " The favor you can do me 
 •will be very slight to you, though important to me. It is only 
 to obtain from Mr. Devereux a picture which I was foolish 
 enough to give him. James heard of it — how I cannot imagine 
 — and I was forced to deny that he had it. I said I lent it to 
 you, and you took it to the Lodge. Pray remember this, in case 
 the matter should be mentioned before j-ou." 
 
 She spoke with emphasis, but Madeleine was literally inca- 
 pable of reply. Those to whom that branch of polite fiction 
 known as white lies is thoroughly familiar, cannot realize how 
 this upright spirit recoiled from her first personal introduction 
 to falsehood. It seemed incredible that Rosalind could really 
 have meant what her words implied ! " You told him what was 
 not true ? " she said, like one who only half comprehends. 
 
 " Yes," answered Rosalind, who read all the m.eaning of her 
 tone, " I told him what was not true. You can scarcely think 
 worse of me than I think of myself for having done such a con- 
 temptible thing; for, though I don't consider morals as much as 
 you do, I feel that a lie is contemptible, chiefly because it is 
 cowardly. Now, I am not a coward, generally. But just then 
 every thing hung on yes or no. James was ready to leave me 
 at a word, and, if he had gone, I should never have won him 
 back. I knew that, just as I know now that if he learns that I 
 deceived him, and that Mr. Devereux has my likeness, he will 
 never forgive me." 
 
 " Try him ! " said Madeleine, impulsively. " O Rosalind, for 
 Heaven's sake, turn back ! You do not know what a road it is 
 that you have entered upon ! How can you endure for an hour 
 the consciousness that you are deceiving one w^ho trusts you ? 
 A lie is cowardly, as you say. Be brave : tell him the truth ! 
 I am sure he will forgive and respect you." 
 
 " Such advice proves how little you know James Champion,' 
 
 »> 
 
ROSALIND MAKES A REQUEST. 285 
 
 said Rosalind. " He would never forgive or trust me again, 
 even if I had courage for the step, which I have not. I have 
 always been afraid of him, I suppose I always shall be, and it is 
 nonsense to speak of such a thing. All that I desire of^ you is 
 to ask Mr. Devereux for my picture. Leave the rest to me." 
 
 *' But why not ask him yourself ? " 
 
 " Is it possible I have talked all this time and you do not 
 understand yet that I specially wish to avoid him ? But there 
 is no reason for you to do so, and you have abundant opportuni- 
 ties for seeing him at the Lodge. Pray, therefore, get the like- 
 ness ! It is a small vignette set in a locket. Even if James 
 were not likely to speak of it again, I should not wish it to re- 
 main in his possession. I do not feel as if I could trust him not 
 to show or talk of it." 
 
 " And yet you gave it to him — a man whose sense of honor 
 you trust no more than that ! " 
 
 " I did not think any thing about his sense of honor at that 
 time. I only thought how charming he was, and that he was 
 likely to obtain the Carlisle estate. If the suit had gone right 
 — if that horrid old man had not died just when he was needed 
 — there would be none of this trouble. It would be James 
 whom I should discard." 
 
 " That will do ! " said Madeleine. " Don't say any more if 
 you wish me to help you ! It is chiefly for the sake of others 
 that I promise now to do what I can. I will ask Mr. Deve- 
 reux for your picture, little as I like such a task. Is there any 
 thing that you specially wish said to him ? " 
 
 " Nothing at all — simply I want the likeness. He will un- 
 derstand the rest. Now, I will leave you to go to bed. I sup- 
 pose, since you are doing this ' for the sake of others ' — no 
 doubt that means Mary and James— ^t is not worth while to 
 thank you ? " 
 
 " Not at all worth while," answered Madeleine. " Are you 
 going ? Good-night." 
 
 13 
 
2SQ A QUESTIOX OF HOXOR. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 * 
 
 "tET ISrOT TO TniXK THE WOEST OF ME." 
 
 RosALDsi) betook herself to her virtuous slumbers with a 
 mind satisfied and at rest. From her earliest childhood she had 
 known that whatever Madeleine engaged to perform was sure 
 of accomplishment ; and now, as often before, she felt the con- 
 venience of possessing such a sister. If her vanity still smart- 
 ed a little at the recollection of the humiliatino- admission she 
 had been forced to make with regard to her falsehood to Cham- 
 pion, she salved it by the thought that after all it w^as no such 
 terrible thing, and that, in any event, Madeleine was altogether 
 to be relied upon. Tortures would not vv^ring from her any 
 thing that was told her in confidence ! thought the young epi- 
 curean, laying her head on her pillow ; so with one last sigh to 
 the vanished castle of her dreams, she closed her fringed lids 
 and floated away into unconsciousness. 
 
 That Madeleine did not find repose so easily was according 
 to the nature and probably the fitness of things. To the selfish 
 and egotistical, nothing is easier than to dismiss all troubles 
 which do not immediately concern themselves, but there are 
 others who seem born to bear throuo;h life the weiofht of vica- 
 rious as well as personal suffering, and Madeleine was one of 
 these. ^Ye all know how it is that the world runs away, but 
 many of us do not know — perhaps never will know — what bur- 
 dens have been borne by tender hearts that watched, indeed, 
 while others slept. 
 
 The next morning the carriage from the Lodge came, as 
 Devereux had said, together with an urgent message from Mary 
 — delivered by Joe, hat in hand, at the sitting-room door. Mrs. 
 Severn and Madeleine were there together ; Basil had gone to 
 the mills ; Rosalind, having breakfasted in bed, had not yet made 
 her appearance. " Shall you go ? " asked the elder lady, glancing 
 at her step-daughter. "You are looking pale, Madeleine! " 
 
"TRY NOT TO THINK THE WORST OF ME." 28? 
 
 " I was awake late last night,'' said Madeleine. " Yes, I 
 must go ; the fresh air will do me good." 
 
 The fresh air did her good in a measure. It revived her 
 spirits, and brought a faint tinge of color to her alabaster cheeks, 
 but it could not lighten the weight of trouble lying heavy at 
 her heart. Should she tell Mary the truth, or should slie 
 not ? That had been the refrain of her thoughts all night, and 
 was their refrain still. It is all very well for easy-going peo- 
 ple to talk of ignorance being bliss : Madeleine's proud spirit 
 rose up and said that ignorance was not bliss when it meant the 
 love of a true heart squandered, loyalty given in return for falsi- 
 ty, passionate generosity for mercenary calculation. " How is 
 it possible for me to stand by and see that man touch Mary's 
 hand," she said to herself, " when I think of the dishonorable 
 part he has played ? Yet how can I speak the truth, to break 
 her heart and kill her ? " 
 
 It was -a difficult question to answer, and, when the Lodge- 
 gates were reached, Madeleine was no nearer answering it than 
 she had been hours before. She stopped the carriage and told 
 the coachman to set her down. " Take the carriage to the sta- 
 ble," she said. " I will walk to the house." This was in order 
 to gain a little longer time for reflection. But Gilbert touched 
 his hat, and remarked that he had to go back to Stansbury for 
 Mrs. Ingram. " She's been staying at Mr. Waldron's for two 
 or three days," he said, " and Miss Mary tol' me to go for her, 
 after I brought you out, ma'am." 
 
 " Very well — go, then ! " said Madeleine, carelessly. She did 
 not give a moment's thought to JVIrs. Ingram, as the carriage, 
 after a sweeping turn, rolled awaj^ Her mind was still intent 
 on her problem. Should she speak, or should she not ? There 
 was a rustic seat under a beech that bordered the drive, and she 
 sat down on that to reflect at her leisure. So sitting, she made 
 a picture worth admiring — the hazy gold of the sunshine streamed, 
 the delicate shadows flickered, over the graceful, quiet figure, the 
 somewhat sad, yet altogether gentle and resolute young face. 
 She was near the gates, beyond which stretched the open country, 
 
288 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 with the tall chimneys of the mills in the distance, a tender skjr 
 arching over purple woods, a blue mist WTapping- every thing. 
 Her gaze being turned in this direction, and her thoughts deeply 
 absorbed, she did not see, through the almost leafless trees, a 
 figure advancing from the house, nor hear a quick step crushing 
 down the gravel- walk, until it gained her side — when she started, 
 turned, and faced the man of whom her thoughts were full. 
 
 " Mr. Devereux ! " she said. 
 
 " Good-morning, Miss Severn," said Mr. Devereux, a trifle 
 surprised. " Is it possible you have walked from Stansbury ! I 
 thought the carriage — " 
 
 " I came in the carriage," answered Madeleine, " but it has gone 
 back for Mrs. Ingram. I merely sat down here — to think a little." 
 
 " Miss Carlisle was expecting you when I left her a few min- 
 utes ago," said Devereux, looking as if he thought the last as- 
 sertion rather a singular one. " But the morning is very beau- 
 tiful, and tempts one to enjoy it." 
 
 '' I was not thinking of the morning at all," said Madeleine, 
 quietly. Then she paused and hesitated. Here was her oppor- 
 tunity to execute Rosalind's commission. Should she take ad- 
 vantage of it ? After a second's reflection, she decided to do 
 so. " It is intensely disagreeable, but there is no good in defer- 
 ring it," she thought. Whereupon, she lifted to Devereux's face 
 the grave, beautiful brown eyes, with which he began to feel 
 familiar — drawing back a portion of her drapery from the seat. 
 
 " Will you sit down ? " she said, with the courtesy which never 
 deserted her. " I am sorry to trouble you, but I have something 
 to say — that is, to ask — and it is fortunate that I met you here." 
 
 With another woman Devereux would certainly have replied 
 that the good fortune was on his side, but he felt instinctively — 
 had felt, indeed, from their first acquaintance — that such empty 
 compliments were ill-suited to Madeleine. He bowed, and sat 
 down at once. " I am at your service," he said. " Whatever 
 you wish to ask I shall be glad to answer." 
 
 " It is not a question, but a request," she said ; and, as she 
 uttered the last words, deeper color came into her cheeks. She 
 
"TRY NOT TO THIXK THE WORST OF ME." 289 
 
 beffan to feel that this request was awkward for her to make, 
 and might be awkward for him to hear. But a timely recollec- 
 tion of his duplicity came to her, and she went on coolly and 
 steadily enough. " It is one with which I am charged by my sis- 
 ter. She wishes me to ask you for a likeness of herself, which 
 is, I believe, in your possession." 
 
 " There is such a likeness in my possession," replied Deve- 
 reux, so much astonished that he could do no more than merely 
 assent. " What next ? " he said to himself, mentally. " I under- 
 stood that Miss Severn was kind enough to give the picture to 
 me, else I should not have retained it so long," he added, after 
 a moment. " No doubt my stupidity was in fault. I shall return 
 it to her, of course." 
 
 " Pardon me," said Madeleine, " but if you would return it 
 to me, it might be better. Rosalind specially requested me to 
 obtain it." 
 
 " Certainlv," he answered, with perfect composure. " Unfor- 
 tunately, I have not the locket mth me at present. Shall I send 
 or bring it to you ? " 
 
 " There is no immediate haste," she replied. " I shall prob- 
 ably be here for several days. If, when you come again — " 
 
 "I will bring it," he said, as she paused. " I am sorry that 
 Miss Severn should have felt any anxiety or annoj^ance respect- 
 ing it. If she had only spoken a word to me last night, or the 
 night before, I could have restored it to her then." 
 
 " Straightforward modes of dealing with difficulties seem to 
 me best," said Madeleine. " But many people do not think so. 
 Perhaps, also, you are aware why Rosalind might have hesitated 
 to speak to you ? " 
 
 " No," he replied, regarding her curiously — as if he wondered 
 a little what was the meaning of all this — " I have not the least 
 idea why she should have hesitated to speak to me on that or any 
 other subject." 
 
 " You do not know then that, although she is engaged to 
 another man, every gossiping tongue in Stansbury has been busy 
 with her name — and yours ? " 
 
390 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " I had no concern with the first fact," he answered, quietly, 
 " With regard to the last, I hope you will forgive me for remark- 
 ing that it has not seemed to concern Miss Severn very much, 
 wliile I am thoroughly well seasoned to gossip — and thoroughly 
 indifferent to it." 
 
 " You are a man — j^ou can afford to be so," said Madeleine, 
 with a half-indignant ascent in her voice. 
 
 He looked at her with a slio;ht smile. " True," he said. " I 
 am a man, but since your sister has more than once explicitly 
 said that she was indifferent to it also, was I greatly to blame 
 for ignoring gossip on her account as well as on my own ? " 
 
 " She had no right to be indifferent to it," said Madeleine. 
 ''No woman should be — and she was bound in honor to think, 
 not onlv of herself, but of the man to w^hom she was and is en- 
 gaged." 
 
 " Do not consider me as meaning to offer an excuse for any 
 thing wdiich you may think culpable in my conduct, when I say 
 that I was led by Miss Severn to understand — though again my 
 stupidity may be in fault — that she was not absolutely engaged 
 to Mr. Champion," said Devereux, with a quietness which almost 
 verged on indifference. 
 
 " I am sorry to say, then, that she led you to understand what 
 was not true," answered Madeleine. "You probably know that 
 some women hold that falsehood on that subject is less falsehood 
 than on any other. But if she deceived yoz^," the speaker w^ent 
 on, yielding to an impetuous impulse, " did not you in turn de- 
 ceive one who deserved better things at your hands ? Did you 
 not offer yourself to Mary while you had already made Rosalind 
 believe that, if the lawsuit was decided in your favor, you would 
 offer yourself to her f " 
 
 " Good Heavens, Miss Severn ! " said Devereux, completely 
 confounded by this most unexpected charge. " Do you know 
 what you are saying ? Do you know that you force me to de- 
 clare that I have never, for one moment, entertained the idea of 
 offering myself to your sister in any event ? " 
 
 " You did not ! " said Madeleine. The words were almost a 
 
"TRY NOT TO THINK THE WORST OF ME." 291 
 
 o-asp. What was true ? — what was false ? This new world of • 
 assertion and denial bewildered her, so little was she used to any 
 thing save the one direct road of honor. For a moment she 
 was silent — then she turned to him almost passionately. 
 
 " If you did not entertain the idea," she said, " you cannot 
 deny that you made her think that you did ! " 
 
 " Pardon me, but I am forced to deny any thing of the kind," 
 lie answered — and his usually pleasant voice, though still cour- 
 teous, was very grave — " you do me great injustice ; you charge 
 me (I am sure unwittingly) with most grossly dishonorable con- 
 duct ; I have a right, therefore, to ask what possible grounds you 
 have for such a belief ? " 
 
 A burning blush came to Madeleine's face. She had gone too 
 far to recede, however, and of evasion and equivocation she knew 
 literally nothing. So she answered the plain truth : " The im- 
 pression was left on my mind by Rosalind's manner of talking 
 when she asked me last night to obtain her likeness from you. 
 She made no direct assertion, but she spoke as one might speak 
 of a thing explicitly understood." 
 
 " Miss Severn did me "too much honor," said Devereux, " or 
 you must have misunderstood her greatly. It is impossible she 
 could have meant to imply that I was ever her suitor." 
 
 It is doubtful if a man ever lived to whom such a denial 
 could have been more unpleasant — he almost hated himself at 
 that moment for the idle folly which had placed him in a position 
 where it became necessary. But that it was imperatively 'neces- 
 sary, could not be gainsaid. The charge was too serious for him 
 to let chivalry hold his tongue. If he had not been engaged to 
 Mary Carlisle, it would have been another matter ; but now — 
 yet the glow which came into Madeleine's eyes did not look as 
 if he had won her belief. 
 
 " Probably I did misunderstand," she said, coldly, "probably 
 Rosalind did not imply that you were ever absolutely her ' suitor.' 
 But you forget that I have seen — that every one has seen — ^your 
 conduct; and every one has drawn the same inference from it. 
 I suppose a man of the world does not consider his honor bound 
 
2d2 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 unless he lias said in plain words, ' Will jou marry me ? — per- 
 haps, indeed, not even then — but it is impossible for you to deny 
 that your flirtation with Rosalind has been constant and open." 
 
 " It is certainly impossible for me to denj^ that I have passed 
 many pleasant hours with Miss Severn, that I have admired her 
 beauty, and no doubt talked a great deal of nonsense to her — 
 but I had not the faintest reason for supposing that what was 
 amusement to me was earnest to her. Had I imagined such a 
 thing for a moment, I should have been more guarded in my 
 conduct and manner, since I have long intended to marry Miss 
 Carlisle, if she would marry me." 
 
 " And yet such an intention did not keep you from meeting 
 and flirting with Rosalind he?'e I " 
 
 Her voice was full of scorn, but again, as on the night before, 
 he felt the absolute impossibility of reply. How could he say 
 that he had merely responded, in very idleness, to the invitation 
 held out by the woman of whom they spoke ? 
 
 *'If you knew all," he said at length, "you might not judge 
 me so hardly. One cannot throw ofi" the habit of a lifetime in 
 a day. I meant no harm, certainly no dishonor." 
 
 She made a slight gesture of disdain. " That is an old ex- 
 cuse," she said, " and, pardon me if I add, a worthless one. To 
 mean no harm and yet to do it — is any thing more common ? 
 But it is useless to talk of this " — she rose as she spoke — " of 
 course you see no reason why you should not have amused your- 
 self with Rosalind (who in turn was betraying the trust of an 
 honorable man), even while you were endeavoring to arrange a 
 marriage of convenience with my poor Mary. If one does not 
 see these things, they can hardly be made clear. Good-morning, 
 Mr. Devereux." 
 
 " May I detain you for a moment ? " asked Devereux. He, 
 too, had risen and stood by the side of the road, with the 
 sunshine falling in patches of gold on his uncovered blond head. 
 
 *' Is there any reason why you should do so ? " answered 
 Madeleine, pausing reluctantly. 
 
 " I think I may say that there is a reason, unless you have 
 
"TRY NOT TO THINK THE WORST OF ME." 293 
 
 forgotten that I asked you last night if I might not hope to ex- 
 plain some of the things which prejudice you against me." 
 
 " Why should you wish to explain them ? — what does my 
 prejudice matter to you ? " 
 
 " It matters more than you think, perhaps. I should like to 
 win your good opinion : I should like you to believe that I am 
 neither the dishonorable flirt nor the mercenary adventurer you 
 fancy me to be." 
 
 " I should be very glad to believe good of you — on Mary's 
 account," she said, a little wistfully. " I told you, when you 
 found me here, that I had sat down to think. My thoughts 
 took the form of a question — I was debating whether I should 
 or should not tell Mary what I conceived to be the truth with re- 
 gard to your character." 
 
 " Meaning your own opinion of it ? " 
 
 " Yes, my own opinion — together with the apparent testi- 
 mony of circumstances." 
 
 " And what was your decision ? " 
 
 " I had formed none. You may understand that it was not a 
 question easy to decide." 
 
 " I understand that it mi^ht be difficult to sav to Miss Car- 
 lisle, ' You are about to give your heart to a man who seeks you 
 only for your fortune — after having failed to obtain it in any 
 other way — and who I have every reason to believe would have 
 married another woman if he had succeeded in winning his suit.' 
 Was not that the form that your warning would have taken ? " 
 
 She was looking at him steadily, trjdng to detect satire in 
 his eyes or tone. But there was not the least trace of it in 
 either. The eyes met hers frankly and clearly, the tone was 
 composed and earnest. She returned candor for candor. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " that was the form my warning would have 
 taken. If I hesitated to utter it, my hesitation was due to the 
 fact that I feared to break Mary's heart, or end her life." 
 
 " You would never have uttered it," he said, quietly. " Of 
 that I feel sure. You never will utter it. Miss Severn ; you will 
 be just enough to give me the benefit of a doubt, and to pardon 
 
294 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 me for reminding you that, when I asked Miss Carlisle to marry 
 me, I had every reason for believing that the suit would end in 
 my favor. My witness w^as not then dying oir dead, and even 
 your brother felt sure of my success." 
 
 Madeleine knew that this was true. Almost at the eleventh 
 hour Basil had been ready for compromise, but then — there was 
 the entanglement with Rosalind ! Had the latter been alto- 
 gether wrong? Had it really never passed beyond the idle 
 amusement of empty days, which the society of the nineteenth 
 century has agreed to call flirtation ? She looked at the hero of 
 this flirtation doubtingly, and while they were so standing, the 
 roll of approaching carriage- wheels was heard. Glancing round, 
 she spoke quickly : 
 
 " I must go. Yo.nder is the carriage returning from Stans- 
 bury with Mrs. Ingram. Mary will wonder what keeps me. If 
 I have judged you too hastily or too harshly, I am sorry. But I 
 was thinking of her — altogether of her ! I know her so well, I 
 love her so dearly. Ah, if I could make j'ou feel how kind and 
 generous she is ! " 
 
 " Perhaps I know already," he said. *' Not as well as you, 
 it may be, but still in a measure. Try not to think the worst 
 of me — that is all I ask of you. I do not deny that I am an ut- 
 ter good-for-naught, that for years amusement has been my end 
 and aim in life, that I am scarcely w^orth shooting if one is to be 
 valued by the good one has done in the world ; but still, I could 
 sooner shoot myself than betray such a trust as Miss Carlisle 
 has given me, or try to win the love of a generous heart as a 
 matter of sordid calculation ! " 
 
 Clang went the iron gates behind them. " I hope you are 
 in earnest," said Madeleine. " I will try to believe in you, for 
 Mary's sake. Again, good-morning." 
 
 She bent her head and walked away, her slight, graceful 
 figure framed for a moment by the evergreen shrubs and leafless 
 trees, then passing out of sight around the curve of the path. 
 Devereux watched her meditatively as long as she was in view. 
 When she disappeared, he, too, turned, and with a bow to Mrs. 
 
"TRY XOT TO THIXK THE WORST OF ME." 295 
 
 Ingram — ^Ybo bowed to bim out of the carriage-window — took 
 his way to the gates. 
 
 It was naturally to be expected that two horses would reach 
 a given point before one woman, saying that they started from 
 the same place, and that the woman in question had no more 
 advantage in the matter of distance than Madeleine possessed. 
 Mrs. Ingram therefore disembarked on the steps of the piazza, 
 and waited there several minutes for the pedestrian whom she 
 had passed. The eyes of this worthy lady were sharp, and she 
 had recognized the violet dress, the cloth jacket, the pretty veh- 
 vet hat, vrhich made up Madeleine's out-door attire, before she 
 reached the Lodge-gates. Immediately thereupon she had in- 
 terroo'ated Gilbert. The dialoarue was somewhat after this fash- 
 ion, for it has been already remarked that Mrs. Ingram was not 
 po^Dular with the Lodge servants : 
 
 j\Irs. Ingram (tapping sharply on the glass through which 
 her charioteer's broad back was visible). "Gilbert, Gilbert ! isn't 
 that Miss Madeleine Severn yonder, just inside the gates ? " 
 
 Gilbert (who makes it a cardinal principle to afford Mrs. 
 Ingram as little information on any subject as possible). "I 
 don't know, ma'am. My eyes ain't what they used to be." 
 
 Mrs. Ingrain (indignantly). " You do know ! It is Miss 
 Madeleine, and Mr. Devereux with her. What are they doing ? 
 I suppose you can see that ! " 
 
 Gilbert. "No, ma'am; I can't see that." Then 50^?o voce .* 
 " 'Tain't everybody's eyes gets sharper as they gets older, like 
 your'n does ! " 
 
 Mrs. Ingram, " Then you must be as blind as a bat — and I 
 never heard that before. They are standing there talking — and 
 they've been sitting down. Now, didn't you tell me that j^ou 
 brought Miss Severn out to the Lodge before you came back 
 for me ? " 
 
 Gilbert (a little doggedly). " Yes'm ; I told you so because 
 3-0U axed me." 
 
 Mrs. Ingram (irritably). " Did I say I didn't ask you ? 
 Such impertinence ! ^Yell, did she go in the house ? " 
 
296 A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 Gilbert (with an obstinate look on his face, which fortunate- 
 ly his interrogator did not see). " I can't tell you, ma'am. I 
 didn't stay to watch her." 
 
 Mrs. Ingram (quite as obstinate). " Where did she get out 
 of the carriage ? " 
 
 Gilbert (conveniently deaf ). " I brought the carriage right 
 straight along after you, ma'am." 
 
 3Irs. Ingram. " Are you stupid as well as blind ? I asked 
 you where did she get out of the carriage ? " 
 
 Gilbert (sulkily). " Somewheres between the gate and the 
 house. I disremembers exactly where." 
 
 Mrs. Ingram. " Ah ! And talking, no doubt, to Mr. Deve- 
 reux all the time ! But people say Miss Madeleine Severn 
 don't flirt. I hate such slyness ! " 
 
 Gilbert (whose deaf ears these words, not intended for 
 them, reached). " You ought to hate yourself monstrously, then, 
 for you is as sly as an old cat ! " 
 
 This remark, of course, was muttered confidentially to Rat- 
 tler and Racer — the two handsome bay horses — and a moment 
 later the carriage entered the gates. Mrs. Ingram's face was 
 wreathed in smiles when she bowed to ]\Ir. Devereux, and it 
 preserved the same benevolent aspect as she stood on the piazza 
 steps waiting for Madeleine. 
 
 *' Such a lovely day ! " she said, when that young lady came 
 up. " I suppose you have been enjoying it. Miss Madeleine ? " 
 
 "Not particularly," answered Madeleine — to whom, as we 
 are aware, this was the second time that the beauty of the day 
 had been suggested — " I have been thinking of other things." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! I thought you must have found something 
 pleasant to engross you when I saw you still at the gate after 
 Gilbert had told me that he brought you out before he came for 
 
 me." 
 
 " I found something to engross me," replied Madeleine, qui- 
 etly ; " but whether it was pleasant or not is another matter. I 
 suppose you enjoyed your visit in Stansbury ? I hope Katie 
 Waldron is well again." 
 
MR. DEVEREUX EXPLAINS HIMSELF. 297 
 
 Thej entered the house together, and were met in the hall 
 by Mary, who had heard her friend's voice. 
 
 " O Madeleine, how long you have been ! " she cried, re- 
 proachfully. " I have been expecting you for more than an 
 hour. What has made you so late ? " 
 
 " I made Gilbert put me down at the gate, and there I met 
 Mr. Devereux. I have been talking to him," answered Made- 
 leine. " I am sorry you have been expecting me. O Mary, how 
 well and how pretty you look ! " 
 
 " Do I ? " said Mary, blushing. " I am glad to hear it. But 
 Aunt Ingram is here, is she not ? " 
 
 " Yes, my dear," said Aunt Ingram, cheerfully. " Here I 
 am — like the tortoise, you know, that overtook the hare. Though 
 Miss Madeleine was set down at the gate before Gilbert started 
 to Stansbury for me, I reached the house in advance of her." 
 
 " The drive to Stansbury is a short one," said Mary, " and 
 if Madeleine was talking to Mr. Devereux, no doubt time passed 
 very quickly to her. If I had known that, I should not have 
 been impatient," said she, turning to Miss Severn. " I want 
 you to know and — like him. I am so glad you are here ! You 
 have come to stay with me for several days, have you not ? " 
 
 " If you w^ant me," said Madeleine, while Mrs. Ingram 
 turned majestically and went up-stairs. 
 
 " One w^ould think that I was nobody ! " she said to herself. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 MK. DEYEEEUX EXPLAINS HIMSELF. 
 
 Madeleln-e soon heard all that Miss Carlisle had to teU. 
 She was the only person in the world on whose love and sym- 
 pathy the blind girl could rely, or to whom she ever laid bare 
 the thoughts of her mind or the desires of her heart. She told 
 every thing now with a simplicity that touched Madeleine deep- 
 
298 A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 ly.. As she listened, the latter thought how right Devereux had 
 been when he said that she would never have uttered the warn- 
 ing which a few hours before she had felt impelled to deliver. 
 If she had come to the Lodge without meeting him, the first 
 tone of Mary's voice, the first glance at her face, would have 
 ended all doubt, and showed her that, no matter what the need 
 might be, the time for warning had passed. A little earlier it 
 might have served some purpose : it could do nothing now save 
 bring bitterness and struggle in the place of peace and happi- 
 ness. * 
 
 As for Mary, she suspected nothing. The troubled look in 
 Madeleine's eyes was veiled from her, and in the voice that 
 spoke words of tender afi'ection and sympathy, there was no 
 echo of the disquieted heart. Yet indeed this heart was not so 
 disquieted as it had been before that encounter at the Lodge- 
 gate. Despite every apparent reason to doubt Devereux's sin- 
 cerity. Miss Severn found herself recalling his tones, his words, 
 his manner, with an odd inclination to trust him. After all, 
 Rosalind mio;ht have been mistaken — or she mio-ht have mis- 
 taken Rosalind. Putting aside the flirtation which could not be 
 denied — which he had not attempted to deny — there might have 
 been nothing worse on his side, there might have been no delib- 
 erate intention to betray Mary's trust, no more mercenary calcu- 
 lation than many men make, and take no shame to themselves 
 in making. 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding this partial consolation, as Madeleine 
 sat by Mary's side listening to the words in which, half uncon- 
 sciously, the young heiress showed all the depths of her heart, 
 a sense of the perplexing nature of that problem which we call 
 life weighed heavily upon her. Few are so light of soul that 
 such hours do not come to them — hours in which we are tempt- 
 ed to ask if every thing, save indeed that which is given to God, 
 is hopelessly wasted — ^but more than her due share of these 
 hours had come to Madeleine of late. Only last night she had 
 been made to realize how Champion's faith had been rewarded, 
 how Basil's love, which might have been the crown of a true 
 
MR. DEVEREUX EXPLAINS HIMSELF. 299 
 
 woman's life, was poured, like water on sand, at the feet of a 
 shallow coquette ; and now, with Mary's hand in hers, she heard 
 what seemed to her like the same story — passionate devotion, 
 generous loyalty given for naught. 
 
 For naught? So Madeleine thought, as many others have 
 thought, and then it came to her to ask if any thing, which in 
 its own nature is noble, is ever given for naught ? Love may 
 be wasted, lives may be sacrificed, talents may be buried — but 
 the love may purify the heart in which it exists, the lives may, 
 in their pain and obscurity, be like a sweet incense in the sight 
 of God, and the talents which are dwarfed and crippled here 
 may rise to heights of full accomplishment in "the white radi- 
 ance of eternity." 
 
 It was long before she forgot the hour which was full of 
 these reflections, and of Marj-'s sweet, low voice telling her 
 story. The dusk gathered over the world outside ; the rose- 
 bloom of the firelight within bathed pearl-tinted walls, leaning 
 picture-frames, carved bookcases, and sweeping curtains. They 
 dined late at the Lodge, but tea was generally served here, and 
 presently Albert brought it in. Having placed his tray on a 
 small table near the fire, he walked to one of the windows to 
 close the blinds. As he did so, he turned and said, " Mr. Deve- 
 reux is coming. Miss Mary." 
 
 " Very well," said Mary, quietly. " Ask him in." 
 
 Every one about the Lodge knew by this time the position 
 which Mr. Devereux occupied ; so it was with a great deal of 
 empressement that Albert met that gentleman and conducted 
 him into the library. 
 
 " Don't think me a visitor entirely without conscience," he 
 said, as he took the hand Mary ofi'ered, " but my visit this morn- 
 ing was scarcely a visit at all — merely a call of inquiry — so I 
 could not resist the temptation of coming again this evening." 
 
 " Stansbury must be very dull," said Mary. " We are very 
 glad to see you — Madeleine and L Don't think it necessary to 
 apologize for coming." 
 
 Devereux looked at Madeleine. It was a glance half-amused, 
 
300 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 half-appealing', which said plainer than words, " How do you 
 like the welcome bestowed in your name ? " She gave a faint 
 smile, a gentle, gracious bend of her head in reply. " Since he is 
 here, since the engagement is an accomplished fact, I might as 
 well make the best of it ! " she thouo-ht. Then she rose and 
 walked to the tea-equipage. " I hope you have not been to tea, 
 Mr. Devereux," she said. 
 
 Mr. Devereux replied that he had not been to tea, and that he 
 was glad to say so. He had the gratification, therefore, of drink- 
 ing some of that fragrant beverage out of a cup not much thick- 
 er than an egg-shell, with the most beautiful roses painted on it, 
 and of eating some of the lightest of curled wafers — besides 
 other things more substantial. Mrs. Ingram made her appear- 
 ance, and rather to his surprise cordially shook hands with him. 
 This good dame had no intention of being behindhand in paying 
 her homage to the rising sun. 
 
 " Is there any news in Stansbury ? " Mary asked, after a while. 
 " What are the people talking about ? " 
 
 " The failure of our dramatic entertainment, chiefly," Deve- 
 reux answered. " Miss Severn, did you ever know any thing so 
 complete as that failure ? The cause puzzles me — unless it was 
 owing to the fact that raw troops, no matter how well drilled, 
 will not always stand fire." 
 
 " I think the cause was complete demoralization," said Made- 
 leine. " All the performers seemed to have something on their 
 minds more important than their business on the stage." 
 
 " What was, on your mind?" asked Mary, turning to Deve- 
 reux. He glanced at Madeleine with a smile, which Mrs. Ingram 
 — watching narrowly form her shaded corner of the chimney, 
 a place good for knitting and nodding — noted down in her 
 memory, a dismal kind of receptacle where she stored many 
 things which, as a rule, were produced exactly when they were 
 not wanted. 
 
 " Miss Severn knows," said Devereux, in his pleasant, careless 
 voice. " At least it was in talking to her that I forgot all about 
 my part, neglected my cue, and kept the audience waiting fully 
 
MR. DEYEREUX EXPLAINS HIMSELF. 301 
 
 two minutes — a tolerably long time when one has nothing to do 
 l)Ut wait." 
 
 " It was worse for Rosahnd than for the audience," said Mad- 
 eleine. " She had nothing to do but walk up and down the stage, 
 and show off her train." 
 
 " Which she did admirably, every one saj-s — while poor 
 Gresham, having no train to exhibit, could only fidget nervously, 
 and direct imploring glances toward the side-scenes." 
 
 " Well, I thought there was something the matter," said Mrs. 
 Ingram, suddenly speaking — somewhat to the surprise of the 
 company — " I told Mr. Waldron so, but he said he su^Dposed it 
 was part of the play. And you say it was because you were 
 talking to Miss Madeleine, Mr. Devereux. How interested you 
 both must have been ! " 
 
 "7" was interested," said Devereux. "I am afraid to answer 
 for Miss Severn." 
 
 " You are very modest," said Madeleine, " but, if I had not 
 been interested, I should probably have noticed that you were 
 needed." 
 
 Here the conversation dropped. Neither of them volunteered 
 an account of the subject which had interested them, and, though 
 Mrs. Ingram would gladly have obtained further information, 
 she did not venture to ask it. 
 
 Talk flowed idly back and forth a little longer. Then Made- 
 leine rose. " Should you like some music, Mary ? " she said. " I 
 feel in the mood for playing." 
 
 " I should like it very much," Mary answered. " Ring and 
 have lights taken into the drawing-room. " If you will leave the 
 doors open, I can hear perfectly." 
 
 " I will come and open the piano for you," said Devereux, 
 rising also. 
 
 Knowing what he meant, Madeleine did not refuse. " It is 
 not necessary," she said, " but you can come if you like. — 
 Lamps in the drawing-room, Albert ! " — as the latter appeared 
 at the door. 
 
 Lamps having been taken into the drawing-room, and the fire 
 
302 A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 pushed into brightness, Madeleine crossed the hall and entered 
 the room, attended by Devereux. It looked large, and ghost- 
 like shadows hung in the farther corners, since the lights only 
 made a circle of radiance in their immediate neighborhood. 
 Having lifted the glossy lid of the piano, and run his fingers over 
 the keys as one who tests the tone of an instrument, Devereux 
 turned to where Madeleine stood. 
 
 " I will stay and hear one piece," he said, " if you will allow 
 me. I do not like listening to good music across two rooms and 
 a hall." 
 
 " How do you know that my music will be good ? " she 
 
 asked. 
 
 " I know it by your eyes and by your fingers," he replied, 
 glancing at the last — the slender, lissom fingers of the born 
 pianist. 
 
 "Perhaps I had better convince you that you are wrong 
 as soon as possible, then," said she, seating herself before the 
 instrument. " Give me an idea what music you like best^" 
 " I wonder if I may venture to say Chopin's ? " 
 " Ah ! " — a glow came to her face, a light to her eyes — " do 
 you know the Polonaise in F sharp minor ? " 
 
 " Perfectly, and should like of all things to hear it." 
 At once she began to play. The " beautiful cold keys " an- 
 swered back splendidly to the white fingers that dwelt on them 
 with that magnetism of touch which, before all things, is needed 
 to interpret the subtile beauties lurking in the harmonies of this 
 great composer. It is, of course, unnecessary to say that Mad- 
 eleine did not render the divine composition as a trained artist 
 would have done. Her technique was defective, but she had that 
 which is as far above technique as the soul is above the body — 
 expression. Devereux, leaning back in a large chair and listen- 
 ino" silently, forgot to wonder at a skill greater than he had 
 imagined, in the sense of absolute enjoyment which rapt his 
 spirit in that partial trance known to all passionate lovers of 
 music. 
 
 When the strains at last died softly away into silence, he 
 
MR. DEVEREUX EXPLAINS HIMSELF. 303 
 
 looked up, and met the eyes of the musician. " I knew I was 
 right," he said. " I knew jou would play exquisitely. I suppose 
 I may thank you for so much pleasure, though you did not play 
 for me. Now — must I go ? " 
 
 " Your appreciation is so pleasant, that I feel inclined to play 
 one more strain for you," she said ; " a favorite one of mine. So 
 few people care for this kind of music — not any one whom I 
 know, except Basil — that I rarely play except for him or for my- 
 self. It is true Mary likes my music sometimes — but she prefers 
 dreamy nocturnes, and songs without words. Xlike the massive 
 harmonies of the old masters. I am going to play for you the 
 Largo A2oassionato from Beethoven's Second Sonata." 
 
 " Of course, I felt sure that Beethoven was a god of your 
 idolatry." 
 
 She smiled without answering, and turned back to the key- 
 board. Who that loves Beethoven, does not know the strains 
 which poured out in the rich, bell-like tones of the piano then ? 
 Who that has heard, can ever forget that delicate scherzo and 
 brilliant rondo f Devereux had heard it often before, but he was 
 charmed afresh, and when silence fell again, he said : 
 
 " If you would only go on ! I could never tire of listening 
 to such music." 
 
 " That is enough for the present," she said. " Now you 
 must go back to Mary. Tell her I will play some of Men- 
 delssohn." 
 
 " Before I go," said he, rising, " let me give you this picture, 
 for which you asked to-day. Pray, make my excuses to your 
 sister for the misapprehension under which I have kept it so 
 long. I was on the point the other evening of asking her to 
 accept a likeness of myself, in memory of our pleasant associa- 
 tion, but we were interrupted, and I had no opportunity after- 
 ward to do so. I presume it is scarcely worth While to offer it 
 now?" 
 
 " I do not think she would or ought to accept it," said Made- 
 leine, " though in these days the giving and receiving of pict- 
 ures has come to have very little meaning." 
 
304 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " I do not like the custom," he said — apparently forgetting 
 the locket hanging from his finger, in which Rosalind's fair face 
 was set — " one's taste, I think, revolts from multiplying cari- 
 catures of one's self — for are not almost all photographs cold, 
 hard, utterly hideous ? — and scattering them broadcast. How 
 much better were the old days of portraits and miniatures I " 
 
 " But so few people could afford those." 
 
 " And do 3'ou think that the majority of the human family 
 are worth reproducing by means of photography ? " 
 
 " Not in an artistic point of view, perhaps.^ But if it affords 
 them satisfaction — " 
 
 " Ah !"'/ shrugging his shoulders lightly, "that is another 
 question. Stil], if any thing could reconcile one to the exist- 
 ence of photography, it would be such a face as this," said he, 
 opening the locket and handing it to her. 
 
 " Miss Madeleine," said Mrs. Ingram's voice at the door, so 
 unexpectedly that both Madeleine and Devereux started, " Maiy 
 says will you please play the ' Lorelei ' for her ? " 
 
 " Certainly," answered Madeleine. There was not a shade 
 of annoyance in her tone, but she felt tempted to character- 
 ize Mrs. Ingram very much as Gilbert had done. What was 
 most vexatious, this inquisitive lady came forward, instead of 
 retiring. 
 
 " I can't hear the music so well as I should like in the 
 other room," she observed. " Is that your likeness, Miss Made- 
 leine ? " 
 
 " No," said Madeleine, closing the locket and dropping it 
 into her pocket. — " Thank you, Mr. Devereux," she added. Then 
 she turned and struck the first chords of the melody for which 
 Mary had asked. 
 
 When Devereux went back to the library — which he did im 
 mediately, leaving Mrs. Ingram comfortably established in hia 
 vacated chair — he found no shadow on Mary's brow, such aa 
 would have been on the brows of many women. " I was glad 
 you were enjoying Madeleine's music," she said, " and I tried to 
 keep Aunt Ingram from going to disturb you ; but she would 
 
MR. DEVEREUX EXPLAINS HIMSELF. 305 
 
 go ! It is a misfortune to be curious, is it not ? If two people 
 are talking, she cannot bear not to know wliat they are talking 
 about. As soon as the music ceased she grew restless, and 
 when I said I hoped Madeleine would play that lovely ' Lorelei,' 
 she volunteered at once to go and tell her so." 
 
 " Mrs. Ingram did not disturb me," said Devereux. " I was 
 just coming back. — But Miss Severn plays charmingly." 
 
 " What does not Madeleine do well ? " said Mary, in her 
 kind, loyal voice. 
 
 Now and then, in this rugged, up-hill journey which men 
 call life, there come pleasant breaks in the toilsome way ; we 
 leave the dusty road for a while, and our path lies through some 
 green valley or stretch of sunny meadow, to which we look 
 back afterward, with the fair light of memory shining across it. 
 We know — those of us who have passed that first youth in 
 which one expects all sunshine and flowers — that this cannot 
 last, that the dusty road awaits us again, that there are hills to 
 be climbed, and dark forests to be traversed, but all the more 
 for this knowledge do we enjoy the rest and refreshment while 
 it lasts ; all the more do we cry, " Linger, O gentle Time ! " and 
 hoard the flying seconds as they pass. 
 
 Such a time came to Mary Carlisle now. The days which 
 followed were to her full of that rare and perfect happiness 
 which, in its very nature, must be briefest of all the brief things 
 that make up the sum of our existence. The serene depths of 
 this happiness almost awed Madeleine, and she was moved to 
 say as much to Devereux one day, after she had been at the 
 Lodge nearly a week. It chanced that they were alone. He 
 had entered imannounced, as was now his familiar custom, and 
 found Madeleine in the library. Mary had gone up-stairs to rest 
 after a drive from which she had just returned : Mrs. Ingram 
 was happily absent. Miss Severn was sitting with a book in 
 her hand, but she was not reading ; and when she saw Devereux 
 at the open window — for December had come with the air of 
 May — she bade him enter. 
 
 " I am glad to see you," she said. " I was just thinking 
 
306 A QUESTION OF HONOR, 
 
 of something I should like to say to you. I don't know that it 
 will serve any good purpose, but still — " 
 
 " Still you will give me an opportunity to show you whether 
 or not it may serve a good purpose," he answered, advancing. 
 " You said that once before — do you remember ? Are you 
 going to tell me again that I care only for the amusement of 
 the hour ? " 
 
 . She looked up, meeting his gaze frankly with her grave, 
 sweet eyes. " No," she said. '^ I was not thinking of you— 
 at least not directly. I was thinking of Mary. I was wonder- 
 ing if you realize how great a power over her happiness — I 
 might almost say over her life — you possess." 
 
 A shade of gravity came across his face instantly. " I think 
 you may set your mind at rest," he said, leaning one arm on the 
 mantel as he stood before her. " I realize the fact of which j'^ou 
 speak, with startling force — with a force, indeed, which almost 
 oppresses me. It is not that I doubt myself" — as she glanced 
 at him quickly — " that I am not sure of my own good inten- 
 tions ; but I am so conscious of that which ycu have just stated 
 that it makes me what a woman would call * nerv^ous.' I am 
 haunted by a sense of responsibility, by a fear lest something — 
 some inadvertence or ignorance — should be the cause of pain to 
 one who trusts so absolutely." 
 
 " But why should j^ou feel this if you are sure of your own 
 good intentions ? " asked Madeleine, anxiously. 
 
 " Ah, why, indeed ! " said he, smiling a little. " Do you 
 never puzzle yourself ? Perhaps not ; I cannot imagine such a 
 thing. But the sooner you realize that you are formed on no 
 common model. Miss Severn, the better. You must not judge 
 your wavering fellow-creatures by yourself." 
 
 " That is nonsense," said Madeleine, with an attempt at se- 
 verity which was not very successful. " And why do you talk 
 of wavering ? People have no right to waver where truth and 
 honor and the happiness of others are at stake." 
 
 " That is very true ; but tlie best-intentioned, the wisest of 
 us, may blunder, may we not ? " 
 
MR. DEVEREUX EXPLAIXS HlilSELF. 207 
 
 t 
 
 " What do you mean ? " asked she, with slight impatience. 
 " Why are j'ou trying to divert my attention by these surface 
 metaphysics ? Of course, people must blunder now and then ; 
 but the blunders of those who are well-intentioned and wise — 
 as you imply that you are — will not be likely to be very seri- 
 ous." 
 
 He laughed. " I did not mean to imply that I was very well- 
 intentioned," he said, " and certainly not very wise. I only want- 
 ed to explain to you why I feel the anxiety which you seem to 
 regard with distrust. If I were mere obtuse, I might not feel 
 it so much ; if I did not realize with such painful clearness all 
 that rests upon me — " 
 
 He broke off abruptly, and for a minute there was silence in 
 the room. Madeleine did not look at his face ; she gazed down 
 at the hands clasped together over the book in her lap, and felt 
 that she was as far from understanding him as ever. But, al- 
 most unconsciously to herself, she began in a measure to trust 
 him. " He is volatile and careless, and mercenarj^, perhaps ; 
 but still I think there are good elements in his character," she 
 said to herself; and she almost started when his voice suddenly 
 broke in on these thoughts. 
 
 " It is likely that we may never speak of this subject again," 
 he said ; " therefore I am tempted to ask you to listen to a his- 
 tory so personal that I should not dream of relating it to any 
 one else. But, since to clear your mind of one or two misap- 
 prehensions may make you more easy v>'ith regard to the trust 
 which has fallen to me, I scarcely think you will blame my 
 egotism very severel}'." 
 
 " I shall not blame it at all," said Madeleine, looking up 
 again. " I shall be very glad to listen to any thing you wish to 
 say. You will not feel inclined to doubt my sincerity when I 
 tell you that my interest in 3^ou is very deep. How could it 
 fail to be so ? No sister could be dearer to me than Mary ; and 
 day by day it grows upon me that her happiness is entirely in 
 your hands." g^ 
 
 " I feel it F"^ he said, with somethina: almost akin to emo- 
 
308 A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 tion in his voice. " I feel it so keenly that, as I told jou a few 
 minutes ago, it haunts me. I am possessed by such a fear as 
 might beset one to whom is intrusted something inexpressibly 
 fragile and costly. Perhaps, if you heard how it came into my 
 hands — shall I tell you ? " 
 
 *' Yes, tell me," answered Madeleine, pointing to a chair 
 near her own. At that moment she almost forgot Mary : she 
 was interested in this man whom she distrusted, yet wdio ap- 
 pealed to her with such candid eyes and persuasive tones. It 
 was a stuoly of character such as had never before come into 
 her rather narrow life. Was he worthy of belief, or did he de- 
 serve only contempt ? Perhaps Devereux read this question in 
 her glance. He certainly smiled as he began to speak. 
 
 It is not worth while to follow him. He took up the thread 
 of his story when he first came to Stansbury, and told with 
 marked simplicity all that affected in the least degTee his rela- 
 tions with Miss Carlisle. Madeleine listened with close atten- 
 tion. She knew all the story as it appeared from the other side, 
 and she was prepared to detect the least equivocation or dis- 
 crepancy ; but none appeared. It was only the reverse of that 
 wonderful tapestry of human events which was presented to 
 her. It was strano;e, as Basil had once said, it was " stao- o-er- 
 ing," to hear that with which she had fancied herself familiar 
 told from a new stand-point. And was it that Devereux w^as 
 plausible, or w^as it the power of truth which so impressed 
 her ? Whatever it w^as, she found herself listening not only 
 with attention, but also with credence. When he finished, she 
 met his eyes not doubtingly, but sadly. 
 
 " My poor Mary ! " she said, under her breath. 
 
 He understood her instantly, and a flush such as one seldom 
 sees on a man's face, dyed his. He rose quickly and walked 
 away. 
 
 Then, again, there was silence in the room, unbroken by hu- 
 man voices. The cuckoo broke it by darting out and announcing 
 four o'clock, while Madeleine looked at the tall figure outlined 
 against the light of tlie window, and thought that she had been 
 
MR. DEYEREUX EXPLAINS HIMSELF. 309 
 
 inconsiderate. Wben Devereux turned presently and came 
 back, she did not wait for him to speak. 
 
 " Forgive me ! " she said, in her soft, frank voice. " I fear 
 you misunderstood me. I appreciate the chivahy of feeling 
 which has made vou act as you have done, and I believe all you 
 have said of your motiv-es ; but — but Mary — " 
 
 " I know," he said — speaking as if by a strong effort — " I 
 understand ; but I think you may trust me. Under no circum- 
 stances could I be base enough to deceive or pain her — know- 
 ingly. On this I do not hesitate to pledge my faith and 
 honor." 
 
 " And I do not hesitate to trust you," said Madeleine, as 
 with one of the impulses which occasionally carried her so far, 
 yet were always full of grace and gentleness, she held out her 
 hand — for the first time since they had known each other. 
 
 Devereux, who was easily touched by kindness, felt this un- 
 expected though somewhat princess-like concession very much ; 
 and being rather given to impulses himself, there is no telling 
 what he might have said or done, if Mrs. Ingram's voice had 
 not at that moment made itself heard in the hall. 
 
 " It is a good thing that you are coming down, Mary, for Mr. 
 Devereux has been here so long that he must have grown tired 
 of waiting for you. He and Miss Madeleine are in the library." 
 
 " I did not know that he was here," Mary's tones replied ; 
 " but he could not have missed me very much if he had Made- 
 leine to talk with." 
 
 " There's such a thing as too much modesty, my dear," said 
 Mrs. Ingram, solemnlj^, " and that's your fault. Miss Madeleine 
 is a very nice young lady, but you are — you." 
 
 " I am very well aware of that," said Mary, with something 
 between a lauo;h and a siofh. 
 
 She crossed the hall as she spoke — in her own home she 
 never needed a guide — and the next instant stood in the library- 
 door. 
 
 It was a picture which neither Madeleine nor Devereux was 
 likely to forget. The low, level December sunlight streamed 
 
 14 
 
310 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 behind, so that her figure stood against a background of gold, 
 like a mediaeval ^aint. The delicate outline of form, the lovely, 
 pathetic face, the fair hair, brightened by the glory falling over 
 it — these things seemed for the moment rather of heaven than 
 of earth to those who looked. 
 
> 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 IN WHICH THE WEB IS CUT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE." 
 
 It mav be remembered that at the time of Rosalind's en- 
 gagement to James Champion, Mrs. Severn had declared that 
 she would not think of allowing the marriage to take place un- 
 der twelve months. Rosalind had submitted without protest to 
 this edict, not only because it served her purpose just then ad- 
 mirably, but also because she knew that it could be reversed at 
 any time she saw fit. Her mother had never in her life opposed 
 any thing which she desired, and it was not likely that she 
 would begin to Ao so in the present instance. The event justi- 
 fied her expectations. When Champion said with almost stern 
 decision, " I will have no more of this ! — you must marry me at 
 once, if you mean to marry me at all," she replied, " I am 
 ready to marry you at once," and she told Mrs. Severn that it 
 was folly to talk of deferring the matter longer. Mrs. Severn 
 submitted in her usual fashion, the day for the wedding was ap- 
 pointed, and preparations were begun immediately. 
 
 In these preparations Rosalind was absorbed, according to 
 the custom of young ladies at such times, and heeded little how 
 the world went, so entirely were her days taken up by dress- 
 makers and seamstresses. Six weeks is a short time in which to 
 
o 
 
 12 A QUESTION OF nOXOR. 
 
 prepare a trousseau, but " James " had been imperative, and wliat 
 must be done generally can be done. 
 
 Devereux she had not seen since the unfortunate dramatic 
 entertainment. He left Stansburv ten days later for his own home 
 — promising Mary to return in a month or two at farthest. Dur- 
 ing his absence he wrote constantly, and perhaps the keenest pang 
 Mary ever felt, connected with her blindness, was when his first let- 
 ter was placed in her hands, with all its thoughts hopelessly sealed 
 away from her. She bent her head over it and burst into tears. 
 What could she do ? It seemed to rob love of all its sacredness 
 to bring a third person here — for other lips to repeat Avhat he had 
 written, for her answer to be uttered to other ears ! " If I had a 
 mother," she said to herself, " it might not seem so hard ! " At 
 that minute her isolation pressed upon her as it had never done 
 before, and she sobbed to herself like a forsaken child. 
 
 So, she was still sobbino-, absorbed in the bitterness of this 
 new form of an old grief, when arms, than which no mother's 
 were ever tenderer, went round her, and a voice which thrilled 
 like music said, " Can I do nothing ? " 
 
 " Madeleine ! " she cried, with a gasp — for she had no idea 
 that Madeleine was nearer than Stansbury. Then she threw Aer 
 arms around the bendino- neck, and cluno- there almost convul- 
 sively. " You are my good angel ! " she said, " God sent you 
 to me long ago to comfort my darkness, and you have done it — 
 O Madeleine, you have done it ! Do you feel when I want you 
 most ? You always come — I never wanted you that you did not 
 come. And never, never have I wanted vou so much as now! " 
 
 "What is it?" asked Madeleine. Then she suddenly saw 
 the letter, and guessed all. "Do you want a secretary?" she 
 asked, with a quiver of what the French call larmes de la voix, 
 " You know I am always ready." 
 
 Mary answered by putting the letter into her hand. " Read 
 it to me," she said. "I cannot read it mj^self, but — God knov,'s 
 best. And your voice will make even his words dearer." 
 
 So the duty of reading and answering Devereux's letters fell 
 to Madeleine as a constant thing. She learned to know the days 
 
"FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE." 313 
 
 when one could be expected, and those days — no matter what 
 the weather might be — always found her at the Lodge. To dic- 
 tate to an amanuensis when one has never been accustomed to 
 such a thing, is very likely — in fact, is almost certain — to fetter 
 one's thoughts, and place a curb on one's tongue ; but Mary had 
 always been accustomed to it, and she was, moreover, so entirely 
 secure of Madeleine's love and sympathy, that her thoughts 
 flowed freely into expression. The beauty and sweetness of 
 these thoughts scarcely surprised — though they often touched — 
 Madeleine, as she transcribed them. No one knew so well as 
 herself the strength of the blind girl's mind, or the nobleness 
 of her heart. It may be added in this connection, that Deve- 
 reux's letters impressed her very strongly. That he wrote with 
 a certain degree of reserve — knowing whose eyes would read his 
 words — was, perhaps, natural enough ; but, notwithstanding this 
 drawback, it must have been an exacting w^oman whom these 
 letters did not satisfy. They satisfied Mary fully, and Madeleine 
 read them over and over again to her, until she smiled, some- 
 times, to think how much of her own life Devereux began to 
 occupy. Unconsciously, she found herself recalling his thoughts 
 and forms of expression very often. Without possessing Lacy's 
 facile grace of style, he wrote an admirable letter — polished, 
 yet frank and easy ; personal, without being egotistical ; full of 
 a delicate spirit of tenderness, which was always subordinate 
 to good taste ; and finally, showing that rarest of all rare quali- 
 ties, a tact which was perfect. " It is not an easy task which 
 he has," Madeleine said to herself more than once. " To write 
 to one woman, knowing that another, with eyes entirely un- 
 blinded by partiality or passion, will read his letters, to satisfy 
 Mary's heart, and yet not ofPend my taste — ^how few men would 
 be able to accomplish it ! " 
 
 She said as much one day to Lacy, who shrugged his 
 shoulders in a superior manner. "I read somewhere, not long 
 ago," he answered, " that a great painter had remarked, ' the 
 amateurs run us very close so long as they confine themselves to 
 sketches.' What is true in one art may be also said of another. 
 
 > 
 
314 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 In literature, as in painting, amateiu-s run us very close, so long 
 as they confine themselves to letters. If thej' attempt any thing 
 beyond that, however, they make — not to put too fine a point 
 upon it — consummate fools of themselves." 
 
 " I do not think Mr. Devereux has an idea of attempting 
 any thing beyond letter-writing," said Madeleine, who was not 
 pleased by the tone of this remark. 
 
 " It is to be hoped not," said Lacy, rather superciliously. " I 
 am inclined to think that his triumphs will begin and end on 
 drawing-room carpets." 
 
 " I think )'0U misjudge him," said Madeleine. " I really 
 think he has more in him than that." 
 
 Her companion looked at her amused. " Pray when did you 
 make the discovery ? " he asked. " In these remarkable letters ? " 
 
 " No — yes — that is, not altogether," she replied. " Before 
 he left I began to think that I might have been prejudiced, and 
 judged him too harshly." 
 
 " I have heard that few women can resist his fascinations," 
 said Lacy, dryly — for he was one of a large class to whom the 
 praise of a neighbor is by no means honey. 
 
 Madeleine flushed under the imputation. It was one not easy 
 to bear with equanimity. " You must know me better than to 
 suppose that a mere attraction of manner influenced my opinion," 
 she said. 
 
 " I did not seriously mean to imply such a thing," said Lacy. 
 "But as for these letters, you may be sure he regularly com- 
 poses them." 
 
 Madeleine felt that she knew better than this, but she made 
 no reply, and never mentioned Devereux's letters to her lover 
 again. 
 
 In truth, during these days she did not see a great deal of 
 Lacy. The blow of his publishers' bankruj^tcy threw a cloud over 
 him which did not lift as time went on. Every one noticed it, 
 and Mr. Lacy senior expressed his opinion thereof in the domes- 
 tic councils. " The boy is finding out his mistake," he said. " I 
 knew hira better than he knew himself. He has a fitful kind of 
 
"FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE." 315 
 
 impetuosity, but no stability or perseverance whatever. Now, I 
 know enough of the world to be aware that to succeed in litera- 
 ture a man must drudge, Gordon never did that in his life, and 
 he never will. Take my word for it." 
 
 Without being aware of this opinion, Gordon was acting in a 
 manner which verified it. After having seen all the first-fruits 
 of his toil shipwrecked, he seemed to lack energy to begin afresh. 
 He did a little desultory work for the magazines, but the poem 
 on which he meant to stake his fame lay untouched in his desk. 
 
 " A man cannot be expected to make his best efforts when 
 he has no higher object than that of getting money," he said 
 impatiently to Madeleine. " It is folly to talk of it. An artist's 
 mind must be at rest from sordid cares. Ever}'' day I am more 
 certain of that. To make one's fine conceptions mere slaves of 
 the lamp, to turn ideal beauty to sordid uses — could any degra- 
 dation be greater ? " 
 
 " It is hard," said Madeleine, with her wdstful look, " but I 
 should not call it a degradation. Intellectual culture is not the 
 highest good of life." 
 
 " There we disagree," said Lacy, positively. " I hold that it 
 18 the highest good. And what manner of culture can a man pos- 
 sess, whose life is bound in a treadmill of labor for bread ? Can 
 he be faithful to his art, and aim only for a high ideal, when he 
 has the horrible question staring him in the face, ' What will 
 this bring ? How will that aggregated mass of stupidity, called 
 the general public, like it ? ' " 
 
 " You are complimentary to your readers," said Madeleine, 
 trying to smile. 
 
 " My readers — bah ! Does any one out of twenty understand 
 any thing of the canons and requirements of art ? Yet the man 
 who writes for bread must write to be popular. Good Heavens, 
 popular ! In that case the sooner I begin composing verses in 
 vulgar dialects, and, if possible, with a little bad spelling, the 
 better ! " 
 
 " Gordon," said Madeleine, " you break my heart ! Why do 
 you talk like this?" 
 
316 .A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " Because I see — feel — realize it all ! " answered he, beginning 
 to pace up and down the room in which they were. " It is pressed 
 upon me, if not for the first time, at least more clearlj than ever 
 before. Instead of broadening my life, expanding my faculties, 
 cultivating my tastes, and altogether rising to greater heights of 
 mental development and intellectual culture, I am to sink into 
 narrowness and drudgery ; the mere idea haunts me like a night- 
 mare. Again I say that an artist's life should be free from such 
 necessities as these." 
 
 There was a mist in Madeleine's eyes so that she could hardly 
 see the work — some delicate embroidery for Rosalind — which she 
 held in her hands. There was a pang at her heart which put a 
 quiver in her voice when she said, " I wish that you were rich — 
 I wish that J were rich, for your sake." 
 
 *' Riches I should not ask," said he, still pacing the floor, and 
 too much absorbed to notice her tone. " Of course wealth 
 would be agreeable — what doors of pleasure and culture does 
 it not open ? — but a competence would content me. That 
 is absolutely necessary for true artistic production. One should 
 never spur the mind to effort. It ought to be able to command 
 leisure and repose." 
 
 " Do you not think there might be danger of its lapsing into 
 indolence ? " Madeleine suggested timidly, an idea promptly re- 
 pulsed by the disciple of that new "religion of culture " which 
 one or two ardent apostles have preached so eloquently to the 
 world. 
 
 Those w^ho are aware that the chief article of their creed 
 defines the first duty of man, or at least his first privilege — the 
 progressionists have abolished duties — as that of cultivating 
 his aesthetic faculties, will not need to hear the rest of Mr, 
 Lacy's argument. Madeleine heard it oftener, and at greater 
 length, than she liked. The more she heard, the more her soul 
 revolted, until at last she spoke — greatly to Gordon's surprise, 
 who had taken her assent to all his propositions entirely for 
 granted. 
 
 " I agree with you," she said, " that it is bitterly sad and 
 
"FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE." 317 
 
 painful to see an artist forced to make liis ideal conceptions mere 
 money-getting drudges, but I think there is something even 
 \yorse, and that is the exaltation of the intellect above every 
 thing else. Culture is 7iot the chief good of life. It widens the 
 life, as you say, and educates the appreciations, it makes peo- 
 ple accomplished and graceful, and prepares them for the keen- 
 est and subtilest emotions of pleasure, but it does not touch 
 or elevate the spirit. It does not make them unselfish and \/ 
 brave, gentle or pure. It is the gate to a new earthly para- 
 dise which is barred to the many and open only to the few. But I 
 am sure that, if one will, one may learn in self-sacrifice, yes, 
 even in hard toil for what you would call sordid ends, better 
 thinii's than are tauo-ht bv all the aesthetics in the world." 
 
 A dark cloud came over Lacy's brow, the darkest wliich 
 3Iadeleine had ever seen there. His lips curled in impatient 
 scorn. " I never expected to hear you talk so like a moral bar- 
 barian," he said, " or with so little regard to logical sequence. 
 As if culture makes people selfish or cowardly, cold or sen- 
 sual!" 
 
 " I did not mean that for a moment," she said. 
 
 " I fancy you hardly know what you did mean," he answered, 
 walking abruptly away. 
 
 From that hour the constraint which had existed between 
 them once before came back, deepened and intensified. There 
 was no possible room to doubt that this was Lacy's fault. Tlie 
 sense of an alienated sympathy embittered him, he felt wounded 
 in his self-love by Madeleine's depreciation of that which was to 
 him the chief good of life, and there were besides other causes 
 which he shrank from naming. He did not absolutely say to 
 himself that he had made a great mistake, that he had been fool- 
 ish and hasty in tying his life down to narrow possibilities ; but 
 the consciousness was at work within him, like a slow poison. 
 Stansbury and every thing connected with it began to oppress 
 him. He longed to leave it behind, and take his way to the 
 great centres of intellectual culture, the great world of intellect- 
 ual strife. Yet he shrank from ownino^ this desire to Made- 
 
318 * A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 leine. To go away, leaving her indeCnitelj bound, to wear out 
 her youth in waiting for a success which might never come to 
 him — he felt the folly and selfishness of this. He could not re- 
 solve to propose such a thing, he could not brace himself resolute- 
 ly to work, and so the days went by, finding and leaving him 
 steeped in apathy, depression, and morbid gloom. 
 
 These days, meanwhile, were not filled with sunshine to Ba- 
 sil, though he bore himself cheerfully as he had always done. 
 No one save Madeleine suspected that as he came and went, with 
 the frank sunshine of his smile undimmed — the smile with which 
 he had faced danger, death, adversity, and toil — that his heart 
 was aching as only the strongest and bravest hearts know how 
 to ache. That the woman who caused this pain was not worth 
 one throb of it, did not matter. He had taken her to his heart, 
 and it would be her own fault if she lost that loyal shelter. Yet 
 there is no denying that she tried him hardly. Her caprices and 
 flirtations, her eager reception of other men's admiration and 
 attention, her absolute refusal to allow him to make their en- 
 gagement public — these things irked Basil bitterly, irked his 
 pride as well as his love. He was fastidious, to a point of 
 sensitiveness, with regard to what a woman should be, and 
 those who wondered that, in spite of this fastidiousness, he fell 
 in love with Helen Champion, knew little of that inconsistency 
 which is a much more prominent point in men's characters, 
 generally speaking, than their consistency. 
 
 Of his enchantress there is little to be said. If she had been 
 seriously interrogated with regard to her intentions, it is proba- 
 ble that she would have laughed, and replied that she was 
 " amusins: " herself. Not even her mother could draw from her 
 any thing more definite than this. She belonged altogether to 
 that large and far from estimable class of young ladies who make 
 it the business of their lives to attract and deceiv^e as msiny 
 men as possible, who are spoken of by their friends with an in- 
 dulgent (sometimes an exulting) smile as " dreadfully fast flirts," 
 and of whom the American people have the mournful satisfaction 
 of possessing a monopoly. 
 
"FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE." 319 
 
 Why Miss Champion had drawu Basil Severn so far into her 
 toils is not difficult to guess. He was a conquest whom her 
 vanity was bent upon making secure. For 3'ears he had piqued 
 and puzzled her by his evident admiration, and still more evi- 
 dent reserve. She was determined to subjugate him completely, 
 and she felt a throb of sincere satisfaction when this subjugation 
 was accomplished. What was to be the end of the matter she 
 did not pause to consider. Why should she ? The society in 
 which she lived looked most leniently on such trifles as jilting, 
 and her own conscience was not likely to assert itself on the 
 subject. If he had been rich, she would not have minded mar- 
 rying him. The Severns had been "good people" for a longer 
 period of time than the Champions, and, even in the South of 
 18T0, blood counted for much. On Basil's personal character 
 there had never been a breath of reproach. A brave soldier, 
 and one who in peace as in war — 
 
 " bore without abuse 
 The grand old name of gentleman " — 
 
 this, and this only, men could say of him. Yet how little this 
 counts when arrayed against the golden calf of the w^orld's idola- 
 tr}- ! It certainly counted little with Helen Champion. " ^^Tiy 
 should I marry him ? " she said to herself. " He has nothing 
 that I want — neither money nor rejDutation ! " Yet he was a 
 subject worth parading before the eyes of Stansbury, and so 
 poor Basil's weird did not seem likely soon to end. 
 
 Rosalind's marriage was appointed to take place early in 
 January. " I don't know how I can possibly be ready ! " she 
 said on an average five times a day ; but when the appointed 
 time arrived she was ready, and looked as lovely in her bridal 
 array as the heart of woman could desire. The marriage was 
 very quiet — for Champion did not like a parade, and Eosalind 
 yielded gracefully to his wishes, probably anticipating some 
 future occasion when he could be thereby moved to yield to 
 hers — but, to indemnify society for this quietness, there was a 
 
320 A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 brilliant reception at the Champion house when the newlj- 
 married pair returned from a brief bridal journey. 
 
 How beautiful Mrs. James Champion looked on this occa- 
 sion, it is difficult for an uninspired chronicler to tell. To those 
 who came from the gi"aj, overcast winter's daj'- into the rich 
 drawling-room, blazing with gas, and filled with the fragrance 
 of flowers, she seemed a vision fitted to dazzle, in her pearly 
 silk, rich laces, and flashing diamonds. For the glow on her fair 
 cheeks, the light in her lovely eyes, there w-as reason enough. 
 The thorns and struggles of poverty were over for her now — 
 ease, wealth, indulgence, all the material goods of life for which 
 she had longed, surrounded her. She might have done even 
 better for herself, perhaps, if circumstances had been less ad- 
 verse — of that she did not like to think — but it w^as undeniable 
 that she had every reason for content in her present po- 
 sition. 
 
 At this reception a vague rumor, which had been floating 
 about for some time and meeting only with general discredit, 
 received authoritative confirmation. Miss Carlisle intended to 
 give a ball. The announcement was like an electric shock, and 
 Stansbury was absolutely stricken dumb with amazement. Such 
 a thing had never been known before ; and so much of a recluse 
 was the blind mistress of the Lodge, that no other event could 
 have agitated society so deeply. The simultaneous elopement of 
 all the young ladies in the town would have been a trifle in com- 
 parison. And it was true that Miss Carlisle certainly intended 
 to give a ball — an intention, it may be added, which had aston- 
 ished her nearer as well as her remote friends. They all ex- 
 pressed astonishment, and a few hinted disapf)roval, but occa- 
 sionally Mary could be obstinate, and she was obstinate now. 
 " There is nothing too great for me to do," she said, " in order 
 to show my love and gratitude to the Severns. Rosalind is 
 not my cousin, but she is the sister of Madeleine and Basil, 
 and I will not let any thing keep me from paying her this at- 
 tention." 
 
 Even Madeleine remonstrated, and found her remonstrances 
 
"THY FACE ACROSS HIS FANCY COMES." 321 
 
 unheeded. " I think of j^our health/' slie said, " aud how bad 
 the excitement maj^ be for you." 
 
 But Mary only smiled. " You don't know how little I shall 
 have to do with it," she answered. " I shall leave you and 
 Aunt Ingram to receive the guests, and see to every thing. Of 
 course I can do none of that. My excitement will be limited to 
 listening to the music, and talking to a few people. I don't 
 think you need be anxious about me — my health is excellent." 
 
 " Then there is all the more reason for keeping it so," said 
 Madeleine. But she saw that there was no good in arguing the 
 point ; Mary's resolution was taken. Soon Jessie, with a corps 
 of subordinates, went to work, carpets were taken up, floors 
 were waxed, a band of music was engaged, and all those in 
 Stansbury who had a claim to such a distinction were bidden to 
 the Lodge in honor of Mr. and Mrs. James Champion. 
 
 CHAPTER ir. 
 
 " THY FACE ACEOSS HIS FAXCY COMES." 
 
 Theee could be no doubt that such a compliment as this 
 which Mary proposed to pay, was appreciated by the Cham- 
 pions. It was the first time that the Lodge-doors had been 
 opened to Stansbury society, in its collective form, since the 
 death of Mrs. Carlisle, twelve years before. " Miss Carlisle feels 
 how much she owes to James," said Mrs. Champion, majesti- 
 cally, to her friends. " If he had not defended her interest so 
 well, all that great manufacturing property would have passed 
 away from her." As for Rosalind, the faintest possible sense of 
 shame stirred at her heart. It was not sharp enough to cause her 
 discomfort, but was only a throb of the same sensation that she 
 had felt when the set of jewels, which was Mary's beautiful bridal' 
 present, had been brought to her. Certaiii poignant words of 
 Madeleine's had flashed back upon her memory, but she had the 
 
322 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 liappj faculty of putting uncomfortable reflections aside ; so she 
 wrote a charmingly ajBfectionate note in acknowledgment of the 
 jewels, just as she now prej^ared to wear her most elegant 
 toilet to the ball. After all, she had not done, nor wished to do, 
 any thing for w^hich she needed to reproach herself. Only Made- 
 leine's overstrained ideas could have seen any reason why she 
 should not have decided to marrj' Mr. Devereux if he obtained 
 the Carlisle property. 
 
 That was all over now — but how charming^ he has been ! So 
 she thought, smiling a little as she glanced up and saw her love- 
 liness reflected in a large mirror opposite the luxurious chair in 
 which she was reclining ; Rosalind admired herself as calmly 
 and dispassionately as an artist could have done. She regarded, 
 with a gaze of thorough appreciation, the brilliant fairness of 
 her complexion, the exquisite outline of her naif-turned throat 
 and chin, the rich sheen of her hair, the grace of her features. 
 That a man could forget these charms in a day or a month, she 
 held absurd. Devereux had thought it best to ofibr himself to 
 Mary Carlisle, with a view to making that very useful arrange- 
 ment called mariage de convenance^ but it was folly to think 
 of his being in love with a woman who was scarcely pretty, and 
 blind. That his sentiments did not concern her in the least, Mrs, 
 James Champion was fully aware; nevertheless she amused 
 herself by speculating upon them, and felt that it would be pleas- 
 ant to exhibit her beauty, her wealth, her satisfaction and happi- 
 ness before the eyes of the man who had been so wretched as to 
 lose her. 
 
 It chanced that while these thoughts were passing through 
 her mind, the man who had suffered this bereavement left 
 the Stansbury Hotel, and took his way down the street 
 with an elasticity of step and healthfulness of general ajDpear- 
 ance which did not indicate any very serious disorder of the 
 heart. He walked for three or four squares before he came to a 
 corner where the streets divero-ed — one leading: in the direction 
 of the Lodge, the other toward the Severn house. Here he 
 paused for an instant, seemed to debate a question in his mind, 
 
"THY FACE ACROSS HIS FANCY COMES." 323 
 
 tlien turned sliaq^ly, like one who has decided a point, and took 
 the latter direction. 
 
 A further walk of less than two blocks brought him to the 
 Severn gate. Here he was met by a member of the family who 
 always made a point of meeting strangers and escorting them to 
 the house. This was Lance, the great St. Bernard dog. Dogs 
 have a finer instinct than people, with regard to those who like 
 them, and when Devereux said, " Lance, old fellow ! how do 
 you do ? " Lance responded by leaping and fawning upon him, 
 as if he had recovered a dear and long-lost companion of his 
 youth. " By Jove ! " said Devereux, to himself, " it is pleasant 
 to be greeted affectionately even by a dog. Now that I think 
 of it, you were my first acquaintance in this household, Lance ! 
 How well I remember that first evening when I stopped and 
 patted you over the gate ! " 
 
 Lance seemed to remember it also, for, with many demonstra- 
 tions of cordial feeling, he accompanied his friend to the house, 
 and stood by while he rang the door-bell. 
 
 It was answered by Ann, who, wondering within herself 
 what had brought Mr. Devereux back now Miss Rosalind was 
 married, received his card, answered his inquiry for Miss Severn 
 by saying she was at home, and ushered him into the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 Left here, with the door closed so that Lance could not enter, 
 he looked around, half unconsciously, for some traces of Made- 
 leine. They were not difficult to find. Everywhere signs of 
 her habitual presence were manifest, and the whole room was 
 pervaded by that grace of arrangement which with some women 
 is at once a gift and an art. On a book-covered table stood a 
 tall, slender glass containing a small bouquet of those flowers 
 which are the first heralds of spring. Devereux had forgotten 
 that February was at hand, until their delicate beauty and still 
 more delicate fragrance attracted his attention. Half a dozen 
 white hj-acinths, a white narcissus, two or three Fair Maids of 
 February (iris), violets, crocuses, some golden, others daintily 
 stippled with purple — a bit of early honeysuckle, and a spray or 
 
324 A QUESTION OF HOXOK 
 
 two of pyrus-japonica, with its deep crimson buds and blossoms — 
 these were all, but no gorgeous array of hot-house flowers could 
 have seemed more fair. He appropriated several of the violets, 
 which he was endeavoring to pin in his button-hole, when the 
 door opened and Madeleine entered. 
 
 How fair she was ! what gracious sweetness in her eyes and 
 smile ! These were the thoughts that passed through his mind 
 as he turned, and she came forward. 
 
 " This is a very pleasant surprise, Mr. Devereux," she said. 
 " When did you reach Stansbury, and how do you do ? " 
 
 *' I reached here on an early train this morning," he answered, 
 conscious of a well-defined pleasure in clasping her hand and 
 meeting the full, serene lustre of her glance. " I am glad to 
 see you again. I hope you have been well." 
 
 " I ? — oh, yes," she replied. " Very well indeed, xlnd Mary ? 
 Have you seen Mary ? " 
 
 " Not yet. I am on my way to the Lodge, but I stopped to 
 see you — thinking you might tell me all about her." 
 
 He added the last clause rather in the tone of one who had 
 meant to say something else, but, if Madeleine noticed this, she 
 gave no indication of having done so. As she sat down, she an- 
 swered : 
 
 " Mary is as well as possible, and in better spirits than I have 
 ever seen her. She will be very glad that you have come — all 
 the more glad because she is not expecting you. In your last 
 letter you did not speak of coming so soon." 
 
 "No — I changed my mind after writing that letter, and de- 
 cided to come at once. There was nothing in particular to detain 
 me away, and I thought I might as well be here as elsewhere." 
 
 " In that case, perhaps a little better here than elsewhere," 
 said Madeleine, smiling, " since at least you may feel that your 
 society is a great pleasure and satisfaction to Mary." 
 
 " Yes, that is something," said he. " Indeed, it ought to be 
 a great deal to one so good-for-nothing as myself. I wonder if 
 you would despise me. Miss Severn, if you knew hoAV idle and 
 aimless my life is — and has been for many years ? " 
 
"THY FACE ACROSS HIS FANCY COMES." 325 
 
 "Despise jou — surely not!" said Madeleine. "But why 
 should your life be idle and aimless ? why should any one's life 
 be so in a world full of work to be done ? " 
 
 " Do you not know that such a question is far more easily 
 asked than answered ? There ere some fortunate people who 
 have no difficulty about their vocation in life. They have a 
 marked talent or aptitude for something in particular. There 
 are others who are a jDuzzle to themselves and their friends, and 
 who have no special gift for any thing w^hatever. To that class 
 I belong." 
 
 " People do not always find out their gifts at once," said 
 Madeleine. " Nothing is more marked, I think, than the igno- 
 rance which many of us display with regard to our own capa- 
 bilities. Vie stumble into the right path at last, after many 
 blunders and failures." 
 
 " I doubt if I shall ever stumble into mine," said Devereux. 
 " I shall probably go on to the end of the chapter, idle, aimless, 
 useless, as I am now ! There was but one chance for me — that 
 was the chance of becoming a poor man." 
 
 " Which you never will become." 
 
 " Not likely." He spoke with what seemed an accent of 
 honest despondency^ " But if it could be — shall I tell you what 
 I would do then ? " 
 
 " Yes, tell me by all means. I like castles in the air, even 
 though I have my doubts as to the wisdom of building them." 
 
 " I should go to the "SYest — to Colorado — and practise my 
 profession. You look surprised. Perhaps you never suspected 
 that I have a profession ? 1 have, however, studied law, and 
 not long ago a friend who obtained his license at the same time 
 that I did — one of the most brilliant men I know — WTote to me 
 from Denver, urging me to come there, and offering me a part- 
 nership in a practice which is already large and lucrative. You 
 see while I have been idling in drawing-rooms and ballrooms, 
 he has been working, and, hearing of my reverses of fortune, 
 be wrote, making this kind and generous proposal. It is one 
 which I should accept at once, if it were not for Mary. I have 
 
326 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 even thought of accepting it under present circumstances. You. 
 will pardon me, I am sure, when I say that I came here princi- 
 pally to ask you what you think of my doing so." 
 
 This statement did not seem so singular to Madeleine as it 
 might have appeared to many women. In fact, it did not seem 
 singular to her at all. She was so accustomed to serving as 
 counselor-in-chief to Basil, Lacy, and Mary Carlisle — not to 
 speak of any one else — that she felt unconsciously that it was 
 quite natural for Devereux to seek her advice. She looked at 
 him as if she had been threescore, and gave it simply. 
 
 " I am sorry, but I feel sure that you ought not to think of 
 such a thing. Your first duty is to Mary, and you would make 
 her wretched by such a proposal. Besides, you forget that, 
 when you marry, all her property will be in your hands ; and the 
 care of it will, or ought to, keep you here and give you occupa- 
 tion." 
 
 " It will never be in my hands at all," said he, quickly — al- 
 most impetuously — " I shall have no more to do with it than I 
 have now. On that I am resolved. It is the only way by which 
 I can avoid feeling ' shamed through all my nature ' by the po- 
 sition I shall occupy." 
 
 " Nay," said Madeleine, " that is morbid. Will you forgive 
 me if I say that it would also be foolish and unkind ? In saving 
 your own pride you would wound Mary very deeply. But yours 
 is no uncommon frame of mind. Many of us feel that we could 
 give without stint when we are altogether unwilling to accept." 
 She paused for a minute, then in her soft voice added : 
 
 *' ' I hold him great who for love's sake 
 Can give with earnest, generous will, 
 But him who takes for love's sweet sake, 
 I think I hold more generous still.' " 
 
 " Thank you," said Devereux, touched by her manner even 
 more than by her words. " You are always right and always 
 kind." 
 
 " What formidable flattery ! " said she, smiling. " * Always 
 
"THY FACE ACROSS HIS FANCY COMES." 327 
 
 right ; ' if I did not know better, how vain you would make me ! 
 Generally speaking, I am wrong as often as my neighbors ; but 
 in this instance I know that I am right." 
 
 " I feel sure that you are," he answered. He did not say 
 any more, and Madeleine took his words for a simple assent. In 
 fact, they had two meanings. He said to himself that to ac- 
 cept for " love's sweet sake " might be very easy, but that with- 
 out love it was very much the reverse of easy to do so. 
 
 " I scarcely know how to apologize for having thrust so en- 
 tirely personal a question upon your consideration," he went on, 
 after a minute. " Such an offense would be wholly unpardon- 
 able if it were not that you must be conscious how differently 
 you impress one from — from other women. Then you owe me 
 some share in your good offices for having misjudged me once." 
 • " Granted with all my heart," said she. *' But even if I had 
 never misjudged you, you would have every claim to my good 
 offices, for Mary's sake." 
 
 A slight change came over his face — of what kind she could 
 not exactly determine — but he was silent, and there followed a 
 short pause. Madeleine thought he ought to go to the Lodge, 
 but it w^as clearly impossible to make such a suggestion, and the 
 idea did not seem to occur to him. He had not yet spoken, 
 when voices suddenly sounded in the hall, and Madeleine, rising 
 quickly, said : 
 
 " Why, there is Mary now ! " 
 
 As she spoke, Ann opened the door, and ushered in Miss 
 Carlisle, saying, " Here's Miss Madeleine, ma'am." 
 
 " Yes, here I am," said Madeleine, advancing, *' and very 
 glad to see you. It is surely a wind of good fortune which has 
 brought you just now." 
 
 " I needed a little fresh air, so I thought I would drive in 
 and ask you to go back with me and see if things are as thej 
 should be," answered Mary, smiling. She was looking bettej 
 than she had ever looked in her life, and Devereux was struck 
 by her appearance as he had been struck when he saw her first. 
 There was so much gentleness, puritj', and good sense in the 
 
328 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 face, and the same pathetic, introspective look in the lovely, 
 sightless eyes. She was dressed as became her wealth, in silk, 
 velvet, and costly furs, and Ann cast an admiring look on her 
 costume before closing the door. 
 
 Then Madeleine said : " There is some one here with me, 
 Mary, who has just come and was on his way to see you. Can 
 you guess who it is ? " 
 
 " Ah ! " said Mary, turning her face round, with something 
 like a quivering glow passing over it. The next instant she held 
 out both her hands. " It is Mr. Devereux, is it not ? " she said. 
 
 Devereux came forward to answer for himself, and havinsr 
 said, " I will be back presently," Madeleine passed out of the 
 room and left them together. 
 
 An hour later it was Devereux, not Madeleine, who accom- 
 panied Mary to the Lodge. Miss Severn excused herself from 
 going. " I -will come out to-morrow," she said. " To-day I 
 cannot leave home." 
 
 Mary did not press the point : well as she loved Madeleine, 
 it was pleasant to think that she would have Devereux for the 
 drive, and perhaps for the day, " all to herself." So in the same 
 pony-carriage in which he had once had the pleasure of driving 
 Rosalind, they bowled down the Stansbury streets, observed by 
 all who were fortunate enough to see them, and reported to 
 those who were not. " Devereux has come back," the former class 
 said to the latter. " I saw him driving Miss Carlisle to-day. He 
 has made a good thing of his lawsuit after all — but how little 
 sense women have, to play into the hands of a fortune-hunter 
 like that ! " 
 
 The man thus judged, with that charity, justice, and general 
 good sense which distinguish popular opinion, was meanwhile 
 exerting himself to repay the affectionate sympathy and interesi 
 on the tender face turned toward him, and for the first time find- 
 ing this a little difficult But he succeeded in so far that Mary 
 did not suspect the difficulty, nor how much his thoughts were 
 wandering while he talked to her. That the fault of this lay in 
 himself he was perfectly aware. What was Madeleine Severn 
 
"THY FACE ACROSS HIS FANCY COMES." 329 
 
 to him that her soft, brown eyes, her caressing smile, lier low, 
 sweet voice, should haunt him like a spell ? He said to himself 
 that he thought of her chiefly because he could not understand 
 the influence she had acquired over him. He had been " in love " 
 too often in the course of his thirty years not to be thoroughly 
 familiar with the signs of the tender passion, and this bore no 
 relation to them. It was something strange, new, and so subtile 
 that he failed altogether to analyze or class it. Was it because 
 Madeleine was (as he had told her) altogether diff"erent from the 
 vast majority of other women, that she interested and pleased 
 the taste which had been rendered fastidious by much inter- 
 course with coquettes of all classes, from the emotional and pen- 
 sive to the audacious and sparkling ? The question was more 
 easily asked than answered, but it was certain that, in the course 
 of a long and varied social experience, he had never before seen 
 — he had never even imagined — a woman so free from coquetry. 
 
 It was after they reached the Lodge, and were in the library 
 which wore to him such a familiar seeming, that it occurred to 
 Mary for the first time to wonder whv she had found him in the 
 Severn drawing-room. So mere a trifle as the violets in his but- 
 ton-hole led to this consideration — or, at least, to the expression 
 of it. They were standing together before the fire, when she 
 put out her hand and touched them. "How sweet!" she said. 
 " I have been noticing the fragrance for some time. I am so 
 fond of violets ! Will you give them to me ? " 
 
 " Certainly," he answered, beginning to unfasten the frail 
 stem, " but you will find them few and faded. They rightfully 
 belong to Miss Severn, too — that is, I took them without leave 
 from a glass of flowers while I was waiting for her." 
 
 "Perhaps you would like to keep them, then," she said. 
 
 "No," he answered. "Why should I? I only wish they 
 were better worth giving to you." 
 
 " I only wanted them because you had worn them," she said; 
 simply. " Thank you," as he laid them in her hand. " There 
 are plenty in the garden, if you would like some more. Jessie 
 brings me a bouquet every morning." 
 
330 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " You shall give me some before I go. In that way I will 
 make a profitable exchange." 
 
 She smiled a little, and lifted the violets to her face, but 
 when her hand dropped, she said, " Had you been long at the 
 Severns ? You cannot tell how much I was surprised to find 
 you." 
 
 " I do not think I could have been there more than half an 
 hour — if so long," he answered. " I was on my way here when 
 it struck me that I could hear something about you from Miss 
 Severn even before I saw you. That is how you chanced to find 
 me with her." 
 
 " And you were really on your way here ? " she asked — not 
 doubtingly but wistfully, laying her hand on his coat. 
 
 " Did you fancy otherwise ? " he asked, taking the hand in 
 his own. " How could you do me so much injustice ? It was 
 merely for a few minutes that I stopped." 
 
 " I am glad you have learned to like Madeleine — as I was 
 always sure you would," she said, and after this she did not al- 
 lude again to the visit. 
 
 When Devereux heard of the projected ball he, like every 
 one else concerned, regarded it with decided disapproval. Had 
 he arrived in Stansbury a fortnight or even a week earlier, this 
 disapproval might have proved powerful enough to nip the mat- 
 ter in the bud, but now it was too late. Arrangements were 
 made, invitations were issued, every thing was in train ; and it 
 was with that grim sense of disgust, common to the masculine 
 mind when not inclined for social festivities, that he faced the 
 necessity of bearing his part in the entertainment. " If I had 
 known of this, I should not have come until it was over," he said 
 to Mary. 
 
 "You would have been very unkind, then," she answered, 
 " for I know that you are not, like some men, afraid of or averse 
 to society. I count on you to aid in making the matter a suc- 
 cess. And have you no curiosity to see your old acquaintance, 
 Rosalind Severn transformed into Mrs. James Champion ? " 
 
 "Not the least," he answered, with a tone of contempt in 
 
MRS. IXGRAM UTTERS A WARNING. 331 
 
 his voice which would not have pleased that charming and self- 
 satisfied lady, had she been unfortunate enough to hear it. 
 " Pretty women are common enough," he added, after a minute ; 
 " and besides her beauty, I do not know that Miss Rosalind Sev- 
 ern, now Mrs. James Champion, possesses any attraction what- 
 ever." 
 
 " Did you not formerly find some about her ? " asked Marj^, 
 smiling. " It seems to me that I remember hearing something 
 of that kind when you were acting together." 
 
 " She served, like thousands of others, to help one pass time," 
 he said, carelessly. " Beyond that I never gave her a thought 
 — and never shall." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MRS. IXGEAM UTTEKS A WAEXIXG. 
 
 " Mary," said Mrs. Ingram, solemnly, " there is something 
 I should like to say to you if I were sure you would take it in 
 good part." 
 
 " ^Yhy should I not take it in good part. Aunt Ingram ? " 
 said Mary. She did not stir as she asked the question, but lay 
 quite still on the blue couch that threw her figure into relief, 
 her face turned toward the open window by her side, through 
 which spring-like air and golden sunshine came. She was in her 
 own room, whither Mrs. Ingram had penetrated uninvited, and 
 after a little desultory conversation, had uttered the above remark, 
 
 " Well," said that lady in reply, " there are a good many 
 reasons why you might not take it in good part. People are 
 not always obliged to one for giving an honest warning. It's a 
 thankless duty at best, but what is my duty I was never known 
 to shirk." 
 
 " What are you talking about ? " asked Mary. She turned 
 her face now with a slight contraction of annoyance on her 
 smooth brow. It required no small exercise of patience to bear 
 
332 A QUESTION OF HOXOK 
 
 witli this unpleasant interruption to her thoughts. As she lay, 
 bathed in sunshine, listening to the sweet twitter and soaring 
 notes of the birds which congregated on a cedar-tree just out- 
 side the window, sliefelt, though she could not see, the beauty 
 of the day, and her soul seemed to rise up to God in thanks for 
 the happiness He had vouchsafed her. It is not everybody who 
 thinks of thanking God for happiness. Many of us are like un- 
 gracious churls, taking it as our right, and never lifting our 
 voices save in repining or reproach. But there had been long 
 years in which happiness never came to Mary, and now, when it 
 burst on her like a heavenly aurora, the gentle, devout spirit 
 was full of gratitude for this most rare and precious of earthly 
 gifts. " If it is any thing about Jessie or the servants," she 
 went on, after a minute — for Mrs. Ingram's warnings were 
 chiefly on this score — " I am sorry to seem discourteous, but I 
 would rather not be troubled by hearing it." 
 
 " It is not about Jessie or the servants," said Mrs. Ingram, 
 " though I do think that the manner in which you trust every 
 thing in their hands is dreadful ! It concerns some one, however, 
 with whom you are almost as much infatuated, and that is Miss 
 Severn." 
 
 She brought out this name with spiteful emphasis, but, well as 
 she knew Mary's " infatuation," she was not prepared for the 
 amazement and anger which flashed instantaneously over her face. 
 
 " Madeleine ! " she said, in a tone divided between surprise 
 and haughtiness. " Are you in earnest. Aunt Ingram ? Do 
 you mean to say that you venture to connect such a thing as 
 warning with Madeleine Severn ? " 
 
 " I venture to speak the truth in season and out of season, 
 my dear," returned Aunt Ingram in a very sharp tone ; " and 
 being your father's sister — though you seem to forget that, and 
 prefer everybody else to me — I feel it my duty to tell you, 
 who can't observe things for yourself, that Miss Madeleine 
 Severn is flirting in a very marked manner with Mr. Devereux. 
 I saw it before lie went away, but I couldn't make up my mind 
 to trouble you by speaking of it ; I hadn't the faintest idea, 
 
MRS. INGRAM UTTERS A WARNING. 333 
 
 either, that you would believe me, but the thing is so manifest 
 now that I can't be silent any longer." 
 
 " I think you must be mad," said Mary, " or — or more ma- 
 licious than I have ever dreamed of your being, to come and 
 say such a thing to me. Madeleine flirting with Mr. Devereux ! 
 You mis"ht as well tell me that there was no such thino- as truth 
 or honor in the world." 
 
 " You may think me mad, or you may think me malicious," 
 said Mrs. Ingram, who was deeply incensed, and whose very 
 cap-strings shook with indignation, " but I know that you are 
 blind ; and therefore I pardon your language. You may believe 
 me or not, as you like : my conscience is clear when I have 
 warned you. I didn't expect to be thanked, but it was more 
 than I could stand to watch those two deceiving you before 
 your very eyes, because they knew you would not see them. 
 Haven't I found them in the grounds together ? — haven't I seen 
 them looking and smiling at each other, with you sitting by ? — 
 didn't I surprise Mr. Devereux giving Miss Severn a likeness in 
 a locket of which I know you never heard ? — didn't he go to 
 see her as soon as he came back to Stansbury, before ever he 
 thought of coming to see j'ou ? — wasn't she here with him all 
 day yesterday ? — and aren't they coming yonder together now', 
 walking like two snails and talking to each other? Ah, I may 
 be mad, or I may be malicious, but my eyes are worth some- 
 thing, and, as for seeing such duplicity and saj'ing nothing, I 
 could have died first ! " 
 
 "You had better have died first," said Mary, with a passion- 
 ate energy in her voice such as the other had never heard be- 
 fore. " It would have been bad enough to take such a story to 
 any one, but to bring it to me — me who am blind — oh, it is 
 base and cruel ! But I do not believe it, not one word of it ! 
 Remember that. I would trust my life, my honor, my love, all 
 to Madeleine, and I ha}:e trusted them to Mr. Devereux. Go. 
 I do not wish to hear any more. You talk a great deal of 
 your Bible, but I wonder if you ever read it ! If so, it is strange 
 that 3'ou have forgotten that our Lord says, ' Blessed are the 
 
 15 
 
334 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 peace-makers,' and it follows that those must be cursed who de- 
 stroy peace." 
 
 " Well, upon my word," said Mrs. Ingram, rising, " if this is 
 not thanks for doing my duty, to be told to my face that I am 
 cursed ! Go ? I should think I would go, and I hope — I hojoe 
 that when it is too late you may remember my warning, and 
 blush to think how you received it." 
 
 The last words were shrill with anger; the next instant there- 
 was the whisk of departing skirts, followed by the sharp bang- 
 ing of the door, and Mary was left alone with the sunshhie and 
 the birds. 
 
 Alas ! out of the sunshine had fled its warmth, out of the 
 notes of the birds their music. That terrible discord which one 
 human spirit, one human tongue, can make in human life, had 
 replaced the happy serenity of less than an hour before. For a 
 little while Mary felt stunned. What was it that had happened ? 
 It seemed beyond realization that such a charge, against those 
 whom she loved best in the world, should have been brought to 
 her ; that anybody could have been cruel enough to breathe sus- 
 picion into the ear of one Avhose eyes God had sealed. " It is 
 not as if I could see for myself whether it is true or false," she 
 murmured with a moan, but then the generous spirit rose up 
 and scorned even this admission. " I do not need to see, 1 
 know that it is false ! " she said ; and as she uttered the words, 
 through the open window Madeleine's sweet, gay laugh came 
 borne to her, together with Devereux's voice. 
 
 She remembered then that Mrs. Ingram had said they were 
 approaching. Yesterday it had been the same thing : Devereux 
 had met Madeleine as she was leaving Stansbury, and walked 
 with her to the Lodge. She had spent the day there, superin- 
 tending various arrangements for the ball, and in the evening- 
 he had accompanied her back. To Mary it had all seemed 
 natural and very pleasant ; she was glad that those who were 
 so dear to her should learn to know and like each other. Now 
 the serpent had entered her Eden and suggested a thought 
 which she disowned, but could not forget. 
 
MRS. INGRAM UTTERS A ^YARNING. 335 
 
 Slie was still lying in her white cashmere draperies on the 
 blue couch, with her face turned upward to the sunlight, when 
 Madeleine entered the room. The latter had knocked, but since 
 no voice spoke — for Mary did not hear — she opened the door. 
 It was a lovely picture which greeted her, but one which made 
 her heart for a moment stand still. The doctor's warning had 
 never left her mind, and the immobile attitude, the hands 
 clasped on the breast, the fair pale face, all looked like death. 
 It was only for a second that the impression lasted ; then, feel- 
 ing the draught from the door, Mary turned and spoke. 
 
 " Is that you, Madeleine ? " she said. " I heard your voice 
 below." 
 
 " Yes, it is I," answered Madeleine, advancing. " I did not 
 hear you speak, so I came in. Do you know that you look like 
 ' the lily-maid of Astolat ' as you lie there ? I have often felt 
 inclined to call you Elaine, but never so much as now." 
 
 "Do vou mean I look like her after she was dead?" said 
 Mary, with a quickness of comprehension for which her com- 
 panion was not prepared. " But I should never have had my 
 body sent down to the palace as she did. It seemed like re- 
 proaching Lancelot, and it was not his fault that he did not love 
 her. One's own pain one cannot help, but we can alwaj^s refrain 
 from giving pain to others." 
 
 " Do you think one alwa}' s can ? " asked Madeleine, wist- 
 fully. " I am not sure of that." She was thinking that only 
 the night before she had pained Lacy by failing to surrender 
 her own opinion in one of the discussions he had of late so often 
 thrust upon her. 
 
 " I mean voluntarily," said Mar}^, with a sigh. " It is an 
 awful thing to cause pain voluntarily. It seems to me I would 
 rather deprive any one of life than of the peace which makes the 
 best part of life." 
 
 " ^ATiat has put such thoughts into your head ? " said Made- 
 leine. " You never pained any one voluntaril3\ Of that I 
 am quite sure. And no one could be heartless enough to pain 
 you." 
 
336 A QUESTION 0^ HONOR. 
 
 She knelt by the couch — a very common attitude with her — 
 as she spoke, but she was not prepared for the manner in which 
 Mary drew her cheek- down till it touched her own, saying, almost 
 passionately, " Not you — not you ! That I know ! " 
 
 The day which began thus inauspiciouslj' was that of the 
 ball. If consideration had obtained the least hearing in Mrs. 
 Ino-ram's mental councils, she would certainly have deferred her 
 warning twenty-four hours at least. But no thought of the 
 unusual excitement and fatigue wdiich awaited Mary weighed 
 with her for a moment. It may be said that she honestly be- 
 lieved that which she uttered, though how^ far dislike to Made- 
 leine in the first instance, and dislike to Mary's engagement in 
 the second, influenced her belief, is another question. There 
 are few who can afford to analyze their motives too closely. At 
 the bottom of \'irtuous indignation seeds of envy, jealousy, and 
 uncharitableness, too often lurk. 
 
 Some people may think that Mary might have dismissed 
 what she had heard from her mind, without giving it any 
 weight, or allowing it to trouble and disturb her. But the 
 mind is an unruly servant at best, and often refuses absolutely 
 to obey. With the best will in the world to the contrary, Mary 
 could not help being troubled and disturbed. She did not be- 
 lieve, but she could not forget. Her old passionate desire for 
 sight came back to her. " If I could only see ! " she thought. 
 When Madeleine and Devereux spoke, she yearned to watch 
 their faces, to look into their eyes. It was not that she doubted 
 them, but she longed to be sure. Mrs. Ingram's tongue had 
 done its work : Mary's peace w^as slain. 
 
 To realize this, it must be understood that the pillars w^hich 
 upheld her world were shaken. She had nowhere to turn, she 
 had no one to w4iom to appeal. Slie w^as left, as it were, in 
 darkness to wrestle single-handed w^ith that demon of suspicion 
 which has poisoned many noble natures and broken many tender 
 hearts. " I will forget all about it," she thought ; but the reso- 
 lution was made in vain. The old story — story familiar from 
 personal experience to most of us — that it is much easier tc 
 
MRS. INGRAM UTTERS A WARNING 337 
 
 raise a fiend than to put him down again, was exemplified here. 
 Poor Mary's fiend had been raised for her, but to put it down 
 passed her power. Yet it cannot be said too often that she dis- 
 beheved utterly, though she could not banish from her mem- 
 ory, Mrs. Ingram's story. Now and then she smiled to herself 
 over the folly of it. Madeleine, of all people ! " Aunt Ingram 
 ought to have chosen a likelier heroine for her romance ! " she 
 thought. 
 
 That those around her suspected nothing of this struggle 
 spoke much for the inherent strength of her nature. She was 
 altogether her usual self during the day, and, when Madeleine 
 spoke after dinner of going back to Stansbury, she said at once : 
 
 " You must take the pony-phaeton. I will not hear of such 
 a thing as 3'our walking after all that you have been doing 
 to-day. You must be thoroughly tired. Mr. Devereux will 
 drive you, I am sure." 
 
 " I will take the phaeton gratefully, but I will not trouble 
 Mr. Devereux," answered Madeleine, before that gentleman 
 could express his willingness to play cavalier. " I am an ex- 
 cellent whip, you know, and I want to go by the mills and 
 speak to Basil. I shall come back early, Mary, in order to give 
 a finishing touch to yoiu* toilet." 
 
 " And to receive the people," said Mary. " Don't forget 
 that you are to play hostess. I leave every thing to 3'ou. Be 
 sure to send word to Gilbert, when the phaeton returns, what 
 time you want the close carriage to come for you." 
 
 When the phaeton appeared at the door, Devereux attended 
 Madeleine out and placed her in it. Then, as she gathered up 
 the reins, he said : " Since you are so thoroughly independent 
 that you will not let me drive you, I suppose we shall meet next 
 at the ball. "Will you promise me a dance, then ? I shall need 
 some oasis of pleasure in the melancholy desert of boredom be- 
 fore me." 
 
 " Dance with you ? Yes, of course — if I dance at all," an- 
 swered Madeleine. " But I am not sure about that. I am 
 tired, and I shall have a great deal to do." 
 
338 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " Must I content mjself with your sister ? " he asked, in an 
 almost bojdsh tone of petulance. 
 
 She looked at him gravely and doubtingl3\ " Remember 
 this," she said, in a low voice — for Joe was still busy about the 
 horses' heads — "it is easy out of mere levity and idleness to 
 make trouble that nothing can cure." 
 
 " How can you think such a warning necessary ? " he said, 
 flushing under her regard. " I see I have not won your trust 
 even yet." 
 
 " Prove that you deserve it," she answered. After whicK — 
 nodding with a smile as Joe sprang to the rumble — she drove 
 away. 
 
 Three or four hours later it was a very charming reflection 
 that Miss Severn's mirror gave back, as she stood before it with 
 her toilet complete. Full evening-dress is like a revelation 
 of the beauty of some women, and though Madeleine did not 
 belong to this class, it enhanced her fair looks as it enhances 
 those of every woman who possesses any fair looks at all. Out 
 of diaphanous draperies of white and silver, her graceful sloping 
 shoulders rose, and her slender neck bore her head as a stem 
 bears its flow^er. Around this neck and on her white arms she 
 wore a necklace and bracelets of pearls, in an old-fashioned set- 
 ting — their soft, cloudy lustre harmonizing admirably with the 
 rest of her costume. If her face lacked color, it was hardly pos- 
 sible to find fault with it on that score, so delicate and refined 
 were the outlines, so clear the pure complexion, so limpid the 
 brown eyes, so flexile in their sweetness the red — yet not too 
 red — lips. 
 
 Her toilet made, Madeleine spent no time in " last touches," 
 but having received from Ann the complimentary assurance that 
 she looked " almost as pretty as Miss Rosalind," she threw her 
 shawl over her arm and went to Mrs. Severn's room, where that 
 lady had begun Aer toilet. 
 
 " I am going to the Lodge now, mamma," she said. " I will 
 send the carriage back in about an hour for you and Basil ; j^ou 
 will not want it before that time ? " 
 
"A SOUND OF REVELRY." 339 
 
 "No, certainly not," answered Mrs. Severn, " and that will be 
 early. How pretty you look, Madeleine I Your dress is a great 
 success, and who would fancy that you made it yourself! I won- 
 der what Rosalind means to wear ? — I forgot to ask her." 
 
 " Whatever she wears, Rosalind is always beautiful," said 
 Madeleine. " Now is there any thing I can do for you before I 
 go ? Ann is but a clumsy lady's-maid." 
 
 "Yes, my hair," answered Mrs. Severn, helplessly, as the 
 small white hands that had never been accustomed to such labor, 
 dropped in her lap. " I cannot arrange it." 
 
 Madeleine's gloves were not yet on. She took the refrac- 
 tory tresses in her deft fingers — fingers good for much besides 
 playing sonatas — and in a few minutes the coifi"ure w^as ar- 
 ranged, and Mrs. Severn looked at herself and was satisfied. 
 
 This over, Madeleine went down-stairs and lingered a few 
 minutes with Basil, who was reading newspapers in solitary state 
 by the sitting-room fire. Perhaps she expected to find some one 
 else with him, for her glance swept round the room as she en- 
 tered, and an expression of disappointment came into her eyes. 
 She said nothing, but Basil must have divined what she was 
 thinking, for after he had taken her out to the carriage, seen that 
 she was well wrapped, and promised to change his dress at once, 
 he muttered as he went back to the house, " What the devil 
 does Lacy mean ? " 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " A SOUXD OF EEVELRY." 
 
 It was not remarkable that out of all the invitations issued 
 for the ball at the Lodge, scarcely one " regret " had been re- 
 turned. People w^ere not only convinced that it would be a 
 grand affair — for Miss Carlisle's wealth was popularly spoken of 
 as "immense" — but curiosity was also rife. Every one was 
 
340 A QUESTION" OF HONOK. 
 
 anxious to see Mary in her capacity of hostess, and not a few 
 wished to observe Devereux in his new position. One or two 
 sentimental young ladies — a class nearly extinct in the present 
 day — remarked that the engagement between the young heiress 
 and the defeated claimant of her inheritance was "like a ro- 
 mance ; " but the majority displayed their acute worldly wisdom 
 by saying that the romance was altogether one of iuterest- 
 " What will not people do for money ! " they exclaimed. 
 
 When Madeleine reached the Lodge, already blazing Avith 
 lights, she was met by Jessie, who looked grave and foreboding. 
 " I never have liked the notion of all this to-do. Miss Madeleine," 
 she observed, " and I likes it now less than ever. You take 
 my word, the end of it is going to be that Miss Mary will be 
 sick." 
 
 " I have been afraid of it mvself " said Madeleine, " but 
 there was nothing to be done. What is the matter ? Is she 
 not well?" 
 
 " She won't own that any thing ails her," said Jessie, " but I 
 know her better than she knows herself, and I see that she isn't 
 at her best. If j^ou could persuade her to be quiet. Miss Made- 
 leine, and not excite herself to-night — " 
 
 " I will do what I can," answered Madeleine, passing up tlie 
 broad staircase. When she entered Mary's room, she found her 
 sitting in a chair near the toilet-table, already dressed, though 
 her maid was still hovering near. " Isn't she pretty, Miss Made- 
 leine? " said the latter, stepping back, with her head admiringly 
 on one side. 
 
 " Indeed she is ! " answered Madeleine, coming forward. 
 "You are more like the 'hly-maid ' than ever, Mary." 
 
 " Do I really look well ? " asked Mary. " I am so glad if it is 
 so — if you are not saying it merely to please me." 
 
 " I should like a picture of you just as you are," said Made- 
 leine. " You are lovely ! Every one will tell you so. Has 
 Mr. Devereux come? You must go down and let him see 
 you." 
 
 " I don't think he has come," said Mary, " but there is time 
 
"A SOUND OF REVELRY." 341 
 
 enoiigb. I cannot see how you look, Madeleine," slie added, 
 " but no doubt you are beautiful." 
 
 " I beautiful I " said Madeleine. " What an idea ! I am 
 rather more inclined to prettiness than ugliness, but that is all 
 that can be said for me. Tarn your bead a little, Mary. Let me 
 give a touch to your hair. Stella has made it a trifle too fashion- 
 able. To such a face as yours a coiffure which is too much in the 
 style is not becoming." 
 
 Judicious touches reduced the fashionable appearance, and 
 gave more of that simplicity which is essential to grace to the 
 soft masses of fair hair. A few beautiful pansies starred it here 
 and there. As the young heiress rose, she certainly might have 
 stood for a picture of Elaine — gentlest and most pathetic of mod- 
 ern heroines. The rich white silk which she wore clung to her 
 slender figure in the sculpturesque folds that silk of such a text- 
 ure naturally assumes if left to itself. The V-shaped corsage 
 was filled with lace, and around the arching throat ran a chain of 
 yellow gold, from which was suspended a cross set with brilliants 
 — her only ornament. 
 
 " You would make a sensation anywhere ! " said Madeleine, 
 kissing her with delight. " Whenever j^ou think of yom-self to- 
 night be sure to think, ' I am looking as lovely as a woman could 
 possibly desire to look.' It makes one much more comfortable 
 to feel that one is pretty. But you must promise me not to over- 
 exert yourself. I am so afraid that all this will make you ill." 
 
 " I do not think so," said Mary, " but I promise to be as quiet 
 as possible." 
 
 When Devereux saw her, he indorsed all that Madeleine had 
 said. His admiration and praise brought a tinge of color to her 
 cheeks, and a sense of happiness to her heart. " You are very 
 land," she said, with her sweet, gracious smile. " I feel now as 
 if I could face the people who are coming without shrinking very 
 much and feeling that they will pity you." 
 
 " Pity me ! " he repeated. *' What do you mean by such an 
 expression ? How could any one in his senses pity me, who 
 am far luckier than I deserve to be ? " 
 
342 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " You know what I mean," she said. " Are not those 
 carriage-wheels ? I suppose the peojDle are beginning to 
 come."*- 
 
 She was right. The people were beginning to come. Carriage 
 after carriage crashed along the gravel-drive, and deposited its 
 freight before the door, out of which streamed a flood of light. 
 Party after party entered the spacious drawing-rooms, now 
 thrown into one, and were received by Mrs. Ingram or Madeleine, 
 in the name of the young hostess. Everybody agreed that 
 " things were beautiful." The floors were waxed to the smooth- 
 ness and almost to the slipperiness of ice ; flowers were every- 
 where in abundance, the band in the conservatory were playing 
 that enchanting dance-music which makes the soberest pulses 
 tingle, and the staidest feet stir. 
 
 The rooms were well filled before the Champion party ar- 
 rived. They were among the number of those w^ho were taken 
 at once to Mary, and with a light, perfumy kiss, Rosalind made 
 her graceful acknowledgments for the compliment paid her. 
 Champion made his less gracefully, but perhaps more sincerely, 
 w^hile his wife turned with a smile to Devereux. 
 
 " It has been a long time since we met," she said. " I am 
 glad to see you again." 
 
 " And I am glad to have the opportunity to ofier my con- 
 gratulations on your change of name and state," answered he, 
 bowing over the daintily-gloved hand which she extended. " May 
 I be permitted to say that matrimony seems to agree with you ? 
 I never saw you looking better." 
 
 " Thanks — I am very well indeed," she answered, with a deep- 
 ening flush on her cheek, a brighter lustre in her eyes, for she 
 knew that " better " stood for " more beautiful." 
 
 " Will you give me a place on your ball-book for old ac- 
 quaintance' sake?" he asked then — thinking, as he had often 
 thought before, that it would be difficult to find a more exquisite 
 face, or a manner more full of arch coquetry. 
 
 "My ball-book is void of engagements as yet," said she, 
 handing it to him. " So you can take your choice of the dances." 
 
"A SOUND OF REVELRY." 343 
 
 " I will be moderate," he answered, scribbling liis name down 
 lor a quadrille and a waltz. 
 
 After a few more words, Rosalind floated away on her hus- 
 band's arm — dazzlingly lovely in salmon-pink, point-lace, and 
 diamonds. A little later. Miss Champion came up to speak to 
 Mary. She w^ore a rose-colored silk that lit up her brunette 
 complexion admirably, but was regarded with disgust hy Rosa- 
 lind, because it " killed " the delicate tint of her dress. " You 
 must not come near me," she had said. " We cannot even dance 
 in the same set. Our dresses swear at each other horribly." 
 
 " Mine makes yours look fade, but yours does not harm 
 mine," said Miss Champion, complacently. 
 
 This young lady was leaning on Basil's arm w^lien she ap- 
 peared. He had been waiting for her at the foot of the stair- 
 case as she descended from the dressing-room, and in this way 
 secured the honor of sharing the sensation which her appear- 
 ance created. A woman to make a sensation in a ballroom was 
 Miss Champion — a woman fitted to shine by gas-light and utterly 
 eclipse fairer beauties. Besides, she was an heiress, and — now 
 that Rosalind, was married — preeminently the belle of Stansbury. 
 On her ball-book Mr. Devereux — mindful that Mary had 
 begged him to do all he could to make the entertainment a suc- 
 cess — also had the honor of inscribing his name. He did not 
 ask for more than one set, having long since discovered that the 
 best point of the " fair Odalisque " was her appearance, and 
 owning a mild partiality, as he now and then remarked, for a 
 woman with a little sense. 
 
 Fortunately for Miss Champion's empire, few men shared 
 this uncommon taste. *'By Jove, what a splendid-looking 
 woman ! " they said to one another, as she swept down the room. 
 Strangers (of whom there were a few) asked to be presented, old 
 acquaintances begged for a dance. She was soon holding a court 
 at one end of the ballroom — admirers thronging round her, her 
 eyes like stars, her color rivaling the roses in her hair, her white 
 teeth flashing, her empty laugh sounding continually, her fan 
 in constant motion. It was impossible to deny that her manners 
 
344 
 
 A QUESTION OF IIOXOR. 
 
 were a triSe '' loud," but wliat else could be expected ? She had 
 been out in the world, and formed them on the most approved 
 models. 
 
 In this manner Lacy found her when he sauntered up pres- 
 entl3\ " What have you kept for me ? " he asked, taking her 
 ball-book, and glancing over it. 
 
 " Two waltzes," answered she, pointing to them. " That is, 
 you may have them if you like. If not — " 
 
 " There are plenty of other candidates for them, I do not 
 doubt," said he, coolly. " I will take them with thanks, and this 
 redowa down here, and — this unengaged lancers, though I de- 
 test quadrilles as a rule." 
 
 " Are you crazy ? " demanded she, in a tone indicating any 
 thing rather than displeasure. " Do you think I shall let you 
 monopolize my ball-book in that fashion ? You shall have your 
 two waltzes and no more." 
 
 " Too late, ma belle ! " said he. " My name is down for the 
 others, and if you give them to any one else, I shall have a fair 
 excuse to challenge the fortunate man." 
 
 He returned the ball-book, bowed, and passed away. It was 
 one of his arrogant peculiarities — well known in Stansbury 
 society — never to share a divided attention, and Miss Champion 
 was not sur23rised, therefore, to see him go. She meant to give 
 him the dances he wanted — and any thing else to which he had a 
 mind — but she did not say so, being of the opinion that, in order 
 to render a favor valuable, it should be reluctantly granted. 
 
 " Mr. Lacy is frightfully spoiled," she said to her court. " He 
 believes that he has only to ask and to receive ! Upon my word, 
 I think his self-conceit needs a lesson." 
 
 " Is that Mr. Lacy the poet ? " asked a stranger standing by 
 — a gentlenan whom one of the Stansbury families had brought 
 in their train. " I have felt a great curiosity to see him. I think 
 he promises to be the Morris of America." 
 
 Miss Champion turned her starry eyes on the speaker. She 
 had the faintest possible idea of any thing concerning the author 
 of " The Earthly Paradise," but she knew that a compliment to 
 
"A SOUND OF REVELRY." 345 
 
 Lacy was intended, and in tliat moment she decided to keep 
 him in her train as much as possible during the evening. Mr. 
 Lacj the poet ! The words had a sweet sound in her ears. Not 
 that she had abstractly any liking for poetry ; but she admired 
 whatever commanded social homage and respect. 
 
 When the first quadrille was forming on the floor, Lacy went 
 up to Madeleine. She had been so occupied, that he had not, 
 before this, been able to do more than merely exchange a greet- 
 ing, and utter a gracious approval of her costume. Now he 
 made his appearance, with the air of one ready for the sacrifice. 
 
 " You intend to dance, do you not ? " he said, ofi"ering his 
 arm. "I presume I may have the. pleasure — " 
 
 " You mean the boredom," she interrupted, with a smile. 
 " No, I will not immolate you on the altar of duty. I have 
 promised this set — the first, isn't it ? — to Mr. Devereux." 
 
 " Indeed 1 " said Lacy. He opened his eyes in sudden and 
 not well-pleased surprise. A slight of anj^ kind was something 
 quite new to him — and from Madeleine ! He recovered himself 
 in a minute, but she saw that he was vexed. " I suppose you 
 mean this for a rebuke," he said. " No doubt I should have 
 asked you when I first came in if you would dance with me, but 
 I took it for granted the first set was mine," 
 
 " I could not know that you had taken it for granted," she 
 answered, gently, " but I assure you the idea of a rebuke did 
 not occur to me. Before you came Mr. Devereux asked me to 
 dance this set with him, and I promised to do so. Yonder he 
 comes now ! Will you have the next ? " 
 
 " I am engaged for the next," he replied, and turned away. 
 He cared nothing about the dance — quadrilles always bored 
 him — but he was in a chronic state of discontent with Made- 
 leine, and every trifle added to the feeling. 
 
 While the music was swelling out on the air and the 
 dancers were " dancing in tune," he betook himself to Mary 
 Carlisle, who, sitting in an alcove — 
 
 " Like some marble saint, niched in cathedral-wall," 
 was talking to two or three of her elder guests. It chanced that 
 
346 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 it had been some time since she met him last, but with the 
 quick memory of the blind she recognized his voice at once, 
 and made way for him on. the seat by her side. 
 
 " I am glad that you have come to talk to me, Mr. Lacy," 
 she said, kindly ; " but do you not dance ? You must not let 
 me detain you if you have any engagement — " 
 
 " I have none at all," he answered. " I am not fond of 
 dancing for dancing's sake, though I meant to tread this meas- 
 ure with Madeleine ; but she has thrown me over for Mr. Deve- 
 
 reux." 
 
 " Madeleine thrown you over ! " said Mary. " I cannot im- 
 agine that." 
 
 " It surprised me," returned he, candidly, " but it is true. 
 No doubt she has made a good exchange. I am rather out of 
 sorts, and Mr. Devereux seems very fascinating." 
 
 " Why should you be out of sorts ? " asked Mary, with the 
 simple directness which characterized her. She looked grave, 
 and his last words brought neither smile nor blush to her face. 
 She lowered her voice a little. Those around were talking 
 among themselves — comparing opinions of the toilets in the 
 shifting throng before them — and the music was pealing over 
 all. " You have every thing, it seems to me, that any one 
 could ask," she went on — " youth, talents, reputation and — 
 Madeleine." 
 
 " Did it never strike you that it is very easy to sum up our 
 neighbor's blessings and prove entirely to our own satisfaction 
 that he ought to be the happiest dog in the world ? " asked 
 Lacy, with a strain of bitterness in his voice which her ear was 
 quick enough to detect. " Personal discussions are never in 
 good taste, or I might convince you that I do not in reality pos- 
 sess one of the things you have enumerated." 
 
 " Not even Madeleine ? " asked she, in amazement. 
 
 The devil surely prompted Lacy when he answered, " Not 
 even Madeleine. An engagement is an uncertain thing at best 
 — and ours is peculiarly uncertain because my prospects are so 
 indefinite. I have suffered a heavy loss lately, and the reputa- 
 
"A SOUND OF REVELRY." 3^7 
 
 tion of which j^ou spoke does not help me much. Then I am 
 conscious of — of a chano;e in Madeleine. Don't think that I 
 mention it to complain. It is of course not her fault that she 
 has seemed to drift away from me in sympathy of late." 
 
 The question " How ? " was quivering on Mary's lips, when 
 one of those interruptions occurred which count so heavily in 
 the sum of human vexations. 
 
 " My dear Mary," said Mrs. Severn's placid tones, " here is 
 an old friend of your father's who wishes to know you — Mr. 
 Heriot. He happened to be in Stansburj'-, and came with Colo- 
 nel Mitchell, feeling sure you would be glad to receive him." 
 
 " And remembering that when I saw you last, I had the 
 pleasure of holding you on my knee," said Mr. Heriot — a frank, 
 middle-aged gentleman — taking the blind girl's hand, and gaz- 
 ing with compassionate interest on her face. 
 
 She responded with her usual gentle courtesy, while Lacj'' — 
 relapsing into boredom — resigned his place to Mr. Heriot and 
 strolled away. He would probably have been surprised if any 
 one had indicated to him the mischief which he had worked in 
 these few minutes, but there are few things from which we need 
 pray more earnestly to be delivered than from the consequences 
 of our idle words. 
 
 After the ball fairly opened, dance followed dance in quick 
 succession. Madeleine waltzed once with Lacy — with no one 
 else — and walked through two or three more quadrilles." Rosa- 
 lind, meanwhile, in brilliant beauty divided the homage of the 
 room with her handsome sister-in-law. Had it been before her 
 marriage she would have monoiDolized public attention, but mar- 
 ried belles belong to an order of civilization which had not yet 
 reached Stansbury. I am compelled to say, however, that there 
 was much of the old spice of coquetry in Mrs. James Champi- 
 on's manner when Devereux claimed her hand for the first of 
 the dances for which she was engaged to him. As they took 
 their places in the set — with due care that Miss Champion's 
 rose-colored dress was not near the salmon-pink — she handed 
 her ball-book to him. 
 
348 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " See there ! " slie said, with a laugh, indicating the waltz 
 for which he had written his name. Through it, and all the 
 other round dances, a broad black pencil-mark was drawn, " Mr. 
 Champion has had mj book for revision, you perceive," she 
 added, as Devereux glanced up interrogatively. " That is what 
 comes of giving a man a right to regulate one's actions and cur- 
 tail one's enjoyments. Oh, miserable fate to be a woman ! You 
 ought to imitate the Mussulmans who thank God that they are 
 neither women nor dogs." 
 
 " You must forgive me if I cannot sympathize with you," 
 sa,id Devereux. " I have always thought that I agreed with the 
 Frenchman who said he should like to be a woman till he was 
 thirty — a beautiful woman, of course, understood. And I can- 
 not blame Mr. Champion very much, though he has deprived 
 me of a gTeat pleasure. In his place I should probably act as 
 he has done. Nothing is more strong in man's nature than the 
 instinct of monopoly." 
 
 " Oh, that is all very fine," said Rosalind, whose annoj^ance 
 was greater than she cared to show, " but it is not you who are 
 condemned to these stupid things " (quadrilles evidently meant), 
 " with such music and such a floor ! I must go away before the 
 German. I cannot sit by and see that ! Gordon Lacy always 
 leads it, and I suppose he will ask Helen to dance with him. 
 Pray, observe the difference between a sister and a wife. James 
 cannot make her give up round-dancing." 
 
 " And this is the only dance you can give me, then ? " said 
 Devereux, looking again at the ball-book. " I see your list of 
 engagements is complete." 
 
 " I am sorry that I cannot give j^ou any other dance," she 
 replied. " But there is our waltz. If you care to come and 
 bear me company, we may take an ice while it is going on, and 
 my feelings need not be hopelessly lacerated. We have not met 
 in so long, and I have several things to say to you." 
 
 " I shall come with pleasure," said he, wondering a little 
 what was the meaning of this, and what Madeleine might think. 
 
 So when the others were floating over the polished floor to 
 
"A SOUND OF EEYELRY." 349 
 
 the strains of the sweet Strauss music, Mr. Devereux made his 
 way to where Mrs. James Champion sat surrounded by two or 
 three gentlemen. Her husband was not among them — for she 
 had persuaded him to go and play whist ; by no means a diffi- 
 cult task, since he liked whist exceedingly, and altogether ab- 
 jured dancing. When Devereux drew near, she rose, took his 
 anil, and bending her head gracefully to the others in a manner 
 which signified, " I have an engagement," moved away. 
 
 To this same waltz-music, meanwhile, Miss Champion was 
 floating round the room on Lacy's arm. He was the best 
 waltzer in Stansbury, and she liked dancing with him on that 
 account, but if he had been the worst she would probably also 
 have liked it — conscious that all eyes were upon them, and peo- 
 ple were remarking to one another the devotion of her compan- 
 ion. It was a trifle altosrether beneath her consideration that 
 among these e^^es were those of the woman to whom he was en- 
 gaged, and of the man Avhoni she had induced to believe that she 
 would some day marry him. 
 
 The latter felt a growing conviction of his own infatuation as 
 he watched the flj'ing pair, and the perfumes, the lights, the 
 whole bright scene, seemed to him full of weariness and depres- 
 sion. His heart was sore with pain as he stood, talking to a 
 pretty chestnut-haired girl — a new debutante — who was telling 
 him how much she liked the convent-school from which she had 
 just returned. "I have to thank Miss Madeleine for having 
 been sent there," she was saying. " Mamma said she could not 
 ask any thing better than the school that had formed Jier. Some 
 of the sisters reminded me of her — they have such sweet, gentle 
 manners. And they all remember her so well ! I must go to see 
 her and deliver all the messages with which they charged me." 
 
 " She will be very glad to see you," said Basil, looking at 
 Madeleine with a glance of pride in his honest eyes. He could 
 not help wondering, as she moved here and there, playing her 
 part of deputy -hostess with the manner of which his companion 
 spoke, what she thought of Lacy's conduct. If it cost her a 
 pang, the fair, brave face kept its own secret. It may seem 
 
350 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 strange, perhaps, to those who are accustomed to think onlj of 
 tliemselves, but Madeleine was at that moment wondering how 
 Basil bore Helen Champion's reckless flirtation. 
 
 After a while he left the room, and then she made her way 
 through the crowd and followed him, touching his arm with her 
 fan when she found him at the open hall-door. He started when 
 he turned and saw her standing bj his side in her gauzy dress 
 of white and silver. 
 
 " What are you doing here ? " he said. " Don't you know 
 you are too lightly clad for this draught? I came for a little 
 fresh air." 
 
 " And I to speak to you," said she. " Do you know where 
 Rosahnd is ? Have you seen her lately ? " 
 
 " No, not particularly lately. Why do you ask ? She is en- 
 joying herself, 3'ou may be sure, wherever she is." • 
 
 *' That is very likely," answered Madeleine, a little dryly, 
 " but whether her husband would approve of her mode of enjoy- 
 ment is another question. I saw her enter that alcove behind 
 the conservatory some time ago with Mr. Devereux, and I have 
 not seen either of them since. Please go and find them, and 
 send him to me." 
 
 " You talk as if I was a policeman," said Basil. " But if I 
 can find them, and if either of them is to be sent to you, I think 
 it better be Rosalind. Flirtation before marrias^e was bad 
 enough, but flirtation after — " 
 
 " No," she said, with a quick gesture of dissent, " I don't 
 want to see Rosalind. There is no good in it. I can make no 
 impression on her whatever ; but on Mr. Devereux I think I can. 
 Send him to me. I am going to the library." 
 
"EVIL IS WKOUGHT BY WANT OF THOUGHT." 351 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " EYIL IS WKOUGHT BY WANT OF THOUGHT." 
 
 Basil departed on his errand, and found tlie two culprits 
 v^ here Madeleine had supposed they would be found, in an alcove 
 next the conservatory. It was unquestionably a charming nook 
 for flirtation. Flowing curtains of silk and lace gave partial se- 
 clusion, a large window overlooking the greenhouse opened 
 down to the floor, and a scent of orange-blossoms came in with 
 the cadenced rise and fall of music. Rosalind was a fit goddess 
 for such a scene. No artist could have desired a prettier picture 
 to illustrate a society-idyl than she made leaning back in a lux- 
 urious chair, with her delicate silken draperies sweeping the 
 floor, and a glass of water-ice in her hand. Immediatel}^ in front 
 of her Devereux was sitting — on the low ledge of the open 
 window, with the glossy leaves of an orange-tree, laden with 
 fruit and blossoms, touching the back of his head. He looked 
 lazily amused and content. What man owning his tastes and 
 habits would not have been, with so fair a face before him, and 
 the music of so gay a tongue in his ears ? 
 
 On this pleasant scene Basil broke somewhat like the police- 
 man to whom he had likened himself. In the opening of the 
 curtains his tall figure appeared, and his voice when he spoke 
 was so cold that it sounded unlike itself. 
 
 " I am glad to find you, Rosalind," he said. " Your partner 
 for the next set is looking for you" — this was quite true, he had 
 met that neglected person in crossing the room — " and one or 
 tvro people have asked me where you were." 
 
 " And you have taken the trouble to search for me on their 
 behalf? " asked Rosahnd, arching her brows. " Thank you very 
 much, but I am very comfortable and do not think I shall dance 
 any more just now." 
 
 She evidently did not mean to stir, her face said so as plainly 
 
352 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 as her voice — and Basil tlierefore was forced to fire tiis second 
 shot. 
 
 "You must allow me to take charge of jou, then," he said, 
 " for I have been also commissioned to find Mr. Devereux. — My 
 sister," he added, turning to that gentleman, " asked me to tell 
 you that she wishes to see you. She is in the library." 
 
 Devereux rose at once — rose with an alacrity ^vhich surprised 
 and displeased Rosalind, since nothing piques a woman more 
 than for a man to show that he is willing to leave her society. 
 "In that case," he said, "if Mrs. Champion will excuse me — " 
 
 " Oh, certainly ! " answered Mrs. Champion, retaining self- 
 command enough to smile. " I cannot expect you to disregard 
 such a summons." 
 
 He only answered by a bow, and passed out of the alcove, 
 leaving her in the enviable position of being tete-d-ttte with her 
 own brother. The latter sat down on the vacated window- 
 ledge and looked straight into the lustrous eyes before him. 
 
 " See here, Rosalind," he said, gravel}^, " this will not do ! 
 Coquetry before marriage is no credit to a woman, but after 
 marriage it is a disgrace. If you imagine that Champion will 
 tolerate such conduct, you know him less than you might. 
 Take my advice : stop in time, before you shipwreck your hap- 
 piness and his trust in you." 
 
 " y/hat perfect nonsense ! " cried Rosalind, angrily. " Stop 
 in time indeed ! Wliat is there to stop ? I never heard before 
 that it was coquetry to go into a cool place to eat a water-ice. 
 Oh, how full the world is of prudish, uncharitable people ! I will 
 venture any thing that Madeleine sent you here to say this." 
 
 " She did nothing of the kind," returned her brother, sternly. 
 "What I have said has been altogether unprompted. You may. 
 make what evasions you like, you know that you came here to 
 flirt, or tr}^ to flirt, with Devereux ; but I warn you that if you 
 do not wish to cause such mischief as many a weak, volatile 
 woman has caused before, mischief that an angel could not heal, 
 you had better not play with edged tools. Now I think y t u 
 should go back to the ballroom." 
 
"EVIL IS WROUGHT BY WANT OF THOUGHT," 353 
 
 " There is undoubtedly no inducement to remain here," said 
 Rosalind, rising and shaking out her train. 
 
 In the ballroom she soon met her disconsolate partner, and 
 Basil was released, to find his way to Miss Champion's side. 
 He had danced with her only once — the first quadrille — and he 
 now came to claim the next set, which chanced to be the lancers 
 for which Lacy had expressed a desire. 
 
 " I am sorry, Mr. Severn," said Miss Champion, whose head 
 was by this time completely turned with incense and flattery, 
 "but I am engaged for the lancers." 
 
 '* Engaged ! " repeated Basil. " Certainly you are engaged, 
 to me ! Excuse my persistence, but I asked the dance early in 
 the evening." 
 
 " You did not write your name on my tablets, then," said 
 she, looking annoyed, " and I cannot be expected to carry such 
 things in my memory. Indeed, I make it a rule to give a dance 
 only to the person whose name is down for it." 
 
 " I shall not ask you to break your rule on my account," 
 answered he, a little haughtily. " But may I be permitted to 
 inquire whose name is on your tablets ? " 
 
 She blushed crimson, she could not help it, but her eyes met 
 his defiantly. " ]\Ir. Lacy's," she replied. 
 
 "Are you in earnest?" asked Basil. Such an answer 
 seemed to him almost incredible. " Do you really mean that 3'ou 
 will refuse this dance to nie in order to give it to Lacy, with 
 whom you have already danced oftener than with any one else ? " 
 
 The black eyes flashed. Miss Champion had the temper 
 which usually accompanies orbs of that color. "I mean," re- 
 plied she, emphatically, " that I will dance with whom I please, 
 without submitting to dictation from any one." 
 
 " Pardon me," said Basil, " but if you think that I wished to 
 dictate, you are mistaken : I only wished to understand. ] 
 comprehend now thoroughly, and I have the honor to wish you 
 good-evening." 
 
 He drew back — never had she seen him look so nearly hand- 
 some, or so absolutely haughty — bowed, and turned away. At 
 
354 • A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 that moment he was almost a free man. The beauty which had 
 enthralled him seemed to vanish, and the dwarfed, misshapen 
 soul looked at him out of those " midnio-ht eves " which Lacv 
 
 CD %f •/ 
 
 had rhymed. "It is over ! " he said to himself. " If I go back 
 to her ao-ain, it must be because she sends for me, and that is 
 not likely." 
 
 While this little scene was in progress, Devereux made his 
 way to the library, where Basil had told him that he would find 
 Madeleine. He smiled a little as be did so, smiled at himself 
 for the pleasure he felt in being so summoned, and at the curi- 
 ous sense of detected guilt which accompanied him. "How 
 can I make her understand that it was not my fault ! " he 
 thought. 
 
 By what he felt to be a fortunate chance, he found her alone. 
 All the straggling couples who at intervals during the evening 
 had wandered into the library for flirtation or cards, were hap- 
 pily returned to the ballroom, and she was sitting by the fire — 
 rather in the shade, yet with enough light falling over her to 
 show that she looked pale and weary. 
 
 He advanced and stood before her, gazing down into the 
 eyes which were uplifted to him with a very reproachful expres- 
 sion. " You sent for me ? " he said. 
 
 "Yes, I sent for you," she answered. "You will forgive 
 the liberty, will you not ? There seemed no other w^ay of end- 
 ing what should never have been begun. And yet this after- 
 noon you told me to trust you ! " 
 
 " I tell you so again," he answered, smiling at her tone. 
 " Why will you not believe that there is nothing which could 
 tempt me to deserve your distrust ? " 
 
 " That is easily said, and no doubt you mean it, but, though 
 you may not intend harm, you may make harm. Do you under- 
 stand the distinction ? " 
 
 " Perfectly, but I must say once more that j^ou misjudge me. 
 To make harm, one must be either weak or badly-intentioned, 
 I do not think that I am either." 
 
 " I do not believe that you are badly-intentioned," said she, 
 
"EVIL IS WROUGHT BY WANT OF THOUGHT." 355 
 
 looking at him steadily, " but I am not sure about the other. I 
 am inclined to think that you are weak — in a certain way, that is." 
 
 " Thank you for the qualification," said he, flushing a little 
 — for who likes to be called weak ? — yet still smiling at the can- 
 dor and simplicity of her m.anner. 
 
 " I mean," she went on, " that you have probably alwaj^s 
 been accustomed to doing that which was most pleasant — and it 
 never occurs to you to resist an agreeable temptation." 
 
 "In other words, you think me a hopeless epicurean." 
 
 " Not exactly : I only think that you regard your owm amuse- 
 ment as of more importance than any probable consequences." 
 
 " You could not believe any thing much worse of me," said 
 he. Then he drew a chair in front of her and sat down. 
 " Come, let us reason about it. I do not think I have a great 
 deal of vanity, but I cannot submit to such shameful injustice. 
 May I speak to you frankly ? — may I tell you exactly how it 
 chanced that I was found by your brother in such a suspicious 
 position ? " 
 
 "Yes," she answered, "you may- speak as frankly as you 
 like." 
 
 " Then I am compelled to say that it was by Mrs. Cham- 
 pion's own request that we went into that alcove to take a 
 water-ice. I feared at the time that you might think I had 
 forgotten your warning of the afternoon, but what could I do ? " 
 
 She fixed on him the grave, gentle, brown eyes, which he 
 knew so well, and propounded this leading question, " Were 
 you not willing to go ? " 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. " Willing— yes. Anxious — no. 
 Mrs. Champion is a very beautiful woman, but (apart from her 
 beaut}') she is not a woman whom I admire or like. I hope you 
 will pardon this candor — I am constrained to it in self-defense." 
 
 " Yet," said Madeleine, with a flash of sudden indignation, 
 "you have flirted with her in the past, and are ready to flirt 
 with her in the future ! " 
 
 " Again permit me to say — no. I have flirted in the past, 
 perhaps — though never to the degree of which you once accused 
 
356 .A QUESTION OF HONOR 
 
 me — but with regard to the future, I know whereof I speak 
 when I say that nothing could induce me to do the same thing 
 again. I suspect more than I care to tell you of the part which 
 Mrs. Champion plaj^ed, or desired to play, while she was yet 
 Miss Rosalind Severn." 
 
 Madeleine knew w^hat he meant, but her lips were sealed. 
 How was it possible for her to deny that Rosalind had indeed 
 played a most unworthy part ? After a short pause, he went 
 on, ^Yith. a tone of subdued eagerness in his voice : 
 
 " I wish most earnestly that you would trust me ! I wish 
 you would believe that not only is my honor bound in a manner 
 which would of itself make me abstain from such idle folly — folly 
 often ending, as I am well aware, in grievous harm — but you 
 have more influence over me than you know. I could not vol- 
 untarily do any thing to lower myself in your esteem, or which 
 would cause you pain and uneasiness." 
 
 *' You are very good to think of me," said Madeleine, sur- 
 prised and touched. She looked at him with something of grati 
 tude in her kind, sweet glance. It did not occur to her for a 
 moment to suspect that he might be paying merely an empty 
 compliment. There was no suggestion of flirtation in the eyes 
 meeting her owm, and the sincerity of the last w^ords was almost 
 passionate. 
 
 " Think of you ! " he repeated. " How can I help — " Then 
 he stopped short. There was another pause. Across the hall, 
 the swell of music came borne, together with the tread of dan 
 cing feet. How many of the tragedies of life occur in just such 
 scenes ! This was not a tragedy, but at that moment a truth 
 which he had suspected, but not before known, came and stared 
 Devereux in the face. It was a revelation, and not a pleasant 
 one. Boys and girls like to play at love, to nurse sentiment and 
 encourage fancy, but men and women who have been scorched 
 by the fires of passion, and to whom experience has taught the 
 almost overwhelming might of this tyrant of human nature, 
 shrink away from that which brings little pleasure to recompense 
 much suffering. 
 
"E7IL IS WROUGHT BY WANT OF THOUGHT.' 357 
 
 "But you should not think of me," said Madeleine, after a 
 moment. " I mean that I am of small imjDortance in jour life. 
 You should do right for the sake of right. You should think of 
 jour own honor and of Marj's trust." 
 
 " I do think of these things," he answered, iu a low tone. 
 Was he not, indeed, thinking of them at that moment? 
 
 " Then it seems to me," Madeleine went on, with the bravery 
 which sometimes made her saj and do things that no one else 
 could have attempted, " that if I were a man, I should scorn to 
 lead a woman into foil v. The best of chivalrj is not only that 
 which defends the weak from others, but from themselves. A 
 gentleman should be a knight, and we know to what they pledged 
 themselves." 
 
 He looked up — the soft, brown eves were shining like stars 
 out of her fair, pale face. Gentle thoughts, noble impulses — are 
 thej not flowers of the soul ? And sometimes we see and feel 
 their beautj, which is greater bj far than anj beautj of flesh 
 and blood. 
 
 It has been said that under all his laissez-faire indifference, 
 Devereux veiled a nature originallj prone to impulses. One of 
 these impulses carried him awaj on its tide now. He took Made- 
 leine's hand and kissed it. " If I am ever a knio-ht " he said, 
 " vou will be mj inspiration." 
 
 The tone was more significant than the words, and made his 
 listener draw back with a dignity all her own. " You have for- 
 gotten the motto of the knights," she said. " It was ' God and 
 Our Ladj.' The best of them had no mortal for an inspiration. 
 If jou cannot aim so high, at least remember that, speaking for 
 this world, a gentleman"'s best inspiration is his honor." 
 
 " Surelj JOU do not think that I am likelj to forget it ? " he 
 said, with a pained look on his face. 
 
 "No," she answered, kindly. " I am sure you never will : I 
 am sure you will remember — all that you ought. I only feared 
 you might be thoughtless. That was all." 
 
 "You must not think better of me than I deserve," he said, 
 
 after a moment's silence. " I have no fixed ideas or principles 
 
 1(3 
 
358 , A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 of any kind — one feels no need of them, you know, in such a life 
 as I have lived. There is only one thing about which I have 
 ever troubled m^'self, and that is — my honor. I could not readi- 
 ly support the idea that in any way I had forfeited that." 
 
 '^ JSToblesse oblige/" said Madeleine, smiling. "Whoever 
 feels that, is not likely to go very far wrong." 
 
 He looked at her, but did not answer immediately. There 
 was a subtile sense of sympathy and comprehension between 
 them which he felt to be very pleasant. He said to himself, " If 
 only it could last ! " — but who does not know that the happy 
 liours of life end quickly, while the sad ones are leaden-footed ? 
 
 This hour ended while the reflection was in his mind. Mrs. 
 Ingram's j)earl-gray moire and uncheerful face suddenly appeared 
 at the door. " Oh — j^ou are here, Miss Madeleine ! " she said. 
 "I thought perhaps it was Mar3% Do you know where she 
 is?" 
 
 " I have not seen her for some time," answered Madeleine. 
 " Is she not in the drawing-room ? " 
 
 " Not anywhere at all," answered Mrs. Ingram in a porten- 
 tous tone. "I will send up-stairs and see if she is there. I'm 
 afraid something may be the matter. She hasn't looked well 
 this hour or two past." 
 
 " I will go and see if she is up-stairs," said Madeleine, rising 
 quickly. 
 
 She passed out of the room, crossed the hall, and sped up- 
 stairs — vaguely uneasy, though she knew that Mrs. Ingram be- 
 longed to a class characterized by Jessie as "croakers." 
 
 Miss Carlisle's chamber-door was closed. Madeleine knocked, 
 but no answer came. She turned the handle, but the door re- 
 sisted her efforts. Plainly it was locked. 
 
 Her surprise and alarm were great, as she stood for a mo- 
 ment motionless. No one but Mary could possibly have lockp'"" 
 the door, and wh}^ did not Mary give some sign of being within ? 
 She knocked again, and called her name, but there was no reply. 
 Again, and yet again, with the same result. Then, full of con- 
 sternation, yet resolved to make no scene, she turned and 
 
"EVIL IS WROUGHT BY WAXT OF THOUGHT." 359 
 
 ran down-stairs. After all, slie thought, Marj^ might not be 
 within — she would go and look for her. 
 
 At the foot of the staircase she found Devereux — evidently 
 waiting for her. Thoroughly as she commanded herself, he 
 knew in an instant from her face that all was not well. " What 
 is the matter ? " he asked, quickly. " Is Mary ill ? " 
 
 " I have not found her," Madeleine answered. '^ She is not 
 in her room — at least the door is locked, and although I knocked 
 several times there was no reply. She must be down-stairs some- 
 where. Go and look through the drawing-rooms and conserva- 
 tory, while I go to the dining-room aiid see if Jessie knows any 
 thino: about her. It is foolish to be alarmed, but Mrs. Ino-ram is 
 such a prophet of evil that she startles one." 
 
 He required no second bidding, but entered the drawing- 
 rooms at once, while Madeleine, on her part, went to the dining- 
 room, where the beautiful though much-demolished supper-table 
 stood. She found Jessie in a tempest of indignant sorrow over 
 a fruit-stand of Bohemian glass, which had just been broken. 
 To her careful soul the accident was a terrible one, but she 
 forgot it altogether when she heard Madeleine's question : 
 Did she know where Mary was ? — and why was her door 
 locked ? 
 
 " Is her door locked ? " Jessie asked, in immediate trej^ida- 
 tion. " She's up there — that I know. I saw her cross the hall 
 and go up-stairs some little time ago. I noticed it, because she 
 was all by herself, and I thought that was queer ; but I was too 
 busy to go and see about her. I wish now I had ! It would 
 have been better to have had every piece of glass in the house 
 broken, than to have let Miss Mary want for any thing." 
 
 " I don't know that she has wanted for any thing," said 
 Madeleine. " Why should she ? Her bell has plainly not been 
 touched, for yoiider is Stella ; but j^ou had better come up with 
 me, Jessie." 
 
 " Of course I'm coming," said Jessie, leaving the Bohemian 
 ware and cut-glass to its fate. 
 
 In the hall they met Devereux. He shook his head. " She 
 
360 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 is not to be found anywhere here," he said. " She must be up- 
 stahs." 
 
 " We are going to see," answered Madeleine. 
 
 " I will come, too," he said. 
 
 No one demurred, and he accompanied them to the upper 
 story. Mary's door was still locked, and no word came from 
 within. Jessie waited a moment to ascertain this fact, after 
 which she said, " I'm going through my room, Miss Madeleine. 
 It's not likely she has locked that door." 
 
 " Oh, how stupid of me ! " cried Madeleine. " I forgot your 
 room altogether. Certainly we can go that waj"." 
 
 Leaving Devereux where he was, she followed Jessie down 
 a side corridor to the head of the private staircase. Here was 
 the room of the latter — assigned to her in order that she might 
 be near her young mistress. She led the way through to a 
 door which opened into Miss Carlisle's dressing-room. It was 
 unlocked, as also the door between the dressing-room and 
 chamber. 
 
 Entering the last, Madeleine found her fears realized. In 
 the deep arm-chair near the toilet-table, where she had sat a 
 few hours before for her hair to be arranged, Mary was sitting 
 now — or, rather, lying — in a dead faint. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " WHEN THE lAMP IS SHATTERED." 
 
 It was not long after this before the house — lately blazing 
 with light, and echoing with mirth and music — was silent and 
 empty, save for its usual inmates, together with the doctor and 
 Devereux. Fortunately, the former had been among the guests, 
 and when he was summoned in haste to Mary's chamber, the 
 rumor spread — all in an instant, as it were — no man being able 
 to tell where it originated — that she was dead. The German 
 
"WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTERED." 361 
 
 broke up in dismay, people flocked up stairs by scores, but no 
 one was allowed to enter the room of the young mistress of tbe 
 house. Jessie met them in the hall, told them that she had 
 merely fainted — probably from fatigue — and sent them down 
 again. After this followed demands for cloaks and carriages. 
 In less than an hour the last equipage had rolled away. 
 
 Basil remained to the last, saw the musicians depart, and the 
 lights all out. Then he sent for Madeleine, and asked if there 
 was any thing he could do, and, finding that there was nothing, 
 took his departure for a few hours' sleep, promising to be back 
 early in the morning. 
 
 " Don't hasten back under the impression that you can do 
 any thing," said Madeleine. " I see that it will be the old story. 
 Mary has recovered from her swoon, but she is suffering with 
 dreadful paroxysms of heart-disease." 
 
 It was the old story. Terrible suffering came on as soon 
 as Miss Carlisle recovered from unconsciousness — indeed, she 
 opened her eyes with a great gasp of agony. Neither the doc- 
 tor, nor Jessie, nor yet Madeleine, was surprised. They had 
 expected much such a finale. Yet it was a strange ending 
 — this vigil by a bed of pain — to the night which had begun so 
 differently for them. Among these watchers, it may be remarked 
 that Mrs. Ingram was distinguished by her absence. She retired 
 to her couch, while Devereux solaced his anxieties by a cigar, 
 as he sat alone in the library and watched the lightning in the 
 east, which showed the coming of the winter dawn. The morn- 
 ing star rose radiantly — rose with a splendor which fascinated 
 even his indifferent eyes — the glory of sunrise filled the whole 
 eastern horizon, and finally the sun himself appeared, and sent 
 his red lances over the earth. 
 
 Then the gazer by the library-window rose also — somewhat 
 listlessly — and, opening the sash, walked out into the sharp, 
 frosty air. The morning was like a flawless crj^stal in its clear- 
 ness and brightness. It revived him more than any thing else 
 possibly could have done. The lassitude of watching passed 
 away ; his spirits regained their elasticity. " A walk will help 
 
3G2 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 me," he said. " I shall go into Stansbury, change my dress, and 
 be back before any one here is aware that it is daj-." 
 
 An hour later he had not yet returned, when Madeleine 
 stood in the library with the doctor, and listened w^ith a white 
 face while he told her that Mary's illness w^as fatal. " I do not 
 say that she will die at once," he added ; " she may linger for 
 days, and even weeks, but there is no hope of recovery. The 
 organic disease has greatly increased since I examined her heart 
 the last time. I have feared during the last few hours that she 
 would die in every paroxysm. If you wish to satisfy yourself 
 by calling in another physician — " 
 
 " Do as 3^ou think best," said Madeleine. She spoke like 
 one stunned : she could scarcely understand : she could not at 
 all realize. " Mary has all confidence in your skill," she said, 
 "and so have I, but O doctor" — she held out her hands with 
 a gesture so imploring that it was almost passionate — " do you 
 mean that there is 7io hope ? " 
 
 The doctor took the hands and wrung them hard. His own 
 eyes were moist, for he had known Mary from her infancy. 
 " God knows," he said, " that I would willingly believe other- 
 wise, and still more willingly keep the truth from you, if there 
 was any good in doing so — but there is none. A terrible ordeal 
 is before j'ou, and you are not like other women. To know the 
 worst is not, with vou, to shrink from it." 
 
 " You don't know — you don't know ! " said Madeleine, broken- 
 ly. " I have never been tried like this before. I have never had 
 to stand by and see one whom I loved — O doctor ! is it true ? 
 Do you mean that Mary will die f " 
 
 Her lips faltered over the last word. She broke down, and, 
 with a great sob of tearless grief, sank on the sofa and turned her 
 face away from the light. 
 
 " Poor child ! " said the doctor. Then he walked away — 
 walked to the window through which Devereux had passed out. 
 It did not seem strange to him that this burden should fall on 
 Madeleine, for he recognized, like every one else, that she was 
 made to bear burdens, but he wondered a little where was the 
 
"WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTERED." 363 
 
 man to whom Mary was engaged, and how he would bear the 
 blow which threatened to WTest from him all that he had schemed 
 to win. It will be perceived from this that Dr. Arthur shared 
 the opinion of the rest of Stansburj with regard to Devereux's 
 interested motives. 
 
 Only a minute or two passed in silence while he stood with 
 his hands in his pockets and his brow slightly corrugated, con- 
 sidering these things. Then Madeleine rose and came to his side 
 — the early sunlight falling over her face and showing the great 
 chano-e that even a few hours had wrouo:ht in it. She touched 
 his arm, and, when he turned, lifted her eyes — ringed already by 
 dark circles — with the mute look of suffering in their depths, 
 which is never to be mistaken and difficult to be forgotten. 
 
 ^' If it is true," she said, " if there is no hope, Mary must 
 know." 
 
 " Must know ! " repeated Dr. Arthur, taken greatly by sur- 
 prise. " Good Heavens, Miss Severn ! you surely don't consider 
 what you are saying ? I did not expect such a proposal. From 
 a medical point of view nothing is worse, nothing is more ill- 
 judged, or more certain to work ill-results than to let a patient 
 suspect her danger." 
 
 " From a medical point of view, perhaps people have not souls 
 to be saved," said Madeleine, quietly, " but from a Christian 
 point of view they have. Besides, I am bound by a promise to 
 Mary. Long ago she begged me to be with her when — when 
 the end came, and not to let her die in ignorance." 
 
 Dr. Arthur shrugged his shoulders. Like many of his pro- 
 fession, he thought it great folly of peoj^le to want to know 
 when they were going to die. It agitated their minds, dis- 
 turbed the effect of the medicines, made unpleasant scenes, and al- 
 together was not nearly so convenient as when they were content 
 to pass quietly away, in that ignorance which the medical mind 
 esteems desirable, to wake — like many others, he never troubled 
 himself to consider where. In fact, if he had been closely interro- 
 gated, some of his patients might have been shocked to find that he 
 did not think them exceedingly likely to wake anywhere at alL 
 
364 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 "You must do as you like, of course," he said, a little stifllj^, 
 •' but I warn you that the consequences may be very serious." 
 
 " Whatever they are, slie must know the truth," said Made- 
 leine in a tone which, together with the firmness of her lips and 
 the steady light in her eyes, showed that no warning would alter 
 her resolution. 
 
 The doctor reflected for a minute. Then he said reluctantly : 
 " Perhaps in the case of one who possesses such a property as 
 hers, it might be well to give her an opportunity to put her af- 
 fairs in order. But do not be precipitate. So far as I can judge, 
 there is no danger of immediate death. I will bring Dr. Thorn- 
 ton this morning, and we will make a thorough examination of 
 the heart. If you will allow me to suggest, would it not be well 
 also to consult Mr. Devereux?" 
 
 " I had forgotten all about him," said Madeleine. She looked 
 round as if she expected to find him near. " He ought to be 
 here," she said. " He told me he would stay." 
 
 " Probably he has gone up-stairs to sleep," said the doctor. 
 
 Madeleine rang the bell, and when Albert appeared, inquired 
 if Mr. Devereux was in the house. Albert was unable to say, 
 but he went at once in search of him, returning speedily with 
 the intelligence that he was not to be found. After a few more 
 words, the doctor took his departure — Mary being then quite 
 under the influence of an anodyne — promising to return in an 
 hour or two with Dr. Thornton. 
 
 Left alone in this manner with her burden of grief and re- 
 sponsibility, Madeleine paced the floor for a few minutes, scarce- 
 ly knowing what she did. Then the impulse which in pain or 
 trouble always carries one of her faith to the sanctuary, came 
 over her, and leaving the room, she went up-stairs to a small 
 oratory next Mary's chamber. Her convent education had made 
 her a Catholic, and Mary had willingly followed whither she led. 
 Here they had often knelt together, and here now Madeleine 
 sank on the ^9r^e--D/e^^ placed before the altar, and poured out 
 her soul in sobbing prayer, while from the crucifix, that " throne 
 of love," the thorn-crowned head bent tenderly toward her. 
 
"WHEX THE LAMP IS SHATTERED." 365 
 
 "When she rose from her knees, a consciousness of calmness 
 and strength had come to her — that strength which often up- 
 holds, almost miraculously, through such scenes as those which 
 lay before her. She left the oratory and entered Mary's room, 
 where she found her still sleeping, with Jessie watching by her 
 side. Wondering then if Devereux had come, she went down- 
 stairs again, and met him entering the hall. 
 
 He came forward eagerly and took her hand, which felt cold 
 in his own. " You look wretchedly," he said, forgetting polite- 
 ness in truth. " What a night you have passed, and I could do 
 nothing to help you ! How is Mary ?" 
 
 " She is better — that is, she is quiet," answered Madeleine, 
 too much preoccupied to notice that thought of her went before 
 thought of Mary in his mind. " But she is very ill. Come in 
 here, I must speak to you." 
 
 She led the way to the library, where during her absence the 
 housemaid had been at work, and every thing was now in order, 
 a bright fire burning, the sunlight lying on the carpet, the whole 
 aspect of the room cheerful and pleasant. " Have you been to 
 breakfast ? " Madeleine said, turning to her companion. " I had 
 a cup of coffee with the doctor some time ago. If you would 
 like any thing — " 
 
 "I breakfasted in Stansbury," he said. "Do not trouble 
 yourself about that. Tell me what is the matter. Is Mary dan- 
 gerously ill ? " 
 
 She looked at him with eyes full of tenderness and pain, 
 shining through unshed tears. " How can I teU you ? " she 
 said. " And yet I must ! She is not only dangerously, but also 
 hopelessly ill." 
 
 He started and gazed at her with paling face and incredu- 
 lous eyes. For a moment his heart seemed to stand still. The 
 shock was overwhelming. He had anticipated nothing like this, 
 and he could say nothing more than, " My God ! and I have been 
 thinking so lightly of her illness ! " 
 
 " You did not see her," said Madeleine. " Her suffering has 
 been terrible, and the doctor feared (so he told me afterward) 
 
3G6 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 that she would die m one of the paroxysms. Now she is quiet, 
 and he says that she may live for days, or even weeks, or — she 
 may die to-morrow." 
 
 Her voice fell over the last words, and silence followed them. 
 Devereux sat like one struck dumb ; in the tumult of emotion 
 which took possession of him, he could neither tell what feeling 
 was uppermost, nor give expression to any. It was Madeleine 
 who spoke again after a minute. 
 
 " I fear I have been too abrupt," she said, " Forgive me. I 
 would have prepared you if I had known how to do so. But I 
 have always felt that I would rathep know the worst at once, 
 and I judged you by myself." 
 
 " You were altogether right," he said, a little hoarsely. 
 " Only I — I cannot realize it. Last night she was so well — " 
 
 '' Only well in appearance," said Madeleine, as he paused. 
 " The doctor says that the organic disease of her heart has 
 greatly increased since he examined it last. He will bring Dr. 
 Thornton with him when he comes back in an hour or two, but 
 there is no hope. He says we must understand that." 
 
 "Does she know?" he asked, speaking with that effort 
 which always shows when a man feels deeply. 
 
 " Not yet," Madeleine answered, " but I see you think as I 
 do, that she must know. There is no time for delay — an hour 
 may end all. We have no right to keep her in ignorance. Will 
 you tell her ? — It is your right." 
 
 He shrank back. " Great Heaven — no ! " he said. " I ! 
 "^^Tiat fitness have I for such a duty ? " 
 
 " I think such news — which, after all, ought not to be very 
 terrible news to one who believes, loves, and hopes — comes best 
 from the lips which are dearest to us," she answered, simjDly. 
 " You have that much fitness, if no more. But if you do not 
 feel able to do it, I will." 
 
 " You shame my cowardice," he said, " but it is best so. 
 You are fit for such a task — I am not." 
 
 She shook her head, and some of the tears, with which her 
 eyes were brimming, fell. " I have no fitness at all," she said, 
 
"WHEX TUE LAMP IS SHATTERED." 3G7 
 
 *' except tliat God gives it to me to do, and therefore He may 
 teach me how to do it. Now, I will go to her. You must stay , 
 here. She may ask for j'ou when she wakes." 
 
 Mary did ask for him when she woke. As Madeleine bent 
 over her, she whispered faintly, " ^Yhere is Arnold ? " — so she 
 had of late begun to call him. 
 
 " He is down-stairs," Madeleine answered. " Do you wish to 
 see him ? He has been waiting for you to send for him." 
 
 " Presently — not now," Mary answered. She uttered these 
 few words slowly and laboredly, conscious that the least excite- 
 ment would bring on another awful spasm of pain. Several 
 minutes elapsed before she spoke again ; then her lids trem- 
 bled, though they did not unclose, and her slender fingers clasped 
 closer round Madeleine's hand. 
 
 " I am going to die, am I not ? " she said. 
 
 The question was so unexpected and so startling that Made- 
 leine did not know how to answer. It was some time before 
 she could command her voice sufficiently to ask, " Why do you 
 think so ? " 
 
 " Because I have never suffered so much before," said Mary, 
 " and because — of the doctor's voice and yours. Don't be afraid 
 to tell me — I want to know. I have a great deal to do." 
 
 Madeleine sank on her knees, and, kissing the frail hand 
 which she held, burst into tears. " Oh, my dear, my dear," she 
 said, " every thing is as God wills, but we fear — the worst." 
 
 " The worst ! " repeated Mary. She paused for a moment, 
 as if reflectinor, with none of the as^itation which Madeleine 
 dreaded on her face. " You should rather say the best," she 
 added. "Whatever God wills must be best, and then — perhaps 
 I have done my work in the world. When that is the case God 
 calls one, does He not ? Pray for me, dear — but don't be sorry. 
 God knows best." 
 
 It is impossible to give an idea of the sweetness and quiet- 
 ness which filled these w^ords — sweetness distilled, as it were, 
 from self-conquest, quietness without an effort. Faith had al- 
 ways seemed a very simple thing to this blind girl. She had 
 
3G8 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 the trust of a child, and even in this supreme hour when the 
 • necessity came to her of leaving life, and wealth, and love be- 
 hind, she was able to say like a child, " God knows best." To 
 Madeleine such an act of resignation was not so easy. She 
 had uttered it, but who has not learned that, even while the soul 
 bows in obedience, the heart cries out passionately against 
 the pain of some parting that seems to rend its very fibres 
 apart ? 
 
 *' O Mary, my darling, my sister ! " she cried, '• I cannot 
 give 3^ou up ! — I cannot feel that it is best — so gentle, so no- 
 bfe, so loving ! Oh, why should your life be cut short ? " 
 
 " Who can tell ? " said Mary, softly. " Only God— but He 
 knows. Think, dear ! I have not done much harm in my life, and 
 T have tried to do what good I could. Is it likelj^, then, that 
 our blessed Lord — so merciful and kind — will deal hardly with 
 me ? Where we love, we trust ; and I love him. Don't grieve, 
 then ! It is hard to leave j^ou — oh, very hard ! — but I shall also 
 leave care and responsibility, and pain. I shall be safe from sin, 
 and I shall see." 
 
 She opened her eyes at the last word, as if sight had already 
 come to them. Then she took up a crucifix which lay beside 
 her and gently kissed it, whispering a few words of praj^er. 
 That calm which often comes at death to the great in faith and 
 the pure of heart, seemed breathed over her like a benediction. 
 And what could Madeleine say ? What can any of us say when 
 God calls, and, like soldiers, those whom we love must rise up 
 and obey ? 
 
 Not long after this the two doctors came. They examined 
 the patient with great attention, then held a consultation of 
 some length, and finally gave their formal decision that Mary 
 Carlisle's life could now only be counted by days — perhaps only 
 by hours. 
 
 Hearing this — for she insisted upon hearing it — Mary asked 
 for Devereux. He went to her at once, and Madeleine left 
 them together. 
 
 An hour, two hours, three hours elapsed, before the door of 
 
THE LAST OF EARTH. 3G9 
 
 the sick girl's clianiber opened again. Meanwhile, Stansbury 
 rano- with the news which Dr. Arthur had taken there, and all 
 who had any claim of blood or friendship authorizing them to 
 do so, came to the Lodge. Madeleine was not able to see these 
 solicitous friends, but Mrs. Severn had accompanied Basil when 
 he returned, and the duty fell on her, shice Mrs. Ingram proved 
 as thoroughly useless in this as in every other emergency. 
 
 So the day wore on — dropping its minutes and hours into 
 eternity — and when at length Devereux left Miss Carlisle's 
 room, he came to Madeleine, looking pale and grief-stricken, 
 but composed. 
 
 " Mary wishes," he said, " to see a lawyer and a priest." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE LAST OF EAETH. 
 
 Whex it was known in Stansbury that James Champion had 
 been summoned to the Lodge, a thrill went through every one 
 to whom the intelligence was communicated. Men looked at 
 each other and said, " She means to make her will." This 
 suggestion once uttered — authorized, indeed, by that summons 
 of a law^yer — it is needless to detail the endless field of conjec- 
 ture which it opened. Speculation was rife ; to whom would 
 the property go ? People in general inclined to the opinion 
 that she would leave it to Devereux — perhaps even that, follow- 
 ing romantic precedent, she might marry him on her death-bed ; 
 while others espoused the cause of her relations, and a few sug- 
 gested that " the Severns might come in for a share." Those 
 who knew the value of this rich inheritance, shook their heads 
 to think that it should all hang on a girl's dying caprice. 
 
 This girl, meanwhile, saw her lawyer, as she had seen her 
 lover, alone, and gave him her instructions with great clearness 
 and calmness. That these instructions surprised him exceed- 
 
J 70 A QUESTION OF UONOR. 
 
 iiigly, no one could liave looked at Lis face and doubted. Re- 
 membering that lie was a friend as well as a lawyer, he ventured 
 to utter a remonstrance, but Mary stopped him — gently, but with 
 decision. 
 
 " It is a matter which rests Avith me alone," she said. " I am 
 sure you mean well, and I thank you for this, as for all other kind- 
 ness ; but T cannot accept any advice. My resolution is taken. 
 Make the will as I have told you, and let me sign it. Then I 
 shall be satisfied. Remember, I trust to vour honor that it shall 
 be exactly as I have said, and with no legal flaw — for it must rest 
 betwen us two. Give me your hand, and promise me that you 
 will tell no one — not even your wife — what it is, until I am dead." 
 
 He gave her his hand, and promised in a voice that faltered 
 over the words. Even James Champion had a tender place in 
 his heart for Mary Carhsle. " God grant that you may live to 
 put the instrument in the fire," he said, " and enjoy your wealth 
 for many years ! " 
 
 She shook her head, smiling faintly. " That will not be," she 
 answered. " Now do not lose any time. Remember that my 
 hours are numbered." 
 
 He went immediately to draw up the will, and it was then 
 that Mary's sufl^ering returned — sufiering too terrible to dwell 
 upon. It was not until the next day that a short period of re- 
 lief came to her. The will had already been signed — in the 
 intervals of her agony she had insisted upon doing that — and 
 witnessed. Now she called for Jessie, and begged every one 
 else — even Madeleine and Devereux — to go away. " It is the 
 last of my private interviews," she said, " except, indeed, the 
 most private of all, when Father Vaughn comes." 
 
 When Jessie came — poor, faithful Jessie, who felt that it would 
 be easy to die instead of the child of her love ! — Mary bade her 
 close the door, and bring writing-materials to the side of the bed. 
 Then she said, in a voice that had grown fainter, " You must 
 promise me that you will write exactly what I dictate, and that 
 nothing shall induce you to tell to any one what I have written, 
 so long as you live." 
 
THE LAST OF EARTH 371 
 
 " I'll promise you a thousand times if you like," said Jessie, 
 *'but, O Miss Mary, it's strange you should begin, after all these 
 years, to think it's needful for me to promise to do whatever you 
 say ; and as for telling — not tortures could drag out of me any 
 thing you wanted me to keep." 
 
 " I know you are true as steel," said Mary, tenderly, " but 
 still, my mind will be easier if you promise. Come here — kneel 
 down by me, and tell me you will remember that I trust you in 
 this, as I could trust no one else on earth ; that I, who am blind, 
 thank God for the gift of a friend so faithful that not only have 
 I relied on her during all my life, but I call on her for the last 
 earthly semce which any one can render me, now I am dying. 
 Tell me that you will remember this, dear Jessie, and then prom- 
 ise never to repeat what I shall dictate to you." 
 
 " I promise — O my dearie, my dearie, don't you Jcnoic that I 
 promise, as God hears me, to do every thing you saj-, and keep 
 any thing you trust me with, to my dying day!" cried Jessie, 
 breaking into passionate sobs. " I knelt down by your mother 
 just this way and I promised her to be true to you, and never 
 leave you, and haven't I kept that ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Mary, " in letter and in spirit you have kept your 
 promise as few people ever do. My dear Jessie ! You will 
 grieve for me, and miss me longer, perhaps, than any one else. 
 I wish I could say something to comfort you, but I can only say 
 this — I love you, and God knows best. Remember these two 
 things, and serve God as well as you have served me. I do not 
 think that even He could ask much more." 
 
 She paused — evidently exhausted. Her strength was small, 
 and her respiration difficult. For the space of two or three min- 
 utes no sound broke the stillness of the room, save Jessie's sobs 
 — deep and convulsive almost as a man's. Fearing that her grief 
 might agitate Mary, she was striving hard to repress it, and when 
 at last she succeeded in a measure, the sick girl spoke. 
 
 " There is no time to lose. You must write what I want at 
 once. Are you sure the doors are closed and no one can hear ? 
 Then get your paper ready, and begin." 
 
372 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 A little more of suffering for one, of watching and grief for 
 man}', and tlie end came. It was on Friday — that day forever 
 sacred to tlie Christian heart. Mary's jiaroxysms of pain were 
 terrible till near mid-day. Then they abated somewhat, but this 
 respite was different from any which had gone before. She was 
 sinking visibly — that change, unlike any which mortality knows, 
 was plainly stamped on her sharpened face — and those around 
 her scarcely needed for the doctor to say, " She is dying." 
 
 She smiled — a faint, shadowy, unearthly smile — when she 
 heard this. " Djang ! " she whispered, so softlj^ that only Devereux, 
 in whose arms she lay, caught the words. Then she repeated that 
 touching cr}' of the blind man in the Holy Scriptures, " Lord, that 
 I may see ! " After a short pause, she added, " It is strange, and 
 yet not terrible — this dying. Remember that, and don't shrink 
 from thinking of me after I am gone. I should like you to think 
 of me sometimes, and say, * She loved me very much, and even 
 if she had lived, she would have tried to make me happy.' " 
 
 He could scarcely answer her — when he did, he murmured, 
 brokenly : " For God's sake, don't say such things unless you 
 want to stab me to the heart with their recollection ! If you 
 could only live — if God would only let you live — I should try 
 with all my heart and strength to make you happy." 
 
 Even then her exquisite consideration showed. She uttered 
 no further word in which lurked the shadow of reproach. Her 
 fragile fingers pressed his hand as she said, " You have made 
 me happy — don't forget that ! I have been happier since I knew 
 you than ever before in all my life. No such happiness had ever 
 come to me until then, and I thank God for a taste — even for a 
 taste of it. If it was not perfect, what is perfect on earth ? It 
 is only in heaven we can look for that. Ah, pray for me — pray 
 for me, that I may find it there ! " 
 
 She was silent for a moment — lying so still, with her breast 
 scarcely stirring in its difficult respiration, that those around 
 looked at each other w^ith questioning terror in their eyes. Had 
 the end come ? Was she to slip away from them thus, without 
 those consolations which religion brings to the bed of death — 
 
THE LAST OF EARTH. 3;3 
 
 for the priest who had been suinnioned was absent from Stans- 
 bury, and had not yet arrived ? 
 
 But the soul was not yet ready to go forth. Again the pale 
 lips unclosed. She put out her hand, saying, " Is Madeleine 
 here ? " 
 
 " I am here," answered Madeleine, choking back her grief. 
 She took the hand, kissed and softly stroked it. " Is there any 
 thing you wish to say ? — is there any thing I can do ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Marj', faintly. " There is a key hanging 
 round my neck which j'ou must take — after a while. It is the 
 key of my desk, and I give it to you — the desk, I mean. There 
 is a letter in it for you — j'ou only ! " 
 
 "I understand," said Madeleine, "I will find it. Do not 
 think I shall not do all you ask." 
 
 " Will you remember that ? " said Mary. " Will you do all 
 I ask ? If you can promise me — " 
 
 But Madeleine was spared a promise which she had no 
 thought of refusing to make, and the memory of which might 
 have weighed upon her in the time to come. At that moment 
 there was a stir about the door which attracted even Mary's at- 
 tention and made her pause. "Is it Father Vaughn?" she 
 whispered, and Madeleine turned. A delicately-formed, dark- 
 eyed man, wearing the dress of an ecclesiastic, entered the room. 
 In his face was the peculiar mingling of asceticism and sweetness 
 well known to all those who are acquainted with that heroic 
 army called the Catholic priesthood. He came in rapidly, and 
 when he saw that he was not too late, he turned to Madeleine. 
 
 " I was on the mission," he said, " remote from railroads. 
 Your telegram onlj' reached me yesterday. Thank God I am in 
 time ! " 
 
 The scen^ which followed was not one which, on such a page 
 as this, can be described in detail. The children of the Church 
 know that those sacraments which, with inspired wisdom and 
 tenderness, she reserves for the hour of death, to aid the soul as 
 it passes through the Dark Valley, are the most touching and 
 sublime of all her offices. So long as men believe that they have 
 
374: A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 a soul, so long high and low, rich and poor, learned and un- 
 learned, will own the divine majesty of the viaticum which 
 strengthens, of the holj unction which purifies, and feel the beau- 
 ty of those words which for centuries have fallen on the djdng 
 ears of all the faithful. Around the lowliest death-bed on earth 
 they summon such state as no monarch was ever able to command. 
 They bid the standard-bearer, St. Michael, conduct the departing 
 spirit into the holy light, they call upon the noble company of 
 angels to meet it, upon the court of Apostles and the triumphant 
 army of martyrs to receive it, upon the crowd of joyful con- 
 fessors to encompass it, and upon the choir of blessed virgins 
 to go before it. They invoke a happy rest for its portion in the 
 company of the i^atriarchs, and they pray that Jesus Christ may 
 appear with a mild and cheerful countenance to give it a place 
 among those who are in His presence forever. 
 
 The last sacraments had been administered, the litany for a 
 departing soul had been said, and yet the feeble breath still came 
 through Mary's lips. It has been well remarked that this life 
 which is so hard to enter, and so bitter to live, is harder yet to 
 end — but is it possible to forget Who hung for three hours upon 
 the cross ? Mary remembered this, as those around her knew 
 when, as the clock struck three, she murmured, " Father, into 
 thy hands I commend my spirit" — words which fell from the lips 
 of God, and fittest, therefore, for the last act of the dying. 
 
 Then in the midst of that strange hush which falls in the 
 chamber of death, while the rest were holding back their sobs 
 that they might not disturb the soul engaged in that last com- 
 bat which the Church warns her children will be the most terri- 
 ble they have to fight, the clear, solemn tones of the priest's 
 voice rose in that command for which the spirit often seems to 
 wait: 
 
 " Depart, O Christian soul, out of this miserable world, in 
 the name of God the Father Almighty who created thee ; in the 
 name of Jesus Christ, the Son of the living God, who suffered 
 for thee ; in the name of the Holy Ghost, who sanctified thee ; 
 
THE LAST OF EARTH. 375 
 
 in the name of the Angels, Archangels, Thrones, Dominations, 
 Cherubim, and Seraphim ; in the name of the patriarchs and 
 prophets, of the holy Apostles and Evangelists, of the holy mar- 
 tyrs and confessors, of the holy monks and hermits, of the holy 
 virgins, and of all the Saints of God ; let thy place be this day 
 in peace, and thy abode in holy Zion ; through Christ our Lord. 
 
 Before the last words were spoken, Mary's eyes opened with 
 a sudden, bright, seeing look, the lips formed for the last time 
 into a faint sweet smile, and then, with one soft sigh, the spirit 
 passed to God — passed without a struggle, seemingly without a 
 pang, so gently that not even Devereux, on whose arm she lay, 
 knew the truth till the priest began the De Profiuidis for a de- 
 parted soul. 
 
BOOK Y. 
 
 TANGLED THREADS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED INHEEITANCE. 
 
 To those who loved her, and whose lives in a measure re- 
 volved around hers, the w^orld seemed to stand still after Mary 
 Carlisle's death. The Lodge was closed, the mills were silent. 
 When the funeral was over, Mrs. Ingrain betook herself to her 
 friends in Stansbury, while Madeleine and Basil, returning to 
 their own home, looked at each other through tear-filled eyes — 
 sorrowino" as for the most tender of sisters. 
 
 What words are there to express that hlanJoiess which fol- 
 lows in the train of death, that sense of intolerable emptiness 
 that pervades the world froTU w^hich one presence has forever de- 
 parted ? All the familiar threads of life are to be taken up and 
 knit together again, and how have we the heart for this ? Every 
 thing stabs us with a recollection, ever}^ scene is fraught with 
 associations that we never recognized before. If we could onlj 
 remain in the shadow of grief we should be content, we think ; 
 but life's duties claim us, the world goes on and we are borne 
 with it, all the manifold acts of existence lie before us ; ice bare 
 yet to hope and fear, to joy and suffer, to labor and endure, and 
 finally to die, while that grave from which w^e turn, marks the 
 warfare of one soldier ended, the armor laid dow^n, the han Is 
 
AN UNEXPECTED INHERITANCE. 377 
 
 folded, the tired spirit entered — pray God ! — into eternal rest 
 and peace. 
 
 These were the thoughts — or, rather, the sensations, for they 
 did not form themselves into thoughts — that accompanied Made- 
 leine when, on the day following the one which had seen all that 
 was mortal of Mary Carlisle committed in its pale, fair beauty 
 to the earth, she left the house, impelled by a fever of unrest. 
 There are some people who in grief shut themselves up like 
 wounded animals, and shrink, as it were, from the light ; but 
 others yearn for the freedom of the great sky, and the calm face 
 of Nature. Madeleine was one of the last. She bore confine- 
 ment as long as she could — being worn out in physical strength 
 — but at last the restless impulse which bade her go forth could 
 no longer be restrained. She put on her hat, and when Mrs. 
 Severn looked at her solicitously, she said, " I feel prisoned in 
 the house. I must have some fresh air. If Gordon comes while 
 I am gone, tell him I shall be back presently, and ask him to 
 wait for me." 
 
 As she passed out, Lance came and thrust his cold nose into 
 her hand. She understood the mute entreaty. " Yes," she said, 
 "you may come." It was the only society that just then she 
 could have borne. 
 
 They went together through a back gate, across several fields, 
 and finally into the woods which Madeleine had in view. Rail- 
 roads and manufacturing interests, as Mr. Ruskin laments, are 
 great destroyers of the picturesque; yet notwithstanding their 
 presence, there were lovely bits of natural beauty left in the 
 neighborhood of Stansbury. The best of these lay around Made- 
 leine now, but she hardlv observed them. It is not when the 
 heart is aching, the eyes filled with tears, that we are best fitted 
 to appreciate the graceful lines of distant heights or shadowy 
 forests fringing the horizon. 
 
 Coming at last to a hill which she knew well, she climbed to 
 a favorite seat of her own — a rock on the western slope. Here 
 she sat down, with Lance crouched lion-like at her feet, and 
 gazed across all the wide stretch of blue undulating countr}- tc 
 
378 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 where the sun was sinking in one of those ineffably golden skies 
 which mortal minds can only liken to the glory of the heavenly 
 Zion. " O Mary, my dear Mary," she said, clasping her hands, 
 "you can see now ! That radiance yonder is poor and dim com- 
 pared to the beauty which has been shown to you ! Gentle 
 heart, true and tender friend, do you think of this sad earth and 
 those whom you have left ? Ah, if I knew, if I knew ! I won- 
 der did I ever tell you how much I loved you ! I wonder do you 
 know how much I miss you, and shall miss you always till we 
 meet again ! How wrong I am to grieve ! " — her tears were fall- 
 ing thick and fast — " I ought to rejoice for you, and yet I can- 
 not, for, O my dear, my dear, I miss you so ! " 
 
 The sunset faded, arid the purple dusk fell like a soft veil 
 over the landscape, before Madeleine moved. Then rising with 
 a last low sigh, she drew her shawl around her, and bade Lance 
 come. They descended the hill, and passed along a gently-roll- 
 ing valley, through which flowed the stream that helped to turn 
 the great machinery of the Carlisle mills. Here she strolled 
 slowly, careless of the deepening twilight, for not only was Lance 
 by her side — a guard to inspire confidence in the breast of the 
 most timid — but she knew that for her there was no danger of 
 harm or insult. The poor have not so many friends that they 
 can forget those who have been kind to them — and her name 
 and presence were well known wherever sickness and suffering 
 had set their mark. 
 
 Hence she felt no uneasiness when she saw the figure of a 
 man hastening toward her. Indeed, she scarcely observed him 
 further than to think, " One of the mill-hands, probably, going 
 home by a short cut." It was only when the figure drew nearer 
 that she saw that the outlines were not those of a mill-hand, but 
 of a gentleman, and a minute or two later she found herself 
 face to face with Lacy. 
 
 " Gordon ! " she exclaimed, in great surprise. " What are you 
 doing here ? " 
 
 " What should I be doing but coming after you ? " replied 
 Gordon. " And what are you doing — at this hour and alone ? " 
 
AN UNEXPECTED INHEEITAXCE. 379 
 
 " Oh, that is nothing," said she. " I have been to walk, and 
 staid a little later than I intended, watching the sunset — but 
 Lance is with me." 
 
 " It is altogether wrong," said Lacy, taking her hand and 
 drawing it within his arm. " You should not stroll in this man- 
 ner about the woods alone — not even with Lance, though I own 
 he is a formidable-looking protector. You had not been gone 
 ten minutes, Mrs. Severn said, when I came to the house. After 
 waiting for two or three hours, you can imagine that I grew un- 
 easy, so I started in search of you, and was fortunately sent in 
 this direction by two boys whom I met, w^ho reported that they 
 had seen you perched on the side of Crag's Hill." 
 
 " It was very kind of you to come," said Madeleine, clinging 
 to him. Her heart went out toward him as it had not done in 
 many a long day before. She felt that it was good to love and 
 be loved, good to hold this treasure in actual possession un- 
 touched by death's terrible hand. The reaction from much grief 
 — the calm that follows longing — fell over her. She felt glad 
 of his arm, of his touch, of his voice. 
 
 " Kind ! " repeated Lacy. " WTiat do you mean by that ? Is 
 it not my right to take care of you ? Cherie, even in this light 
 I see that you look pale and worn — you are grieving too much ! 
 Think how useless it is ! No grief can bring your friend back, 
 and — and no doubt she is happy." 
 
 " I hope so," said Madeleine. She said no more. The vague 
 generalities and platitudes in which people indulge on this sub- 
 ject oppressed her with their forced unreality, and she felt ner- 
 vously averse to hearing them applied to Mary — Mary who had 
 gone w^ith a child's unwavering faith whither God's voice called. 
 
 " She must have been very much attached to you," said Lacy, 
 after a pause. " When I came to the house this evening, it was 
 with Basil, to tell you some news. Her w411, which was left in 
 Champion's hands, was opened to-day." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Madeleine. She shrank, as who that has 
 loved the dead does not shrink from that which makes death so 
 real ? "Don't tell me about it," she said. " I can't bear it — yet. 
 
380 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 I think there must have been great anxiety to know what was 
 in it." 
 
 " Opening it was a matter of necessitj'-," said Lacy. " Her 
 relations who came to the funeral could not remain longer. It 
 was opened by their desire and in their presence. They were 
 very much astonished when the truth was known, for, Madeleine, 
 she has left all her fortune to yow." 
 
 " Gordon ! " 
 
 This was all Madeleine could say. She turned so white that 
 Lacy involuntarily put his arm around her, the whole landscape 
 seemed to whirl before her eyes. She did not faint, because 
 she was almost physically incapable of such a thing, but a feel- 
 ing of faintness came over her. It could not be true ! Mary could 
 not have been so foolish — so wild ! 
 
 " Sit down for a minute," said Lacy, placing her on a stump. 
 " I am afraid I have been abrupt. I ought to have waited till 
 jou were at home. But my head was so full of the wonderful 
 news that I could not keep it any longer." 
 
 " And is it true ? " asked Madeleine, imploringly. " Is there 
 no mistake ? — O Gordon, there must be some mistake." 
 
 Gordon laughed. Evidently to him Mary's last will and tes- 
 tament appeared altogether good. " There is no room for mis- 
 take where legal documents are concerned," he said. " I was 
 not present, of course, at the reading of the will, but Basil was, 
 and I have heard all about it from him — as well as from half a 
 dozen others. There are one or two minor legacies of no great 
 amount^-that to Jessie Holme is largest — but t/oic are the resid- 
 uary legatee of mills, houses, lands, stocks, in short, every thing." 
 
 " But Mr. Devereux ? " said Madeleine, who was thoroughly 
 bewildered. Lacy shrugged his shoulders. " Devereux's name 
 is not even mentioned. This puzzles people amazingly. Was 
 there any thing like a quarrel between Miss Carlisle and himself 
 at the last ? " 
 
 " Plow can you ask me such a question ! " said Madeleine, 
 and what with amazement, be^vilderment, grief, and indigna- 
 tion, she burst into tears. 
 
AX UNEXPECTED IXHERITAXCE. 381 
 
 It was now Lacy's txirn to be surprised and concerned. He 
 had never known Madeleine so much like " other women " be- 
 fore. Deciding that these tears were half hysterical and half 
 over-wrought weariness, he proposed at once to take her home. 
 "Night is falling," he said. "Basil and Mrs. Severn w411 be 
 uneasy." 
 
 So, through the deejDenjng winter twilight Madeleine went, 
 walkino' as in a dream over the familiar hills and dales. She never 
 forgot the aspect of that evening, which was always afterward 
 connected in her memory with the news that was to work such a 
 revolution in her life. The closing purple dusk, the faint after- 
 glow still lingering in the west, a silver star shining in the east, 
 blue smoke rising column-like from the chimneys of houses out 
 of sight, every detail was stamped like a photograph on her 
 mind. She never saw the j^icture afterward without recalling 
 the chaos of emotions that seemed to possess her that evening. 
 Lacy talked, but she scarcely heeded him, and answered in 
 monosyllables when she answered at all. The whole story 
 seemed to her unreal and impossible. She longed for Basil to 
 tell her what had really occurred and what she must do. 
 
 When she reached home, Basil w^as there, looking pale and 
 grave, but besides there were Rosalind and Champion, and i\Irs. 
 Severn in a tumult of joy. To this circle Lacy introduced her, 
 while Lance, pushing his way in unobserved, sat down gravely 
 and regarded the company. 
 
 The company met the heroine of the hour with a burst of 
 congratulation. Mrs. Severn embraced, Rosalind kissed, Cham- 
 pion shook hands with her. She, on her part, sat down on the 
 first convenient chair and looked at Basil, asking, " Is it true ? " 
 
 " Of course it is true ! " said Rosalind, before he could an- 
 swer. " Didn't James make the will, and know all along liow^ it 
 w^as, and yet he never said one word to me until after it was 
 read to-day ! And now you are a lady of fortune ! — oh, such a 
 fortune, Madeleine ! — and the Severn star has risen at last 
 again ! It does not concern me, you know — at least not very 
 
 much- -but I am so glad I scarcely know what to do." 
 
 IT 
 
382 A QUESTION OF IIONOE. " " 
 
 " You made the will," said Madeleine, looking at Champion 
 and at last beginning to imderstand the situation a little. 
 " How could you — oh, how could 3'ou let Mary be so foolish ! " 
 
 " She was determined on it," he answered. " I tell you 
 frankl}' that I thought it my duty to remonstrate — knowing that 
 she had relations much nearer than yourself, who expected at 
 least a part of the inheritance — but she stopped me at once. 
 She said that she had made up her mind to leave her property 
 in this way and in no other. After that I had nothing to do but 
 to draw up the document in legal form." 
 
 " And Mr. Devereux is not remembered ? " 
 
 " Not even mentioned. She told me that this was by his 
 special desire. ' He has made me promise not to leave him any 
 thing,' she said. So I suppose I must acknowledge " — this to 
 Basil — " that, in common wuth a great many other people, I 
 have done him great injustice." 
 
 " I have felt sure of that for some time," said Basil. Then 
 he walked over to Madeleine. " Did Marj' give any hint to you 
 of this intention ? " he asked. 
 
 "None," she answ^ered. " Can you think I would have al- 
 lowed such a thing if she had ? I cannot imagine what it 
 means, I cannot imagine why, if she wanted to leave the fortune 
 to one of us, she did not leave it to you." 
 
 " That is just what I said," remarked Mrs. Severn. " Yv^hy 
 isn't it Basil ? It always seems more natural for a man than for 
 a woman to hold property, particularly such a property as this. 
 But Mary was always very much attached to you, Madeleine — 
 very much." 
 
 " She was very much attached to Basil also," said Made- 
 leine, with a trembling voice. 
 
 " Thank God, she did not leave the property to me ! " said Ba- 
 sil, quickly. " It is a possibility that I do not for a moment like 
 to consider. Such a fear never occurred to me. I thought that 
 she would probably leave the mills to Devereux, and the rest of 
 her fortune to some of the Carlisles." 
 
 " Mary nevef liked her father's family," said Rosalind. 
 
AX UXEXPECTED IXHERITANCE. 383 
 
 " Everybody knows that. Nobody could blame her for it, either 
 — they are such disagreeable people ! Henry and Thomas Car- 
 lisle — her first cousins — were both here, and James says they 
 were 50 angry ! They even talked of undue influence and of 
 disputing the will. What was it you said to them, James ? " 
 
 " I told them (in substance) that they were preposterous 
 fools," replied James. " ' You are very much disappointed now, 
 gentlemen,' I said, ' and that will excuse your language. "WTien 
 you come to your senses, you will realize the absurdity you are 
 talking. You may have the will carried into any court of law, 
 and you will find that it will stand — at my client's request I took 
 care of that. The rest is sheer nonsense.' They blustered, of 
 course, but that was the end of the matter." 
 
 " And, oh, don't vou know that Mrs. InoTam is furious ! " said 
 
 / 7 */ CD 
 
 Rosalind. — " JToic I always detested that old woman, and how 
 she detested you, Madeleine ! I am sure she could bear it bet- 
 ter if the property had been left to Mr. Devereux." 
 
 "Madeleine looks pale," said Mrs. Severn, at that moment 
 struck by her step-daughter's face. " I am afraid all this ex- 
 citement is too much for her." 
 
 " I am a little unstrung," said Madeleine. " I cannot realize 
 that it is all really true. I feel as if I were waiting for a further 
 revelation of what Marv meant." 
 
 "I call such a feelino- foolish and wrons:," said Rosalind, who, 
 being now married, felt that from her height of position and ex- 
 perience she was capable of enlightening on many points the 
 unmarried mind. " It sounds like spiritualism. What further 
 revelation can Mary make ? " 
 
 " Madeleine is not exactly herself this evening," said Lacy, 
 whose hand was on the back of her chair. " She is ao-itated and 
 weary, depressed and yet excited ; if we all went awa}^ and left 
 her to rest, it might be better. I am sure she will look at 
 things very difi'erently to-morrow." 
 
 There was real consideration in this suggestion, though Ro- 
 salind resented Lacy's making it. " He is very ready to speak 
 for Madeleine 7iotc/" she said to her husband, after they had 
 
384 A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 taken their departure. To herself she said : " Helen has lost 
 him. Her fortune is nothing at all compared to the great Car- 
 lisle estate." It must be added that Rosalind siglied a little as 
 she riiade this reflection, not on account of Miss Champion's 
 loss of Gordon Lacy, but because some tempting spirit whis- 
 pered to her that, if she had only waited, a much more brilliant 
 future might have been in store for her than was possible to 
 James Champion's wife. She knew that Madeleine was at all 
 times the very soul of generosity, and a dazzling picture rose 
 before her. " AYe would have gone everywhere," she thought, 
 " and there is no telling who I might not have ended by marry- 
 ing ! " But, to do justice to Rosalind's good sense, she did not 
 render herself uncomfortable with these reflections very long. 
 What was done was done. She had acted for the best accord- 
 ing to her lights, " since nothing short of the gift of j^rophecy 
 could have enabled me to foresee such an astounding turn of 
 affairs," she added. This led her to say aloud : 
 
 " It seems impossible that Madeleine can really be so rich ! 
 What will she do with all her w^ealth, I wonder ? It is a pity 
 for the w4iole of it to go to Gordon Lacy, who never has 
 done, and never will do, any thing but amuse himself writing 
 poetry." 
 
 " Her engagement is certainly unfortunate," said Champion. 
 " I never had much opinion of Lacy — but Madeleine is too loyal 
 to withdraw from it now. Her wealth will make a great differ- 
 ence to Basil, however. He has only to purchase the mills — ■ 
 taking his time, of course, for payment — and his future is as- 
 sured. With his business talents and enero;v, he will be one of 
 the richest men in the country." 
 
 He repeated this opinion after he reached home, and, though 
 Helen preserved an appearance of indifference, she both heard 
 and heeded. After she went to her chamber that nio-ht, she sat 
 in her dressing-robe before the fire, meditating deeply. She had 
 lost Lacy. That fact was as clear to her as to Rosalind. " He'll 
 never give up Madeleine for me now," she decided. Then she 
 thought of Basil with more favor than she had ever done before. 
 
AN UNEXPECTED IXEERITAXCE. 385 
 
 This was not strange, since IMiss Champion was a young lady 
 altogether of her day and generation, and Basil had now the 
 golden halo which he had heretofore lacked. An old name, a 
 stainless character, and the prospect of being " one of the richest 
 men in the country " — she appreciated the last of these things, 
 and did not v;holly ignore the first. So, it came to pass that her 
 decision was taken — she would draw Basil back to her side and 
 marry him. Rosalind was right when she said that the star of 
 the Severns was in the ascendant once more. 
 
 Lacy, meanwhile, had lingered after the Champions to say a 
 few words. Mrs. Severn was called away, Basil left the room, 
 and he was alone with Madeleine. Taking her hands, he looked 
 into her pale face, her wistful, shadow-circled e3'es. 
 
 " To-morrow," he said, "you will be better, and realize more 
 the great good fortune that has come to you. My darling, my 
 darling, what a thing it is ! — how it ends all fears and doubts 
 of the future ! How it will lift tou into a realm where viil<rar 
 cares and sordid anxieties need never enter ! " 
 
 " I am not sure," said Madeleine. " Perhaps it is because I 
 am stunned that I do not seem to feel any thing clearly — except 
 regret. I have no right to this fortune. I wish, oh, I wish that 
 Mary had not left it to me ! " 
 
 A slight shadow came over Lacy's face. Even at this mo- 
 ment he felt that she ought to remember hhn. He thought that 
 she should have recollected the freedom which it would bestow 
 upon him. His was not in the least what is commonly called a 
 mercenary nature. Money for money's sake, nor even for the 
 sake of the power and luxury it can buy, he had never valued. 
 But, of late, it had been borne home to him that, to mount into 
 that high region of aesthetic refinement where he longed to 
 abide, monej' was absolutely necessary. Hence, he felt that 
 Providence had in a particular manner cared for him now — and 
 that Madeleine was unsrateful for this care. 
 
 He did not give expression to these sentiments, but they 
 would have been apparent in his manner if Madeleine had be- 
 stowed her usual attention upon him. For once she was too 
 
386 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 much engrossed by otlier tlioughts to do tliis, so be went away 
 at last without having drawn from her a single expression of 
 bapphiess in the great change that overshadowed her. 
 
 Then the brother and sister, left alone, looked at each other 
 and asked, " What does it mean ? " Their sympathy was so 
 perfect, their knowledge of each other's character from long ex- 
 perience so exact, that they had no need to compare the feelings 
 which this unexpected bequest roused in them. Each knew 
 what the other thought, and so they simply uttered the interro- 
 gation recorded above. 
 
 It was an interrogation more easily asked than answered. 
 The secret of what Mary meant might reasonably have been 
 supposed to have gone with her into that great world whither 
 she had passed ; but Madeleine repeated again what she had 
 shocked Rosalind by uttering once. " I cannot accept this bare 
 fact as it stands ; I feel as if there must be some further revela- 
 tion of Mary's wishes. ^Ylien she was dving, she spoke to me 
 of a letter, and I have the key of the desk in which it is to be 
 found. To-morrow I will go to the Lodge for it. Until then 
 we must wait." 
 
 It was in this manner that the current of life claimed those 
 who, only for a moment, as it w^ere, had paused by the side of a 
 grave where life's interests had ended forever. Perhaps the 
 only person neither surprised nor concerned by the will was 
 Devereux. He had suspected very much how it would be, and 
 now he felt that the freedom of which he once spoke to Made- 
 leine had come to him — freedom to go away from the associa- 
 tions of his life, and enter on a new career alone. That all the 
 tenderness he had ever felt for Mary was revived and inten- 
 sified by her death, will readily be believed by those who know 
 what power death has to rouse such emotions. If it did not 
 Avaken the tide of remorseful love which overwhelmed the cold 
 lover of Daphles, he was at least conscious, in a measure, of 
 the feeling which has never found truer or tenderer expression 
 than in the beautiful lines that are tlie key-note of the same 
 poem : 
 
TUE MESSAGE OF THE DEAD. 337 
 
 " Love and be loved ! yet know, love's holiest deeps 
 Few sound while living ! when the loved one sleeps 
 That last, strange sleep, beneath the mournful sod, 
 Then Memory wakes, like some remorseful god, 
 And all the golden past we scarce did prize. 
 Subtly revives, with light of tender eyes." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE MESSAGE OF THE DEAD. 
 
 The next morning, early enough to avoid both Lacy and Rosa- 
 lind, neither of whom she desired to see just then, Madeleine set 
 out for the Lodge. What an effort it cost her to resolve to go 
 there, it is hard to express. Her grief was still so fresh and 
 keen that it was like returning to gaze on Mary's dead face to 
 enter the home so intimately associated with her presence. The 
 day before she would have felt that nothing could induce her to 
 go, but in the course of a few hours it had become a necessity 
 to do so, and Madeleine was not one to shrink from a necessity, 
 even though it lacerated her heart. 
 
 This necessity cost her suffering more poignant than any 
 which she had endured since her father and brother were borne 
 home from the fields of honor, where they had fallen. She trod 
 the familiar road leading to the Lodge with a mist of tears over 
 her sight and choking sobs in her throat. Death — the death of 
 those we love — is not only bitter to endure, but also hard to 
 realize. But yesterday they were here by our side, looking into 
 our eyes, and now they are so far away that not even imagination 
 can pierce the indefinite regions to which they have gone. "We 
 cry to them and they do not answer, we stretch out our hands 
 and they do not heed. Of all that love which life gave us, death 
 only leaves us the power to pray. When the heart is sick with 
 longing, it is not only faith but Nature w^hich cries, " Eternal rest 
 give unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them." 
 
388 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 When Madeleine entered the Lodge-gates and saw the closed 
 blmds of the familiar windows, her resolution almost failed. 
 " How can I ? " she said, half aloud. But the hesitation did not 
 last long. She girded up her strength and went forward, avoid- 
 ing the front entrance of the house and passing round to the 
 house-keeper's room where Jessie was usually to be found. 
 
 She was there now, sitting in that idleness of grief which, 
 with the usually hard-working is so full of pathetic meaning, be- 
 fore the fire, a ray of yellow sunlight streaming across her black 
 dress. Mary had been right. On her the blow fell most heavily. 
 Devereiix and Madeleine had other interests awaiting them, 
 other claims already engrossing them, but for her the occupation 
 of life had come to an end. What had she ever been save Mary 
 Carlisle's faithful friend and servant, and, now that Mary was 
 gone where human faith and service were no longer needed, what 
 remained for her ? She had been asking herself this question, 
 perhaps, for her eyes were heavy with weeping, when looking up 
 she saw Madeleine standing in the door. 
 
 An expression of something like relief camiO over her face. 
 She rose instantly. " I'm thankful to see you. Miss Madeleine," 
 she said. " I couldn't say that to anybody else, but I was just 
 thinking that it might ease my heart a bit if I could talk to you 
 who was alwaj's with my dearie, and loved her a'most as well 
 as I did." * 
 
 " My i^oor Jessie," said Madeleine, coming forward, " I have 
 thought of you a great deal. How sad and lonely you must be ! 
 Don't you think it might be better if you came into Stansbury 
 and staid with us for a while ? " 
 
 " What would I do there ? " asked Jessie. " It's true I've 
 nothing to do here — and that's the hardest thing to bear — but 
 it would be worse anywhere else. Here's the only home I've 
 ever had, and, please God, I sha'n't leave it till I'm forced to go 
 for good." 
 
 " I hope that may never be," said Madeleine, as she sat down 
 by the fire. 
 
 " It's for you to say," replied Jessie. " They tell me every 
 
THE MESSAGE OF THE DEAD. 389 
 
 thinf^ belongs to jou now. If it belonged to anybody else it's 
 not me would stay an hour under tlie roof; but if you are not 
 the first in kin, you are the first in love, and thafs the best claim 
 of the two according to my thinking. AYhat's our mortal bodies ? 
 Don't they die, and aren't they put in the ground to moulder 
 away ? But our hearts don't die, and those that's nearest to 
 them are the closest kin in my opinion." 
 
 "You are partly right," said Madeleine, who knew that Jes- 
 sie's ties were altogether of the heart, " but it is possible to 
 carry such an opinion too far — with regard to propertj^, for in- 
 stance. Dearly as I loved Mary, I was very distantly related to 
 her. I cannot feel that I have any right to what she has left me." 
 
 " Miss Mary knew best," said Jessie, almost defiantly. " It 
 was hers, and, if she wanted you to have it, that's enough." 
 
 Madeleine shook her head, but she had no intention of argu- 
 ing the point, and after a few more words she rose. " I will be 
 back presently," she said. " Now I must go — to Mary's room." 
 
 " It'll break your heart," said Jessie. *' I can't keep out of it 
 by night or by day, but it a'most breaks mine." 
 
 '' I dread it," said Madeleine, " but I must go. Don't en- 
 courage me in my weakness." 
 
 She turned as she spoke, and was leaving the room, when, to 
 her surprise, Jessie followed and laid her hand on her arm. 
 *' You'll mind one thing. Miss Madeleine," she said, eagerly ; 
 " the last wishes of the dead is binding on the living." 
 
 " Sometimes," answered Madeleine, astonished, yet with a 
 flash of intuition connecting this warning with the letter w^hich 
 awaited her. Then decidedly but gently she put Jessie aside. 
 " I must judge," she said, " what is binding." With these words 
 she passed across the hall and ascended the staircase. 
 
 Who can measure the power of familiar objects to stab us 
 to the heart when the Angel of Death has passed over the 
 threshold ? We never guess until such an hour what links of 
 association are twined around the most ordinary things. We 
 feel like storing away, as sacred relics, articles which yesterday 
 had no value in our eyes; we enter as if it were a sanctuary that 
 
390 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 wliicli so short a time ago was only a common chamber in our 
 sight ! 
 
 So Madeleine felt now. The room where Mary had lived, 
 suffered, and died, was so eloquent of her presence, that it 
 seemed impossible that presence could have passed away for- 
 ever. All was in order, yet all terribly significant of what had 
 been. She was met not by one, but by a hundred ghosts 
 — ghosts of dead hours, of tender smiles, of words that still 
 seemed lingering on the air. The couch on which Mary had 
 been Ij'ing when she likened her to Elaine was still standing by 
 the w^indow, through the partially-closed blinds of which the 
 morning sunlight streamed. Though the sash was down, the 
 sweet notes of the birds outside came in, full of the si^irit of 
 happiness. 
 
 It was some time before Madeleine could control herseli 
 sufficiently to open the desk which stood on a table in a recess. 
 At last with the key which hung at her watch-chain — the key 
 which she had taken from Mary's neck — she unlocked and lifted 
 back the scroll-like top. The first thing which she saw was a 
 packet of Devereux's letters, tied with a ribbon, and laid care- 
 fully aside. The next was the letter to herself, directed in Jes- 
 sie's writing. 
 
 This she took, closed and locked the desk again, and, going to 
 one of the windows, which she opened in order to admit a little 
 sunshine to dispel the chill air of the room, sat down to read the 
 last message of the dead. It began as if Mary had been speaking : 
 
 " I have made my will, dear Madeleine, and left 3-ou all that 
 is mine to leave. It is a burden which would long since have 
 proved too heavy for my strength if Basil had not lifted it from 
 me, and I owe you an explanation of why I have shifted it to 
 you, who do not want it, I am sure. If what I have to say 
 pains you in any manner, forgive me ! I would be silent if I 
 could, but it is impossible. You must know the truth, and I 
 only pray you to believe that, in speaking it, there is not a single 
 reproachful feeling in my breast. What has happened is not 
 
THE MESSAGE OF THE DEAD. 391 
 
 yoiir fault — is not anybody's fault. Remember that, in dying, I 
 tell you once more, that you have been the comfort and light 
 of my life, and that I love you and trust 3'ou implicitly. 
 
 " You must understand that I should have left my fortune to 
 Arnold Devereux, if he would have accepted it. But he antici- 
 pated my intention as soon as I spoke of a lawyer, and desired 
 me so earnestly to leave him nothing, that I could not disregard 
 his request. But I feel — I have felt ever since the suit was de- 
 cided ao-ainst him — that it is his bv rio-ht ; and he must have it. 
 You see, therefore, that it is more a trust than an inheritance 
 which I have left you. And now I will tell you why. 
 
 " I have left it to you instead of to him, because he loves 
 you, and because I hope that you will love him when his honor 
 is no longer bound to me. I need not tell you all the reasons 
 wh}^ I know the first and hope the last. I know that you have 
 both been every thing that was true and honorable. I never 
 doubted that for a moment — never ! The fortune is yours until 
 you marry Arnold ; but, I beg you, as the last favor I shall ever 
 ask, to do so speedily, and then show him this letter, that he 
 may understand how my desire has been to secure to him that 
 which is justly his. He has been very kind and good to me 
 from first to last, and I am not unreasonable enough to blame 
 him that he did not love me as he loves you. It was foolish of 
 me to fancy that any one ever could love m.e in that manner. 
 Yet I am not sorry to have fancied it. It made me very happy, 
 and I do not think it has done much harm to any one else. 
 
 " Dear Madeleine, I can scarcely bear to write all this. I 
 know it will pain you, and I fear you may think that I mean to 
 reiDroach you. Do not believe such a thing for a moment. You 
 are, and always have been, the gentlest, truest, best of friends. 
 I have blessed you often in my heart, and I bless you once 
 again for all your unselfish tenderness to me in the past and 
 present. 
 
 " I hope I have not done wrong. If I have, you must pardon 
 me, and think that, for the first time, I have had to rely alto- 
 gether on my own judgment. If it has misled me, remember 
 
302 A QUESTION OF UONOR. 
 
 that I meant to act for the best. God bless 3'ou and make you 
 
 happy. That is the prayer of 
 
 " Maby." 
 
 The amazement which Madeleine felt, when the letter dropped 
 from her hand to her lap, was so great that it literally over- 
 whelmed every other feeling. \Yhat madness had possessed 
 Mary ? This was the first thought which occurred to her — the 
 first definite expression of her astonishment. She said to her- 
 self that nothing could possibly have astonished her more than 
 this revelation of what had been in Mary's mind. How had 
 such a thino; been su2:2:ested to her ? What did it mean ? 
 
 She looked round the room with a sense of hopeless appeal 
 against the judgment which had thus wronged her. " O Mary, 
 how could you ! — how could you ! " she exclaimed aloud. " Why 
 did you not speak to me ? Why did you go away with this 
 shadow of cruel misconception over our faithful love ? Oh, my 
 dear, can you hear me say that you were wrong ? What de- 
 lirium possessed you to dream of such a thing ? " 
 
 Alas, vain words ! The silence which Death had made was 
 never to be broken : the work on which Death had set his seal 
 remained, with all its train of consequences yet to come. IMade- 
 leine felt as if her brain was whirling. She tried to go back and 
 remember what had possibly occurred that could have left such 
 an impression as this on Mary's mind. The effort was quite 
 useless. She could remember nothing. " Finally, with a de- 
 spairing impulse, she took the letter and went down again to 
 Jessie. The thought which suggested itself to her was that 
 perhaps Jessie, who had written these words, might be able to 
 throw some light on them. 
 
 Jessie heard the approaching step, and her face set itself in 
 certain resolute lines that meant a great deal — lines that Made- 
 leine understood as soon as she entered. Nevertheless, she ad- 
 vanced with the letter in her hand. 
 
 " Jessie," she said, quickly, " you wrote this. For Heaven's 
 sake tell me, if you can, what it means ! What induced IMary 
 
THE MESSAGE OF THE DEAD. 393 
 
 to think such a thing', and why did not jou warn me what she 
 had done ? " 
 
 " Take it away, ]\riss Madeleine ! " said Jessie, waving the 
 letter back. " I don't want to see it, and I promised never to 
 speak of it to a living soul so long as I lived. I wrote down 
 just what she told me — word for word as it came from her 
 mouth — and that's all I know about it." 
 
 " But there is no reason why you should not speak of it to 
 me — to whom the letter is addressed," said Madeleine. " Jessie, 
 if you know — " 
 
 " I don't know any thing at all but what ]\Iiss Mary told 
 me," said Jessie, " and I've nearly forgot that. Do you reckon 
 I was thinking of any thing but her then ?" 
 
 " What did she tell you ? " asked Madeleine. " Oh, if she 
 had only spoken to me ! If she had only given me one oppor- 
 tunity to assure her that she was wrong ! " 
 
 " She told me what's there," said Jessie, pointing to the 
 letter — " nothing more. I was not troubling my head about 
 any thing but her, and she was weak and faint enough. Twice 
 I had to stop and give her medicine." 
 
 " x\nd you cannot help me ! " said Madeleine. " You can 
 give me no clew to the cause of this letter ! — no idea what made 
 Mary suspect a treachery which never existed ! " 
 
 Jessie hesitated. Evidently she had something to tell, yet 
 she could with diiBculty conquer her reluctance to speak of the 
 subject of the letter even to the person to whom it was ad- 
 dressed. After a moment, however, she said : "If 3'ou are talk- 
 ing about Miss Mary's believing that there was something be- 
 tween you and Mr. Devereux, I can give a guess as to who put 
 such a notion into her head." 
 
 " Who ? " demanded Madeleine, breathlessly. 
 
 " Why, who should it be but that old cat — the Lord forgive 
 me ! — Mrs. Ingram ? She's always peering and prying into 
 what don't concern her, and it was the very morning of the ball 
 that I was in Miss Mary's dressing-room looking over some of 
 her things, when I heard Mrs. Ingram talking in the next room. 
 
394 A QUESTIOX OF HONCK 
 
 I tbouglit it was queer for her to be there, but I didn't pay any 
 attention to what she was saying* — though her voice kept get- 
 ting louder — until at last I heard Miss Mary saj- — and her voice 
 was like a flute, it was so clear — that it was base and cruel to 
 bring such a storj?- to her, who was blind and could not see for 
 herself, but that she did not believe one word of it. She said 
 she would trust her life, and her love, and her honor to you, 
 and that she had trusted them to Mr. Devereux. Then she told 
 Mrs. Ingram to go — she had heard enough. ' If you ever read 
 your Bible,' she said, * I wonder you don't remember that if 
 the peace-makers are blessed, those that destroy peace must be 
 cursed.' After that Mrs. Ingram said something about not 
 staying to hear herself cursed, and banged the door as she went 
 out. I didn't think much about it at the time, but now I know 
 she must have been warning Miss Mary about you and Mr. 
 Devereux." 
 
 " O Mary, my generous, noble Mary ! " said Madeleine, while 
 a shower of tears fell from her eyes over the letter in her hand. 
 At that moment she scarcely felt a throb of indignation against 
 Mrs. IngTam — it was of Mary only that she thought, Mary who 
 had proved so tender and so loyal. " Oh, if I had only known ! 
 — if I had only known ! " she cried. 
 
 " It don't matter now," said Jessie, w^iping her eyes. " She 
 never believed any harm of you — that I know — and she's gone 
 where sorroAV and doubt and trouble are at an end. I begin to 
 understand what the bible means when it saj^s that, where your 
 treasure is, there will your heart be also. My treasure is in 
 heaven now, and, please God, I mean to be a better woman, to 
 meet her there. All I care about is, to end my days here in this 
 house ; and 3"ou know me well enough. Miss Madeleine, to be 
 sure I'll serve 3'ou faithfully." 
 
 " I am sure you would never serve any one otherwise than 
 faithfully," said Madeleine, " but you are mistaken if you think 
 the house is mine. How^ the matter will be settled, I cannot 
 tell; but this letter makes it impossible for me to accept Mary's 
 bequest. I am going to Basil now, and I know what he will say." 
 
THE BEGINXING OF TEE END. 395 
 
 " Y^ou won't give it up — O Miss Madeleine, you won't give it 
 ap ! " saivi Jessie, imploringl3\ " It was Miss Mary's last wish 
 that yon should have it." 
 
 " It was her wish that I should have it in a way that is ut- 
 terly impossible," said Madeleine. " I shall be sorry if it makes 
 any change for you, but the legacy which Mary left you — it is 
 five thousand dollars, and will bring an income of four hundred, 
 Basil says — is secured to you." 
 
 " What do I care about legacies ? " said Jessie. " All I want 
 is to end m}'- days here. It's the only home I've ever known 
 since my dear mistress saved me from the poor-house — and I 
 don't want to know any other." 
 
 " I am sorry that I cannot give you any absolute assurance 
 of what is to be," said Madeleine, rising. " There is trouble 
 before all of us, I fear ; but we can only do what is right, and 
 leave the rest to God." 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE BEGIXXIXG OF THE EXD. 
 
 While Madeleine, at the Lodge, was reading, with bewil- 
 dered amazement, the record of Mary's last thoughts and wishes, 
 an unusual visitor came in Stansbury to pay her a call of con- 
 gratulation. This visitor was Miss Champion, who, without in- 
 forming any one of her intention, set forth soon after breakfast, 
 for the Severns'. Meditation with her bore fruit. If she was to 
 lose Lacy, she would run no risk of delay in securing Basil. 
 Failing a " poet," the future owner of the Carlisle Mills was not 
 to be despised. 
 
 Fortune favored her. Miss Severn was not at home, Ann in- 
 formed her, and Mrs. Severn was very much engaged ; but if 
 she would wait — Yes, Miss Champion, mindful of her object, 
 would wait. She swept across the hall, and was ushered into the 
 
396 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 sitting-room, where Basil — on whom idleness weighed heavily — 
 was reading a newspaper. 
 
 He rose quickly. Was this a goddess ayIio entered, in flow- 
 in o- robes of rustlinoj" black silk, with one crimson rose at her 
 throat, and another in her hat, her cheeks glowing, her eyes 
 shining ? The young man, who had been reading with a very 
 distracted mind the political intelligence of the day, was, for a 
 moment, dazzled. Only for a moment. He advanced the next 
 instant, courteously, but so coldly that Miss Champion felt that 
 the occasion called for her best diplomacy. 
 
 " Pray excuse me for intruding so early," she said, extending 
 both hands with a gesture of irresistible cordiality, " but I could 
 not restrain myself any longer. I felt that I must come to con- 
 gratulate Madeleine on her great good fortune." 
 
 " Madeleine would appreciate your kindness if she were at 
 home," answered Basil, " but she went out an hour or two ago. 
 She does not, however, consider the bequest to which I sup- 
 pose you allude in the light of a very great good fortune." 
 
 " Does she not ? " said Miss Champion, with an involuntary 
 opening of the eyes, which indicated as much incredulity as 
 surprise. " Of course, I know that she was greatly attached 
 to Miss Carlisle, but still — the fortune must go to somebody now 
 that she is dead, and it is a great deal better for it to go to Made- 
 leine than to anybody else." 
 
 " I am not sure of that," said Basil. Then he moved a large 
 arm-chair near the fire. " Pray sit down," he said, thawing a lit- 
 tle under the influence of the sunshine showered so warmly upon 
 him. " My mother will be in presently." 
 
 " Thanks," said Helen, graciously. She sank into the chair, 
 and glanced up at him with the pleasant consciousness of look- 
 ing her (daylight) best. " How strange and sad it seems to re- 
 member all that has happened since we met last ! " she added, 
 after a moment, drooping her lids. " Only think of the ball, and 
 poor Miss Carlisle ! You can't tell how much I have felt for 
 Madeleine and — yourself ! " 
 
 Over the last word her voice dropped to a lower and tenderer 
 
THE BEGIXNING OF THE END. 397 
 
 key, and Basil's heart thrilled ; but he was firmly resolved against 
 being made " a fool of" any longer, and, moreover, he had learned 
 to distrust the speaker. It is to be supposed that even Circe's 
 spells would lose their power after a time, if cast again and yet 
 again over the same subject. 
 
 "Thank you for your sympathj^," he said, quietly. "Mary's 
 death has been a great grief both to Madeleine and myself — one 
 of which I do not yet like to speak." 
 
 " I think painful subjects are best avoided," said Miss Cham- 
 pion, in a tone which indicated that she practised her own phi- 
 losoph}'-, "but I could not help letting you know how much sym- 
 pathy I have felt." 
 
 Then there was a short j)ause. " I have given him an open- 
 ing," thought Helen, " why don't he speak ? " As for Basil, he 
 felt as clearly as she could possibly have desired, that he had but 
 to speak to obtain a more definite assurance than he had ever 
 been able to draw from this slippery young lady, A month be- 
 fore, he would have grasped such an opportunity eagerly, but 
 now he hesitated — why, he scarcely knew. It was not that he 
 was less thralled by the fair face turned toward him, or that wis- 
 dom had overmastered passion in his breast. It was simply an 
 instinct that kept him silent. Perhaps the uncertainty of his 
 circumstances had, unconsciously to himself, something to do 
 with this. He was on the eve of a great change — one way or 
 another — in his affairs. In a little while he would have some 
 positive prospect to offer the woman he loved, but now he felt 
 that silence best became him. Helen Champion knew — had 
 known for many a day, on the best possible authority — that his 
 heart was hers. Heretofore she had treated the knowledge very 
 lightly. He did not like to consider why it should suddenly 
 seem of more value in her eyes now. 
 
 These reflections did not last very long. When he spoke, it 
 was in a manner which irked Helen exceedingly. "It was very 
 kind of you to feel for us," he said. " You know how grateful 
 I must be for any of your thoughts — and especially for such 
 thoughts as these." 
 
398 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " You do not seem to care for them very miicli," said she, with 
 tears of genuine vexation rising in her eves. " You never come 
 near me to — to ask if I think of you. I fear you have not forgiven 
 my foolish conduct the night of the ball. Yet you ought to know 
 by this time how capricious and frivolous I am — sometimes." 
 
 "Pray do not mention it/' said Basil, gently. "I have not 
 thought, I do not think, any thing unkind of you. Such trifles 
 as those to which you allude have been swept from my mind by 
 all that has occurred since that night." 
 
 This was not so consoling as it should have been, but Miss 
 Champion made the best of it. " I am glad you are not vexed 
 with me," she said. " I have been fearing that you were." 
 
 She glanced up at him with eyes shining through their tears 
 like diamonds. In common with all men of his class, Basil was 
 very easily affected by a woman's tears. He could not with- 
 stand them even if the woman who shed them was indifferent 
 to him, and this woman, with all her faults, he loved deeply. 
 
 " How could you wrong me by supposing such a thing ? " he 
 said, taking her hand. " I was pained, I own ; but vexed — with 
 3^ou! That is impossible. Yet, if you realized your power, 
 Helen, I think jou would use it more generously." 
 
 *' Have I any power ? " asked Helen, naively. *' How much ? " 
 
 It is not worth while to follow the conversation furrier than 
 this. As is always the case in an encounter of the kind, the one 
 who was the most in earnest fared the worst. A man feeling 
 less deeply, less keenly alive to what may be called the chivalry 
 of sentiment, would not have been drawn on so easily ; but the 
 frank simplicity of Basil's ch.aracter fitted him very little for such 
 a game. 
 
 He had received Miss Champion's pledge of faith — a pledge 
 given freely, and it may be added with perfect sincerity — had 
 escorted her home and returned to his house, when Madeleine 
 arrived from the Lodge, wdth an expression on her face which 
 — before she uttered a word — told him that she had learned 
 somethino:. 
 
 Notwithstanding this partial preparation, he was thunder- 
 
THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 399 
 
 struck when Mary's letter was placed in his hands. " Was she 
 mad ? " he ejaculated, looking up at his sister. 
 
 " No — not mad, but deceived," Madeleine answered. " Poor 
 Mary ! Nothing could possibly show her childlike ignorance 
 of the world and human nature more plainly than that letter. 
 Of course she was wrong — all wrong — in the idea on which it is 
 based ; but, even if that idea had been right, what pathetic want 
 of knowledge her manner of dealing with it displays ! " 
 
 "But, in the name of Heaven, what possessed her to enter- 
 tain such an idea ? " demanded Basil. " To suspect you — of all 
 people ! " 
 
 " She was blind," said Madeleine, " and the blind are easily 
 rendered suspicious. Jessie thinks that Mrs. Ingram is the per- 
 son who is accountable for it. I do not know." 
 
 " If she had only consulted any one ! " said Basil. " But to 
 act like this solely on her own judgment — she who never had 
 any means of forming a judgment — it is the most inconceivable 
 thing! And what is to be the result? Since the supposition 
 on which she wrote was an altogether mistaken one, what do 
 you mean to do ? " 
 
 " You know what I mean to do," she answered. " I mean 
 to make the property over to Mr. Devereux. It is to him in re- 
 ality that it is left, and Mary says what I, also, believe — that 
 part at least of it is rightfully his." 
 
 There was a minute's silence. Then Basil said : " You must 
 consider this well. You must not act hastily and afterward re- 
 gret what you have done. Remember the fortune is legally and 
 absolutely yours, and it secures you — I do not speak of any one 
 else — all the best gifts of life. If you put it away on a mere 
 impulse — " 
 
 She stopped him by placing her hand on his arm. " Answer 
 me one thing," she said. " In my place, what would you do ? " 
 
 Their eyes met — the same clear light burning steadily in 
 both. Each knew, though neither expressed this knowledge, 
 what the sacrifice would cost, yet it is not possible to say that 
 either felt for a moment the faintest temptation to retain that 
 
iOO ■ A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 which honor bade them surrender. The merit of the sacrifice 
 would have been greater if there had been this temptation ; but 
 there are some natures to whom such a thing is impossible, and 
 both Basil and Madeleine belonged to that class. 
 
 " In 3'our place I would giv^e up the property," said Basil. 
 " It is a question of honor — not of law." 
 
 " I knew you would say so," she replied. " Now, what is 
 the first step to be taken ? " 
 
 " The first step will be to let Devereux know — and here, I 
 am sure, you will encounter a difficulty. If he would not accept 
 the fortune from Mary, is it likely he will accept it from you?" 
 ' " I fear there will be a great deal of difficulty," said she, " but 
 you must see him at once, and you must make him understand 
 that, if he refuses to accept it, I will nevertheless make it over 
 to him, and it may lie untouched, for I cannot and will not re- 
 tain it." 
 
 " Do you mean to tell him any thing of this ? " asked Basil, 
 touching the letter. 
 
 A flush rose to Madeleine's cheek. For the first time, the 
 realization came to her of the singular position in which the let- 
 ter placed her with regard to Devereux. " He must be told 
 something of it," she said, after a short pause, " but not all. 
 Tell him, in Mary's own words, that she left her fortune to me 
 ' as a trust, not as an inheritance : ' that she believed it to be 
 rightfully his, and that she wished him to have it." 
 
 Basil shook his head — a gesture which quite as often ex- 
 presses doubt as dissent. " It will look very mysterious," he 
 said. " Devereux will naturally ask why, if she wished to leave 
 it to him, she did not do so in a legal manner ? " 
 
 " Remind him of the promise he exacted from her that she 
 would not do so. For the rest, we cannot help the mystery. It 
 is impossible to make the contents of that letter public." 
 
 " Quite impossible," said Basil, glancing again at the letter 
 in his hand. " One thing is certain," he added, with emphasis, 
 " I should like to cut into mince-meat the tongue which has bee^^ 
 at the root of this mischief ! " 
 
THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 401 
 
 " That would not remedy it now," said Madeleine, with a 
 sigh. " It was base and cruel, but we must deal with what is ; 
 not with what might have been." 
 
 " And you wish me to see Devereux at once ? " 
 
 " Yes. There is no reason for delaj^, and he may leave 
 Stansbury." 
 
 " That is true," said Basil, stretching out his hand for his 
 hat, which he had thrown carelessly on a table near by. " I 
 confess I see nothing but trouble and vexation ahead," he went 
 on. " He is certain to make difficulties, if not to refuse the 
 fortune point-blank ; and then what is to be done ? " 
 
 " As the Spaniards say — God knows ! " answered Made- 
 leine. " Let him do what he will, our course is clear. You 
 were right when you called it a question of honor. Go, then, 
 dear Basil, and — will you stop on the way and ask Gordon to 
 come to me ? I owe it to him to let him hear my decision first 
 from myself." 
 
 Basil assented, but as he left the room a shadow fell over 
 his face. Madeleine's allusion to Lacy had not been necessary 
 to remind him of Helen Champion. He had not distinctly said 
 to himself that her graciousness that morning had been dic- 
 tated by the changed prospects that opened to him through the 
 fortune which had fallen to his sister ; but he was quite as well 
 aware of these prospects as James Champion, and he had felt 
 instinctively that it would not do to analyze too closely the 
 motives which prompted Helen's accession of regard. In a 
 manner not unusual with men of his order, he had resigned him- 
 self to a half-sad knowledge of the imperfections of his idol. 
 He had told himself more than once that, as he had been fool- 
 ish enough to set his heart on this woman, he must take her as 
 8he was, not hoping that she would ever be able to reign as 
 queen in the high places of his soul. Some of her faults he 
 could not fail to see ; against the perception of others he closed 
 his eyes, as he had closed them this morning — refusing to con- 
 sider why she had sought him out. Half unconsciously he 
 reasoned that she must 3are for him since she had encoura2:ed 
 
402 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 him to believe that she would marry him, long before these later 
 events occurred ; but his heart misgave him when — as he went 
 in search of Devereux — he thought, "Now will come the 
 test ! " 
 
 He had not proceeded more than half a square before he 
 met Lacy ; and Madeleine was still sitting with Mary's letter in 
 her hand, when she heard the familiar step of the latter on 
 the gravel-walk leading to the house. 
 
 She scarcely understood why she shrank with such a feeling 
 of dread from the interview before her. " T am weak and fan- 
 ciful," she thought. " No doubt Gordon will agree with me. 
 He cannot do otherwise ; but I know it will be a terrible disap- 
 pointment to him, and it seems hard that I should be obliged 
 to cause it." 
 
 There was certainly no anticipation of disappointment visi- 
 ble on Gordon's face when he came in. The world to him this 
 morning was flooded with sunshine. He felt that he was fully 
 justified by circumstances in those tw^o apparently foolish acts 
 of his life — his devotion to literature and his engagement to 
 Madeleine. In remembering the past, he conveniently ignored 
 all his doubts and hesitations, and appeared in his own recol- 
 lection as an embodiment of loyal constancy. For this con- 
 stancy he now had his reward ! All sordid questions of ways 
 and means were now at an end. He would be lifted above all 
 need of degrading his genius to the mere uses of subsistence. 
 .He would have leisure to cultivate art, and he would possess 
 the society of the woman who was his chosen companion and 
 best inspirer. 
 
 He looked like "his old self," Madeleine thought, when he 
 entered — the lover who had come to woo, not the one who, 
 since that wooing, had so often brought his gloom}'- moods to 
 her — and her heart smote her that she must cast a cloud over 
 this brightness. As he reached her side, his first words were 
 caressing : 
 
 " C/i^ne," he said, " you are not yourself even yet ! You 
 look pale and sad. I think, if you went out, the mild day would 
 
THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 403 
 
 do 3'ou good. I see jou have your liat on. Were you waiting 
 for me to walk ? " 
 
 " No," Madeleine answered. " I have just come in from the 
 Lodge." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Lacj^, " that accounts for your pale looks, then. 
 You should not have gone to a place so full of sad associations 
 for some time yet ; and the walk was too long for you, besides." 
 
 " Oh, no," said Madeleine, " I scarcely noticed the walk. I 
 was thinking of other things. I felt that I must go. There 
 were reasons — Gordon, I have something very important to tell 
 vou." 
 
 " Tell me, then," said Gordon, indulgently. He sat down 
 near her — in the chair which Miss Champion had occupied an 
 hour or two before — ^and looked at her with eyes full of sunny 
 light. " You are tormenting yourself about some scruple," he 
 said. " I see that j)lainly. It is my turn to play comforter 
 now. Let me hear what troubles you." 
 
 " It is not a scruple," she replied, " but something much 
 more grave. Do you remember last night when I said that I 
 was waiting for a further revelation of what Mary meant by 
 leaving her fortune to me f Well, I have had the revelation." 
 
 " Madeleine ! " said Lacy, in a tone of surprise. He was 
 thoroughly astonished. Was this spiritualism, as Rosalind had 
 said ? or had her wonderful good fortune turned Madeleine's 
 brain ? 
 
 " When Mary was dying," Madeleine went on quickly — 
 anxious to make the explanation and be over with it — " she 
 told me to take from her neck the key of her desk, and that in 
 it I should find a letter addressed to myself, containing her last 
 wishes. I took the key after her death, but I did not open the 
 desk — not thinking that the letter could be of any immediate 
 importance, and shrinking from the pain of reading it. But 
 last night — as soon as I began to understand the strange terms 
 of her will — I thought of the letter at once, and that was what 
 I meant when I spoke of a further revelation of her wishes. 
 This morning I went out to the Lodge, and — I found it." 
 
404 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " Found what ? " asked Lacj. He still spoke with indul- 
 gent kindness, sure that nothing more than some feminine (prob-. 
 ably sentimental) nonsense was behind all this formidable pre- 
 amble. " The letter do you mean ? I hope there was nothing 
 terrible in it. Last wishes are usuallj^ very uncomfortable things. 
 What injunction did Miss Carlisle's letter contain ? " 
 
 " It contained more than an injunction," said Madeleine. 
 " It told me that she left her fortune to me as a trust, not as an 
 inheritance," 
 
 She repeated almost mechanically the words which had 
 graved themselves on her memory as expressing concisely the 
 spirit of Mary's letter. They w^ere words which — uttered in 
 her firm voice — had to Lacy the force of a moral blow. As 
 was natural, however, he failed to comprehend their full signifi- 
 cance. 
 
 "A trust ! " he repeated; " not an inheritance ! What is the 
 meaning of that ? " • 
 
 Madeleine hesitated, uncertain whether or not to tell him all. 
 She had put Mary's letter in her pocket when she heard his step. 
 Now her hand involuntarily sought it. Should she show it to 
 him, or should she not? A second's reflection made her decide 
 in the negative. How could she show to the man to whom she 
 was engaged a letter, full of the evident belief that she loved, 
 and clearly expressed hope that she would marry, some one else ? 
 It was simply impossible. 
 
 " The meaning," she answ^ered, after a moment's pause, " is, 
 that Zvlary wanted to leave her fortune to Mr. Devereux — to whom 
 she thought that all the property in litigation justly belonged — 
 but he desired her so earnestly not to do so that she left it to 
 me, and then wrote this letter, telling me that she wdfihed him to 
 have it." 
 
 As she completed this most lame and blundering explana- 
 tion, Madeleine felt that the amazement on Lacy's face was not 
 remarkable. He looked at her as if he thouorht it a vistv doubt- 
 ful question whether or not she were sane. 
 
 " Are you really in earnest ? " he said, at last. *' Had Miss Car 
 
THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 405 
 
 lisle lost her senses ? Left her property to you, and then wrote 
 a letter saying she wished Devereux to have it ? I never heard, 
 such a meaningless absurdity in my life ! If she wanted him to 
 have it, why on earth did she not leave it to him ? " 
 
 "He asked her not to do so." 
 
 " And yet she thought he would accept it from. you — by Jove 1 
 There are no words to characterize such folly. In fact, it is more 
 than folly — it's downright craziness ! Your friend must have 
 been out of her mind, Madeleine." 
 
 " No, she was not," said Madeleine ; " she was only blind and 
 — mistaken. She knew so little of the world — nothing of hu- 
 man nature. Poor Mary ! She meant to act for the best, and 
 yet how much trouble she has made for me — for all of us ! " 
 
 " I do not see any necessity for that," said Lacy, a little 
 coldly. " Such folly is scarcely worth a second thought. As you 
 say, it dis23la3's supreme ignorance — nothing else. Of course, it 
 does not bind you at all." 
 
 " Do you think not ? " asked Madelfeine. Her face grew a 
 shade paler; her eyes gazed at him with steady sadness. Sud- 
 denly she felt the struggle before her. It was borne to her not 
 as an instinct, but as a certainty, that Lacy would not approve 
 of what she felt bound to do. 
 
 " I am sure not," he answered, decidedly. " Is this the phan- 
 tom that is disturbing you ? Listen to a little reason about it. 
 In the first place, there is every presumption that Miss Carlisle 
 wrote that letter when entirely incapable of exercising even her 
 ordinary power of judgment ; therefore, even if its substance were 
 sensible, it would not bind you to a direct contradiction of her 
 will. But its substance is not sensible. On the contrary, it is 
 simply absurd to imagine that Devereux would accept a fortune 
 in such a manner. Refuse it from Tiei\ and take it from yoxi ! 
 The idea is too preposterous to be worth serious consideration." 
 
 " I fear you are right," said Madeleine, looking troubled, 
 
 " but, even if he does refuse, it is impossible for me to retain 
 
 it." 
 
 " What ! " said Lacy. His astonishment had been ascending 
 18 
 
406 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 like a scale in music, and this exclamation marked the highest 
 point. A vivid change passed over his face — a change embody 
 ing coldness, disgust, incredulity. *' You cannot mean such a 
 thino' ! " he said. 
 
 " How can I mean any thing else ? " asked Madeleine, eagerly 
 — almost nervously. " Stop a minute and think ! The fortune 
 was Mary's, and she tells me with her last breath what she 
 wishes done with it. How can I be honorable, and refuse to do 
 what she desires ? " 
 
 " Do you think I have not as keen a sense of honor as your- 
 self ? " demanded Lacy. " But this is mere Quixotism. The for- 
 tune is not only legally but morally yours. If you throw it 
 away — but I will not entertain such an idea ! Madeleine, my 
 darling, for Heaven's sake, trust to my judgment ! You are not 
 fitted t'o judge — you are overwrought, and ready to see things in 
 an exaggerated light.^ I am sane and cool, and I tell you that 
 you will be doing yourself, and every one connected with you, a 
 grievous wrong if you act in this manner." 
 
 " I do not think of myself," said Madeleine, with a low sob. 
 " But I confess it is hard to think of others — of Basil, and of you, 
 dear Gordon — " 
 
 But Gordon threw his head back haughtily. This was not 
 the kind of consideration he wanted. " I beg you will not think 
 of me — at least, not in such a connection as that," he said. 
 " If you believe that I have been pleading for myself, you do 
 me great injustice. I certainly hoped that the long period of 
 waiting to which we have looked forward might be abridged 
 by your good fortune ; but I could afford such a hope since I 
 think " (quite loftilj^) " that I have sufficiently proved my dis- 
 interestedness." 
 
 " Do you fancy that I ever doubted it ? " asked Madeleine. 
 Her ej^es were brimming with wistful tears, but they did not 
 soften Lacy's heart, which was just then full of resentment. 
 Never in his life had he been so outraged before — so set aside 
 and made of no account, where he should have been of chief 
 importance ! It was almost incredible I After all his sacrifices 
 
THE BEGIXXIXG OF THE EXD. 407 
 
 for Madeleine, was it possible that she could treat him like 
 this! 
 
 " If our engagement means any thing at all," he presently 
 said, " it means that you have bound 3'ourself to some regard 
 for my wishes, and respect for my opinions. If you persist in 
 your present intention, it will prove that you have neither the 
 one nor the other, and the engagement, therefore, is little more 
 than an empty body without a spirit." 
 
 " Have I ever failed to show regard for your wishes before ? " 
 asked Madeleine. " Do you not know that it almost breaks my 
 heart to act in opposition to you ? Gordon, I thought you would 
 feel with me that, however hard the necessity might be, it is a 
 necessity. After all, we are only where we were before that 
 will was opened." 
 
 " Only where we were ! " repeated Gordon. He uttered a 
 short, sarcastic laugh. "And pray where was that ? You may 
 not have realized, but I have, for weeks and months past, that 
 our engagement has been simply a hopeless clinging to some- 
 thing without definite end. I knew that we could never afford 
 to marry, unless some entirely unforeseen good fortune happened 
 to one of us. The good fortune came — from Heaven, as it were — 
 and you tell me that you mean to throw it away." 
 
 " But it has not ever really been mine," said Madeleine, 
 gazing at him with all her heart in her eyes — eyes which pleaded 
 mutely for one word of encouragement, one word of acquiescence 
 in the sacrifice for honor's sake — " Mary did not mean it for me, 
 it was of Mr. Devereux she thoug-ht." 
 
 " And it must surely be of Mr. Devereux that 7/ou think," 
 said Lacy, forgetting himself in the sense of indignant impo- 
 tence which possessed him, in finding that even his influence over 
 Madeleine was powerless to change her resolution. " Your 
 solicitude for him must certainly be great, since, to place at his 
 feet a fortune which he is not likely to accept — and to which he 
 has not the slio^htest claim — vou are willins^ to throw Basil on 
 the world without occupation, and to render our marriage vir- 
 tually impossible, ' 
 
408 A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 " O Gordon, liow cao you be so cruel ! " said Madeleine, She 
 clasped her hands together, and lifted her appealing face toward 
 him, as — having risen from his chair — he stood before her. " Is 
 it I who will do all this ? But surely you perceive that I can- 
 not help it — when duty and honor are at stake, one cannot count 
 sacrifices. Basil thinks that I am right. He has gone to Mr, 
 Devereux now." 
 
 Lacy looked confounded. This was worse — much worse — 
 than he had expected. He grew fairly white with anger — anger 
 which for a moment rendered him incapable of expression. 
 When he spoke at last, his voice was so tense that it did not 
 sound like his own. " In that case," he said, " it seems to me 
 hardly worth while to keep up such a farce as our engagement 
 has become. You think of every one before me, you consult 
 every one but me. You are only kind enough to inform me after 
 you have already taken steps to commit such a stupendous act 
 of folly as this." 
 
 " With regard to the engagement, it must be as you like," 
 said Madeleine. She also rose, but there was no trace of anger 
 or haughtiness in her manner — only a grave, gentle dignity 
 touched with sadness. This was no shock to her. She knew 
 now that for some time she had expected it. How much pain 
 it held for her, she did not stop to ask. The pride which often 
 stands a woman in good stead upheld her, as she went on : " Even 
 if it comes to that issue, I cannot recede from what I know to 
 be right. You should not ask it of me — and, above all, you 
 should not insinuate, as you did a moment ago, that I think of 
 any thing but my honor. That not only wronged me, but it was 
 unworthy of you. If you think it best for us to part, do me the 
 justice to remember hereafter that it was by 3'our act — not mine." 
 
 As the clear, sweet tones ceased, there was a silence for a 
 minute, and, if ever the forces of good and evil fought in a man's 
 soul, they did in Lacy's then. He was half minded to say, " Do 
 what you will — ^I cannot live without you ! " to beg her to for- 
 give him and let him keep the treasure of her faith. But the 
 demon of selfishness, which he had been fostering for months past. 
 
THE COST OF SACRIFICE. 409 
 
 rose up uow in the might which he had given it. " Think of 
 your own prospects," said that mentor ; " remember your brill- 
 iant talents w-hich only need a field ; think of all the sacrifices 
 you have already made, and do not bind you life any longer in 
 idle, aimless waiting. Break your chain, and go into the world 
 a free man." 
 
 Listening to this excellent counsel, there was no softening 
 in his tone when he answered Madeleine's last words. " I can- 
 not admit that. It is your act — not mine — which separates us. 
 You show me plainly and decidedly of how little importance I 
 am in your life. I should have little self-respect if I could con- 
 tinue to fill the position of your betrothed husband, while in a 
 matter which concerns you vitally you put me contemptuously 
 aside. But all this is useless. Pardon some of the terms I haye 
 ventured to use, and let me say good-mcrning." 
 
 " Good-by," said Madeleine, holding out her hand. The 
 same strange, sad gentleness was in her tone and gesture. Dim- 
 ly Lacy felt that she looked as a guardian angel might when 
 forced to leave an erring human soul. " God bless you ! " she 
 said, in a low voice. " Don't imagine that I have any harsh 
 thoughts. Perhaps you are right — ^^^rhaps it is best. I seem 
 to have failed to make you happy. But I shall be very glad to 
 hear that you have found happiness elsewhere. Believe that." 
 
 " I can readily believe that you are completely indifierent to 
 me," replied he — angered afresh by this, yet touched, indignant, 
 desiring — he knew not what. He did not take her outstretched 
 hand, but, retreating a little, made a quick, defiant bow and was 
 gene. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE COST OF SACEIFICE. 
 
 As Lacy's ringing step passed away, Madeleine sank down 
 again in the chair from which she had risen, and asked herself 
 if life had ended within her, or why she felt so strangely stunned 
 
ilO A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 and quiet. Her power of emotion seemed for the time suspend- 
 ed ; she was not conscious either of indignation or pain. She 
 had simply a dull sense of having received a heavy blow, and 
 she said quietly, " It is over ! " 
 
 After a while she rose and went up-stairs — stopping a mo- 
 ment in the hall to speak to Mrs. Severn in her usual manner. 
 " You look pale, Madeleine," said that good lady, but this was 
 all she noticed. " I feel a little tired," replied Madeleine, and 
 went on to her room, where she closed the door. Even then, 
 however, it was not to give way to any burst of grief. She 
 wondered at her own singular apath}^ and calm. She laid aside 
 her hat and jacket, walked to the mirror and smoothed her hair, 
 saying again half mechanically — as she met her own sad ej-es : 
 " It is over ! Why do I not care more ? " 
 
 Yet, as she asked the question, instinct warned her that the 
 reaction of keen suffering was to come. Only light natures — 
 natures to whom love is incomprehensible (save in its lowest 
 forms of foolish sentiment or animal passion), and faith a jest- 
 can break without a pang such ties, and end such ho23es as Made- 
 leine had seen vanish from her that mornino-. Pain is the chrism 
 which concentrates all sacrifices, and pain was yet to wring her 
 heart in its strong grasp. Some realization of this — together 
 with a great sense of emptiness and desolation — made her sink 
 on her knees before an oratory in the corner of the room. At 
 the feet of the large, white crucifix lay a rosary and an " Imita- 
 tion." She opened the last like one seeking words of comfort, 
 and this was w4iat she read : 
 
 " Free me from all e\dl passions, and cure my heart of all 
 disorderly affections ; so that, inwardly healed and well purified, 
 I may become apt to love, courageous to suffer, and steadfast to 
 persevere. 
 
 " A great thing is love, a great good every way ; which alone 
 lighteneth all that is burdensome, and beareth equally all that 
 is unequal. 
 
 "For it carrieth a burden without being burdened, and mak- 
 eth all else that is bitter sweet and savory. 
 
THE COST OF SACRIFICE. 411 
 
 " Love will tend upward and not be detained by things be- 
 neath. 
 
 "Love will be at liberty, and free from all worldly aflection, 
 that its interior vision be not hindered ; that it suffer itself not 
 to be entangled with any temporal interest, nor cast down by 
 misfortune. 
 
 " Nothing is sweeter than love, nothing stronger, nothing 
 higher, nothing wider, nothing more pleasant, nothing fuller or 
 better in heaven or in earth : for love is born of God, and cannot 
 rest but in God, above all created things." 
 
 Golden words of heavenly wisdom which in their tender 
 
 sweetness loosed the bonds of numb apathy, and brought a wave 
 
 of sorrow over her soul. " O Lord," she cried, " give to me this 
 
 cliWne love, so that the desertion of no human friend, the failure 
 
 I of no human faith, may grieve the spirit fixed on Thee." 
 
 An hour later Basil returned and asked for Madeleine. " She 
 is up-stairs, I think," said Mrs. Severn, from whom the weight 
 of years seemed lifted by the pleasant consciousness that hence- 
 forth she would have no need to darn table-linen, or pay visits 
 on foot. " Gordon Lacy was here for some time, and after he 
 left she went to her own room. Shall I send and let her know 
 you want to see her?" 
 
 "No," answ^ered Basil, after a pause; "I will wait till she 
 comes down. There is no reason why I should see her at once. 
 Probably she is resting. She took a long walk this morning." 
 
 He went out of the sitting-room without saying any more 
 than this. He, too, felt tired in mind and body, weary of the 
 strain of much emotion, and disposed to defer the- disagreeable 
 duty of telling his step-mother what a mere dream Madeleine's 
 fortune was to prove. "Nothing is settled yet," he thought. 
 " There is time enough." 
 
 It did not occur to Madeleine to remain in her owtq room 
 when the dinner-bell rang. She had never been one of the 
 women who "give way," and to w^hom every thing niust be ac- 
 commodated. On the contrary, she was one of those in whom 
 long habit had trained the original impulse of self-control, until 
 
412 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 she was capable, even in great emergencies, of putting her own 
 feelings aside and caring unselfislilj for tlie comfort of those 
 around her. It was this impulse which made her rise now from 
 the couch, on which she had thrown herself in utter exhaustion, 
 and go down-stairs. To bear her burden bravely, to hide as far 
 as possible the depth of her w^ound, and to make no one else 
 unhajipy because she w^as miserable — these were the ends which 
 half-unconsciously she proposed to herself, and it was thus that 
 the brave, sweet spirit rose up, without bitterness, to meet the 
 sufferino: which had fallen on it. 
 
 Basil noticed her altered looks and absolute want of appetite 
 at dinner, though he wisely abstained from remark ; but after 
 they rose from table he followed her into the hall and pro- 
 posed that they should go into the garden. " The day is de- 
 lightful," he added, " and I have something to say to you." 
 
 " Wait till I put on a hat," said Madeleine. The hat was 
 soon put on, and then they went into the garden together. 
 The day was indeed delightful — full of the breath of advancing 
 spring, and soft with a faint, purple mist. Who does not know 
 the feeling of such a day in February ? Birds are singing, buds 
 are expanding, green shoots are coming up out of the brown 
 earth, flowers are gay along the garden borders, an odor of violets 
 fills the air. 
 
 Yet to those over whom the shadow of grief rests, there is 
 nothing, perhaps, more mournful than such a day. The dreariest 
 December sky would be more welcome than this buoyancy of 
 awakening life. " It is only when the first bitterness of the 
 spirit is past, that the voice of Nature can reach sad ears. Her 
 call is too still, too gentle, to be heard when a tumult is in the 
 heart." 
 
 There was a tumult in Madeleine's heart, little as she gave 
 any sign of it, and so the multitudinous sweet sounds and scents 
 rather oppressed than cheered her. She did not even notice her 
 favorite flowers, but plunged immediately into the subject that 
 demanded her attention, if it did not claim her interest. " What 
 did Mr. Devereux say, Basil ? " she asked. 
 
THE COST OF SACRIFICE. 413 
 
 " Exactly what I expected/' Basil replicl. " He refuses 
 absolutely to hear of such a thing as acceiDting the property, and 
 he is coming this afternoon to tell you so." 
 
 " That is unnecessary," she said, with a slight chord of 
 impatience in her voice. " Did you not tell hhn that, as far as 
 lam concerned, the matter is fixed — that nothing can change my 
 resolution ? " 
 
 " Yes, I told him that, and a great deal more. I think we 
 must have talked for an hour and a half; but I left him as de- 
 cided as I found him. I don't think he has the least idea of 
 yielding." 
 
 " I am sorry," said Madeleine, " but even in that case it is 
 impossible for me to keep the property. Am I not right?'* 
 said she, stopping and turning to him appealingly. " Should I 
 not give it up ? " 
 
 " You are quite right," said Basil. " The more I think of 
 it, the more I am convinced that it would be impossible for 
 you honorably to retain property which was bequeathed to you 
 under an altogether false impression. Mary left it to you be- 
 cause she thought she would thereby be virtually leaving it to 
 Devereux. Now, for you to take it and marry another man — " 
 
 Something in Madeleine's face — a certain shrinking expres- 
 sion — hushed the words on his lips. He thought suddenly of 
 Lacy, and was not surprised when she looked up with a faint 
 quiver of her lips. ''Never mind about that," she said. "There 
 is no need to take into consideration any thing about marriage. 
 The fact simply remains that I cannot honorably keep the for- 
 tune. That is enough." 
 
 "Madeleine," said Basil, suddenly taking her hand, "is your 
 en2:ao;ement broken ? " 
 
 " It is at an end," she answered, simply. Then, as she saw a 
 quick flash of anger in his eyes, she put out her other hand 
 and laid it on his wrist. "Tliere is nothing to resent," she 
 said, "nothing to regret. When two people recognize that 
 they have made a mistake, it is best to end it — do you not 
 think so ? " 
 
il4 A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 " But why is it that you — that Lacy — only recognized your 
 mistake this morning ? " asked he, looking at her suspiciously. 
 
 " We have been advancing to the recognition for some 
 time," she replied. " I see that now. This morning we faced 
 the truth. No one is to blame. It is for the best. I am sure 
 of that." 
 
 "Zam sure," said Basil, full of heat, " that Lacy objected to 
 your resigning this fortune." 
 
 She smiled — a shadowy ghost of a smile. " Edward the Con- 
 fessor said that the secrets of the household should be known to 
 God and the saints alone," she answered. " I have always thought 
 that the affairs of those who are — who were — lovers, should rest 
 under the same seal. I cannot describe even to you, dear Basil, 
 how we parted. It is surely enough to say that tio one is to 
 blame." 
 
 Then silence fell for several minutes as they paced the garden- 
 paths together, between trim, old-fashioned lines of box and cedar. 
 Basil knew, as clearly as if Madeleine had spoken, the general 
 purport of what had occurred with Lacy; and his prophetic 
 heart warned him that something very like it would occur when 
 Helen Champion came to know how Madeleine and himself 
 meant to support the Severn tradition of "honor before all 
 things." Yet this brother and sister were fortunate above many 
 of their fellows in that each had the other's faithful affection for 
 compensation when that which the world called love fell away. 
 They were spared the terrible sense of isolation which over- 
 whelms the spirit when such a sacrifice must be made without 
 any support, when a human soul is called by God into the drear 
 desert of pain, alone. 
 
 The afternoon was nearly spent, and the sun was sloping low 
 in the west, before Devereux presented himself at the Severn 
 door and asked for Madeleine. He was ushered into the draw- 
 ing-room, where a fire was burning, though a window at the 
 farther end of the room was open, and the fragrance of hya- 
 cinths was heavy on the air. The last time that he had been 
 here was on the morning of his return to Stansbury, and the 
 
THE COST OF SACRIFICE. 415 
 
 whole apartment seemed to him full of that recollection. He 
 could hear Madeleine's soft voice speaking of sacrifices which 
 should be easy " for love's sw^eet sake," and he could see Mary 
 enter. Only yesterday ! yet part of a past as utterly dead as if 
 the tender face that brightened for him that morning had been 
 a century underground ! 
 
 He was standing near a w^indow through which the level 
 sunshine poured in a slanting golden stream, when Madeleine 
 entered. Though he turned at once, his eyes were too much 
 dazzled by the radiance to appreciate for some time the great 
 change in her appearance. When it gradually became clear to 
 him, he was sincerely shocked. The deep mourning which she 
 wore threw into relief her colorless face, with its dark-rino-ed 
 eyes and pale lips. Watching, grief, excitement, pain — each 
 in turn had done its work and left its trace on the mobile 
 countenance. Devereux had too much tact to repeat what he 
 had inadvertently said once before, " How badly you look ! " 
 but his voice expressed the same thing, when — after they had 
 shaken hands almost silently — he said : 
 
 " I fear you have not rested properly yet — you still show 
 signs of fatigue. I am sorry — veiy sorry — that you should 
 have been annoyed so soon by matters relating to business." 
 
 " I am perfectly well," said Madeleine ; " a little tired, per- 
 haps, but that is all. As for business, it will trouble me very 
 little. Basil has told you, Mr. Devereux, that it was Mary's de- 
 sire that you should have her fortune, and that I therefore have 
 no alternative but to make it over to you." 
 
 " Your brother told me something of the kind, but it is — if 
 you will excuse me — so utterly out of the question, that I have 
 not given it the least serious consideration." 
 
 *' But you must give it serious consideration," said Made- 
 leine. " It is a matter which concerns you chiefly ; indeed, I 
 may say altogether. What have I to do with it ? Nothing ex- 
 cept that I am placed in the position of one to whom a trust 
 and not an inheritance has been left." 
 
 " How am I to reason with you on a subject so far beyond 
 
4:16 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 the province of reason ? " said Devereux, as they sat down. 
 " If Mary knew so little of the world as to write such a letter 
 as that to which your brother alluded, you certainly ought to 
 be aware that it is simply impossible for me to accept in this 
 manner a bequest w^hich I absolutely refused to accept through 
 the regular form of a will." , 
 
 " I know that there are difficulties iu the waj*," she answered, 
 " and I appreciate the awkwardness of the position in which it 
 places you ; but tny course is clear ; whether you refuse or 
 whether you accept the fortune, Mr. Devereux, I will have none 
 of it." 
 
 " Do you mean that j^ou will not keep it under any circum- 
 stances ? " 
 
 " I mean distinctly that I will not keep it under any circum- 
 stances." 
 
 " Miss Severn, for Heaven's sake, consider — " 
 
 She stopped him by a gesture. " Spare me, if you please. 
 I do not feel equal to a long discussion. I have had too many 
 of them already. Argument is useless. There is but one thing 
 for me to do, and that I intend to do. The fortune is not hon- 
 orably mine, Mr. Devereux, and I will not keep it." 
 
 " Give it away, then. There are the heirs-at-law. Hand it 
 over to them." 
 
 " That would not be what Mary wished. Besides, I have 
 no right to give it to any one but you. After it is yours, you 
 can hand it over to them if you like." 
 
 " It never will be mine," said he, gravely. " Understand 
 that once for all. There is nothing which could induce me to 
 take it — not even Mary's last wishes, not even your desire. If 
 you were not — you, I should be indignant at such a proposal^ 
 As it is, I fear that you must think poorly of me, else you could 
 not make it." 
 
 " How can you wrong me by saying such a thing ! " said 
 Madeleine. " Think poorly of you ? — I am sure you know bet- 
 ter than that. As for Mary — she meant to act for the best." 
 
 " I never entertained the least doubt of that," he said, with 
 
THE COST OF SACRIFICE. 417 
 
 a strain of emotion in his voice. " But the matter is a com- 
 plete m3'stery to me. I cannot imagine why she should have 
 thought that I would take from you what I refused from 
 her." 
 
 " I am sorry that 3'ou should not understand," said Made- 
 leine, " but there is only one thing for me to do." 
 
 Then there was a pause. Devereux felt, as he said, that the 
 matter was wrapped in mj'stery, but he also entertained a sus- 
 picion of what lay beneath the mystery and made Madeleine so 
 determined. This suspicion was necessarily vague, and took no 
 definite form. Madeleine, on her part, said to herself that she 
 was not accountable for the mystery. It was clearly impossible 
 for her to show Devereux Mary's letter. Things must be as 
 they were : she could not smooth the tangled threads in which 
 her own life and the lives of others were caught. A sense of 
 dull apathy weighed on her; Devereux thought that he had 
 never seen her so little responsive in sympathy, so cold, so un- 
 like herself. Naturally conscience — which makes self-accusers 
 as well as cowards of us all — made him suspect that this might 
 have its origin in his fault. What had Mary said in that letter 
 which it seemed he was not to see ? 
 
 The feehno;: of constraint which followed these reflections 
 with both, was not remarkable ; and when Devereux spoke, his 
 voice was so decided that it sounded almost stern : 
 
 " If you feel that it is impossible for you to retain the prop- 
 erty," he said, " do what you like with it — endow a church, if 
 you choose — but understand as a final matter that I refuse ab- 
 solutely to receive it. To any one but yourself I should say 
 this in much more imperative terms. If it is a question of hon- 
 or with you to relinquish it, still more is it a question of honor 
 with me to refuse it." 
 
 What could Madeleine reply to this ? She felt that, in his 
 place, she would act as he was doing, yet she also felt how 
 much his resistance complicated her position. Under the influ- 
 ence of these feelings she made what might perhaps be called 
 an exceedingly feminine plea. " You are very unkind," she 
 
ilS A QUESTION OF HOXOK. 
 
 said, with something like a sob in her voice, " you ought to 
 think more of me." 
 
 It was so chikllike, and under some circumstances would 
 have been so irresistible, that Devereux could scarcely restrain 
 a smile. " I would do any thing else for you," he said. "But 
 this you ought not to ask. It is simply impossible. I have al- 
 ready decided what to do — my plans are all made. I am going 
 to Colorado — to the friend of whom I spoke to you once 
 before." 
 
 " Going — away so far ! " said Madeleine. Tears gathered 
 in her eyes not so much for his departure as for a sense of the 
 change and instability of all earthly things. There seemed an 
 upheaval going on of all her familiar world. " You are not 
 acting justly," she added, after a minute, almost passionately. 
 " You are throwing all this burden on me, and it is not right. 
 Nothing can make me retain the fortune ; but you are throwing 
 the trouble, the responsibility, the weight — " 
 
 " I would relieve you of them if I could," said Devereux, 
 gently, as she stopjDed, but I cannot do so without taking the 
 property, and that is out of the question." 
 
 So it was to this point they both returned. Poor Mary little 
 anticipated such a clash of opposing wills when, in the simplicity 
 of her heart, she wrote the letter which caused it. Discussion 
 seemed useless. Every thing came to this — one would not re- 
 tain, the other refused to accept. How the matter was to be 
 finally settled seemed a puzzling enigma. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " SOME THEEE BE THAT SHADOWS KISS." 
 
 A BOMB-SHELL in the Champion household could not have ex- 
 cited more consternation than the news of Madeleine's resolution. 
 Basil, by his sister's request, carried the intelligence to James 
 
««SOME THERE BE THAT SHADOWS KISS." 419 
 
 Chauipion, asking him at the same time what legal forms were 
 necessary for the transfer of the property. That gentleman was 
 at first incredulous, and then indignant — more indignant than 
 he had ever been before in his life. Such a thing was without 
 precedent in his experience, and without excuse in his opinion. 
 He called the question of honor, on which Basil laid stress, a 
 question of fiddlesticks ; lie pointed out the moral and legal claim 
 which Madeleine possessed to the fortune, and he concluded by 
 saying that, if she persisted in such egregious folly, he would 
 have no part in it ; that some other lawyer must be found to do 
 the necessary legal work. " My share in the business began and 
 ended when I drew up Miss Carlisle's will," he said. " Of any 
 foolish letter which she may have written afterward, I know 
 nothing. I thought Madeleine had more sense than to act 
 in such a manner as this. It seems one is never safe in as- 
 suming that a woman may not be carried away by impulse." 
 
 "I am not a woman," said Basil, " and I agree with her." 
 
 Champion had too much courtesy to say, " The more fool 
 you ! " but — he looked it. " You are one of a class of men who 
 are cursed by a morbid sense of honor," he said. " You ought 
 to distrust your own opinion on all such points. Now, I am 
 sure that I am an honorable man, but, under the circumstances, 
 I should not hesitate to take the fortune and to keep it." 
 
 " Under the circumstances, I have no idea that you would do 
 any thing of the kind," returned Basil, dryly. " We are very apt to 
 think our neighbor's scruples nonsense, when, if we were placed 
 in his position, we might find them serious enough. However 
 that may be, Madeleine's resolution is taken, and nothing will 
 change it." 
 
 " I shall at least clear my conscience by letting her hear my 
 opinion of the matter," said Champion. 
 
 He was as good as his word. He went to see Madeleine, and 
 let her hear his opinion of the matter — a terse, decided, lawyer- 
 like and common-sense opinion, which might have influenced a 
 resolve less strongly grounded than hers. She listened with 
 patience and replied with kindness, but he recognized, as every 
 
i20 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 one else had done, that her determination was wl oily bej^ond 
 his power of moving. When he returned home with this news, 
 Rosalind's disgust, and Helen's dismay, can perhaps be imag- 
 ined. The latter felt that she had " committed " herself to Basil 
 in a wholly unnecessary manner ; the former, that the Severn 
 star had set again in deeper gloom than ever. She was philo- 
 sophical about the matter, however, observing that, although 
 she had always known that Madeleine and Basil were full of 
 Quixotism, she bad not suspected, until now, half the extent 
 of their absurdity. " What will be next on the cards, I won- 
 der? " said she. " Whom will Mr. Devereux bestow the fortune 
 upon ? " 
 
 " Perhaps," said IMrs. Champion, in her imposing tone, *' Mr. 
 Devereux and Madeleine may settle the matter by a marriage." 
 
 But Rosalind treated this suggestion with the well-bred scorn 
 which she felt that it deserved. " There is nothing in Madeleine 
 to attract such a man as Mr. Devereux," she said, with the calm 
 decision of one who knows whereof she speaks. " He admires 
 beautiful women, and women with style. Now, one could as soon 
 associate style with St. Cecilia as with Madeleine. She suits 
 Gordon Lacy exactly, and will probably spend her youth waiting 
 for him to make a fortune — which he never will make. How I 
 detest long engagements ! " 
 
 " Mr. Lacy said the other day that he thought they were 
 generally mistakes," remarked Miss Champion, with deliberate 
 malice. 
 
 "I am glad Madeleine has made liim understand that at last," 
 returned Rosalind, coolly. " I have been trying for some time to 
 induce her to discard him." 
 
 In a place like Stansbury, whatever is known to three or four 
 people must necessarily soon be known to everybody, and before 
 society had ceased marveling over Mary Carlisle's will, and con- 
 jecturing what Madeleine would do — whether she would imme- 
 diately marry Gordon LiSlgj ; whether Basil would buy the mills ; 
 whether they would all go to live at the Lodge, etc., etc. — the 
 news of her resolution to resign the fortune convulsed Stans- 
 
"SOME THERE BE THAT SHADOWS KISS." 421 
 
 bar J to its centre with such a sensation as it had not known 
 before for j^ears. People were so astounded that they simply 
 stared at each other, and said at intervals, " Did j-ou ever hear 
 the like ? " 
 
 Apparently nobody ever had heard the like. There was 
 no precedent for any thing of the kind in Stansbury experience. 
 A dozen wild rumors and versions of the story were set afloat in 
 as many hours — versions which nobody took the trouble to con- 
 tradict, the Severns being too indifferent, and the Champions 
 too angry. The town was rather inclined to dullness just then 
 — a chronic condition of most country towns — and it was conse- 
 quently duly grateful for such a dish of gossip. Everj^body was 
 interested in Devereux's movements. What did he mean to do ? 
 The acute public mind still regarded him with distrust and dis- 
 approval. People did not hesitate to hint that the present state 
 of aifairs was the result of some dee23-laid plot of his — that 
 he had induced Mary to write a will before she died, which 
 Madeleine conceived to be binding in honor, though it was not 
 bindino- in law. "If it's bindino- in honor, it'll be the same 
 as if it was binding in law with the Severns," said some of the 
 older inhabitants, who knew the history and character of the 
 family. 
 
 In the midst of all this, nobody (except, perhaps, Miss Cham- 
 pion) bestowed much thought on Gordon Lacy, but it is to be 
 supposed he supplied the omission by bestowing a great deal 
 on himself. He certainly spent two or three moody days revolv- 
 ing in his mind the situation in which he found himself, and 
 finally he shook the dust of Stansbury from his feet, and departed 
 for New York — with what ulterior intentions, save the vague one 
 of making literature a profession, even his own family did not 
 know. 
 
 The news of his departure added slightly to the general sen- 
 sation. *' So the engagement is off at last ! " gossips, both mas- 
 culine and feminine, said to one another — and this fact estab- 
 lished, public comprehension leaped at once from effect to cause. 
 On the subject there was but one opinion— that Lacy had acted 
 
122 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 very badly, though how much his personal unpopularity helped 
 to make this ojDinion, there was no accurate mode of determining. 
 Those who have in any manner exalted themselves above their 
 fellows must expect to be judged by a severe standard, and 
 Lacy had exalted himself most superciliously. Now came the 
 inevitable hour when performance, measured by pretension, ex- 
 hibited a very shabby discrepancy. " This is what comes of all 
 his fine words and ideas ! " cynical friends and neighbors re- 
 marked. " There's many a man who never knew any thing about 
 * ideal beauty ' in his life, who would have had manliness enough 
 to stand by the woman he loved, whether she was rich or poor." 
 Certainly it was impossible to deny that ideal beauty had not 
 worked a very beautiful result in the character of its apostle — 
 and Stansbury (mindful of having been more than once de- 
 nounced as " barbarous ") rejoiced in the fact. 
 
 When Madeleine heard the news she grew a shade paler, and 
 her lips set themselves a little, but that was all. It did not sur- 
 prise her. She had expected something of the kind — at least 
 she felt sure that her parting with Lacy was final, and that he 
 was as clearly conscious of this as herself. It was no sudden 
 shock which had separated them, but many causes culminating 
 at last in one definite effect. Rosalind, who had brought the 
 intelligence, looked at her keenly. 
 
 " I am very glad that you dismissed him at last," she said. 
 " T should have given him his walking-papers long ago. If you 
 were only going to keep the fortune now, like a sensible person 
 — only in that case I am confident you would never have rid 
 j^ourself of Gordon, for he would never have given you an op- 
 portunity to do so." 
 
 " Rosalind, you are talking about what you don't understand," 
 said Madeleine, gravely. " My engagement to Gordon is ended, 
 but you are mistaken if you think I ' dismissed ' him. I should 
 take shame to myself if I had broken my word for no better rea- 
 son than that I chose to do so. One's word is too sacred a thing 
 to be given or reclaimed lightly. But when two people are 
 agreed that it is best to part, then an engagement may be hoc 
 
"SOME THERE BE THAT SHADOWS KISS." 423 
 
 orably dissolved. It was in that way that Gordon and myself 
 said good-by." 
 
 " And not at all, I suppose, because you were going to re- 
 sign the fortune ? " said Rosalind. 
 
 Madeleine waived this remark. She was too honorable to 
 deny its truth, and too loyal to betra}' the man she had loved. 
 " I shall not answer any questions. The matter rests entirely 
 between Gordon and myself, and, if I do not blame him, no one 
 else has a right to do so." 
 
 "I am glad to say that he left without seeing Helen," re- 
 marked Rosalind, amiably. " I know that he did not see her, 
 because she was so much astonished to hear that he was gone, 
 I think she is really in love with him — as much as she can be 
 in love with anybody — and I am sure she means to treat Basil 
 abominably before she finishes amusing herself with him. Why 
 can't you warn him, Madeleine ? He heeds you. It really puts 
 me out of patience to see a man made such a fool of — and by 
 Helen ! " 
 
 " You did not think it strange when men were made fools by 
 you," said Madeleine, smiling faintly. " There is no good in 
 warning Basil. He must learn wisdom for himself, and I fear 
 that he is learning it very fast." 
 
 She was right — Basil was learning a certain kind of wisdom 
 very fast indeed. Yet it was a wisdom which no one need de- 
 sire to learn — a sorrowful realization of what some writers would 
 fain make us believe the rule in human nature, falsehood for 
 truth, selfishness for tenderness, shallowness for depth. Happy 
 is the man who has not at some period of his life learned such a 
 lesson, and been forced to feel that — 
 
 " Sad it may be to be longing, with a patience faint and weary, 
 For a hope deferred — and sadder still to see it fade and fall ; 
 Yet to grasp the thing we long for, and with sorrow sick and dreary, 
 Then to find how it can fail us, is the saddest pain of all." 
 
 What he had longed for through man}^ days, Basil grasped 
 at last for one fleeting moment, and lo ! like fairy gold, it turned 
 to moss and leaves in his grasp. Though, like many another 
 
424 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 man, he had been ensnared by mere physical beauty — beauty in 
 which shone no ray from mind or soul — his was a nature which 
 such charms had no power to satisfy. And herein lay one great 
 diiFerence between Lacy and himself. The former felt, as keenly 
 as Basil did, that Helen Champion's nature was of the shallow- 
 est, her range of thought of the narrowest, and her capacity for 
 sympathy so limited that it scarcely merited the name; yet 
 there were times when the intellectual man found pleasure in 
 her society from these very causes, when he was conscious of a 
 sense of relief in feeling that he had no criticism to fear, when 
 his vanity was gratified by her homage (utterly Avithout any 
 power of real insight as he knew her to be), when his lower na- 
 ture asserted itself and he said mentally that the women who 
 serve as playthings and dolls are the best companions for man, 
 who wants a worshiper at his footstool, not a rival near the 
 throne. 
 
 Such sentiments as these were utterly foreign to Basil's con- 
 ception. They found neither place in his mind nor echo in his 
 heart. He had none of Lacy's intellectual gifts, but he had that 
 which is much higher and far more admirable — a loyal, gallant, 
 knightly nature. Love and reverence went hand-in-hand with 
 him — for in the instinctive pride and purity of his character, he 
 had always held aloof from things base and degrading — and, 
 w^hen reverence began to fail, love could not long survive. Yet 
 in a heart like his, affection takes such deep root that its death 
 causes a struggle which a lighter nature fails to imagine or com- 
 prehend. Through this struggle Madeleine and himself were 
 both passing, both learning by degrees the unworthiness of the 
 objects on which they had lavished their tenderness, yet both 
 loj^al, as it were, in their own despite. 
 
 During these days which were sufficiently uncomfortable to 
 everybody concerned, the palm of discomfort might, perhaps 
 have been awarded to Devereux. He was still firm as a rock in 
 his determination not to accept the fortune which Madeleine, od 
 her side, was firm in her resolution to make over to him ; but it 
 may readily be imagined that to be the centre of such a commo- 
 
THE LAST APPEAL. 425 
 
 tion was not agreeable to him. Indeed, it was as distinctly dis- 
 agreeable as any thing could possibly have been conceived. Yet 
 what was to be done ? He had exhausted the forcible negatives 
 of the language in expressing his refusal, and he found that re- 
 fusal altogether unheeded. It was true that, however determined 
 Madeleine might be to give, she could not force him to accept ; 
 but it was the giving which disturbed him, it was her persisting 
 in casting away an estate which would secure to her all that ease 
 and power of wealth which the man of the world fully appre- 
 ciated. Nerved at last by desperation, he went once more to 
 appeal to her. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE LAST APPEAL. 
 
 " Miss Madeleine's not at home, Mr. Devereux," said Ann, 
 answering the door-bell, scrubbing-brush in hand — for she had 
 been polishing the hall-floor with wax. 
 
 " Not at home ! " repeated Devereux — looking as he felt, a 
 little blank. " Do you know when she will be at home ? " 
 
 " No, sir, I don't," Ann answered. " She went out into the 
 woods 'bout an hour ago, and she don't often come home till dark 
 when she goes there." 
 
 " Did she go alone ? " asked Devereux, into whose mind an 
 idea flashed like an inspiration. 
 
 " There wasn't anybody with her but Lance," replied Ann. 
 Then, with a sj'mpathetic intuition which did her credit, she 
 pointed over her shoulder, " Miss Madeleine went that way," 
 she said, " across the fields tow'rds Crag's Hill." 
 
 " Thank you," said Devereux, gratefully. He put out his hand, 
 with something in it which raised him very high in Ann's esti- 
 mation. While she dropped a courtesy and uttered her thanks, 
 he turned, passed quickly down the walk, and out of the gate. 
 A sudden sense of elasticity came to him — the first he had felt 
 
426 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 since Mary's death. It may have been the bright warmth and 
 sweetness of the spring-like afternoon, or it may have been — 
 and this was more likeh^ — that he was going to see Madeleine 
 alone, out in the great expanse and freedom of Nature, instead 
 of within the formal walls of a room. That any thing pleasant 
 could be the result of this interview was, of course, not to be 
 expected — he told himself, as if rebuking his own levity, that 
 such a thing was impossible — yet, nevertheless, he felt that 
 to see her was pleasant, let other circumstances be wdiat they 
 might. 
 
 The road which he followed to Crag's Hill was a little longer 
 than that short cut " across the fields " of which Ann had spoken, 
 but he walked briskly down a street, past scattered suburban 
 houses, through a lane, and so out into the stillness and pleas- 
 antness of absolute " country." Along the valley, where Made- 
 eleine had met Lacy, and heard the news of Mary's will, he went, 
 noting, yet scarcely heeding, the mellow sunlight spreading the 
 ridges with gold, and the wafts of spicy fragrance from the pines 
 growing along the uplands, and standing, like Titan spears, 
 against the sky. Around the base of Crag's Hill the valley made 
 a bend, and he passed around this before he saw, perched on the 
 high western slope of the hill, a figure clad in black, with a leo- 
 nine dog for companion. 
 
 With a sense of satisfaction he proceeded immediately to 
 mount the ascent, which was rather steep. Lance heard him 
 breaking through the undergrowth before Madeleine, in her ab- 
 straction, noticed any thing, and with a low, menacing growl, 
 that faithful sentinel darted away. " Lance ! " cried Madeleine, 
 afraid that he might harm or frighten some one — but, all in a 
 moment, Lance's growl turned to a whine of delight, and a few 
 seconds later he darted back to his mistress's side, followed by 
 a figure that Madeleine at first did not recognize. Then, with 
 surprise, she said : 
 
 " Mr. Devereux ! Is it possible this is you ? " 
 There was an air of coolness as well as surprise in her tone, 
 which made Devereux feel as if he had presumed. He lifted his 
 
THE LAST APPEAL. 427 
 
 hat with an air of deprecation. " It is I, Miss Severn," he said. 
 " I hope you will forgive me for venturing* to follow you, but 
 I wished particularly to see you, and I heard that you came this 
 way." 
 
 " There is nothing to forgive," said Madeleine, still a little 
 coolly. " I am sorry that you should have had the trouble of 
 the walk ; but if you have any thing special to say — " 
 
 " I liked the walk," said he, almost humbly. " The afternoon 
 is beautiful, and, since I am going away so soon, I did not like 
 to lose an opportunity of seeing you. May I sit down ? " 
 
 " Surely, yes," she replied, smiling slightly. "There is little 
 choice of a seat — but I should have asked you to sit down. I 
 forgot that this hill-side is, in a measure, my castle. It is a 
 favorite haunt of ours — is it not. Lance ? " 
 
 Lance, hearing his name, beat his plumy tail on the ground 
 assentingly, while Devereux, disregarding the attractions of a 
 rock and a stump, threw himself carelessly down on the short, 
 dry grass that covered the hill. Having done so, he saw at 
 once why Madeleine liked the spot. The view was far-reaching 
 and beautiful, with that softness of a rolling country which, with- 
 out the grandeur of a mountain-region, has its own attraction to 
 the eyes of those who love Nature in all her phases. The vallej^, 
 with its glancing stream, was at their feet ; beyond, the ground 
 rose in undulating swell, cultivated toward the west, far as the 
 eye could reach ; on the crest of a distant hill, where one or two 
 tall trees stood outlined against the sky like the masts of ships 
 at sea, some cattle were slowly moving, thrown into relief by 
 the golden light of evening behind them. As the glance swept 
 round the great circle of the horizon, to the north belts of blue 
 forest stretched behind the level fields, while in the east rose a 
 chain of wooded heights of which Crag's Hill was the chief, and 
 which formed part of the ridge on which Stansbury was built. 
 There was a sense of great expanse and wide freedom in the 
 scene, as it melted away on all sides into misty distance. Fresh 
 sweet winds came out of the west, where the sun was sinking 
 in a tender, lucid sky, with floating masses of vapor above 
 
428 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " There is something in the effect of this view — particularly 
 toward the west — which reminds me of the ocean," said Deve- 
 reux. 
 
 " I have often thought so," said Madeleine. " I like to 
 come here. It is almost like going into a church — it calms one, 
 and makes one feel-the littleness of life, and particularly of one's 
 affairs in life. That is a good thing to feel at all times — not only 
 from a Christian but from a philosoj^hical point of view." 
 
 " Do you think so ? " said Devereux, who was not averse to 
 . prefacing what he had to say by a little discursive conversation. 
 " I am not sure that I agree with you. Such reflections may 
 be necessary for some people, but I am obliged to spur myself 
 to action by exactly contrary thoughts. If I pause to consider 
 of how little real importance any thing is — at least, how few 
 things which make up the sum of life have any meaning which 
 is not trivial — I become hopelessly indifferent ; and J.ndifference 
 has already been the bane of my life." 
 
 " We are not speaking of the same thing," said Madeleine. 
 " I think I know the frame of mind to which you allude ; but 
 that was not what I meant. Are you never distressed or an- 
 noyed ? If so, you would know the comfort of coming here 
 where the great bending sky seems to dwarf one's trouble, and 
 one feels, as Solomon said to the Eastern prince, ' This, too, 
 will pass away.' " 
 
 " Most things pass away," said Devereux, reflectivelj^ " but 
 some of them cause a great deal of annoyance before they go. 
 Miss Severn, I wish I could make you comprehend how much 
 unnecessary trouble you are now giving yourself, every one con- 
 nected with you, and myself most, perhajDS, of all, by persisting 
 in a course which is — if you will pardon me — unworthy of your 
 good sense." 
 
 " I am sorrj:^, very sorrj^, if I am giving trouble," said 'Made- 
 leine, turning her soft, wistful regard upon him. " But, after 
 all, is it quite just to say that I am giving it ? Remember I 
 did not place myself in the position which entails this course to 
 which no doubt you allude," 
 
THE LAST APPEAL. 429 
 
 " But how can any position in which you are placed possi- 
 bly entail such a thing ? " said Devereux, impatiently. A sud- 
 den resolution came to him of sounding the depth of the mys- 
 tery which puzzled and annoyed him. " You have never been 
 thoroughly open with me," he said. " I think you ought to be. 
 I am sure there is something at the bottom of all this which I 
 do not know — something w^hich probably would be all the bet- 
 ter for letting daylight in upon it." 
 
 A swift wave of color came over her face. She met his eyes 
 — full, searching, direct in their gaze — for an instant, then turned 
 her own away. "You know all that it is essential for you to 
 know," she said. " I have told you that I am bound in honor." 
 
 "But how ?" asked Devereux. He saw that he had gained 
 an advantage, and pressed on eagerly. " How can you be bound 
 in honor to perform a wdiolly useless, and — you must excuse my 
 plain speaking — foolish act? What good results to any one? 
 You ought to know me well enough to believe that I shall never 
 touch this fortune which you persist in nominally bestowing 
 upon me. In a day or two — to-morrow, perhaps — I shall leave 
 for Colorado. Probably I shall never come back. I shall cer- 
 tainly never come back to claim what is not and can never be 
 mine." 
 
 There was no mistaking the decision which filled the last 
 sentence. Madeleine's lips parted and a faint sigh came through 
 them. " Poor Mary ! " she said ; " how hard it seems that her 
 last wish should go unfulfilled ! She desired above all things 
 that her fortune should be yours, and yet you refuse to take it." 
 
 He threw his head back with a very haughty gesture. " Of 
 course I refuse," he said. " I should despise myself — you would 
 despise me — if I did 7iot refuse. I told Mary, before she made 
 her will, that I could take nothing from her. To discuss such a 
 question now is perfectly useless. The fortune is left to you, 
 and it is yours." 
 
 " It is not mine ! " said Madeleine. " It was left me under a 
 
 false impression — and even if I wished to retain it, I could not * 
 
 honorably do so." 
 
 19 
 
430 A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 "Under what false impression was it left to you?" asked 
 Devereux. " Don't hesitate to tell me. I feel that I ought to 
 know." 
 
 " How can I tell you ? " said Madeleine. She spoke in a low 
 voice : her color came and went. Once she could have faced 
 such an emergency with the courage that so rarely deserted 
 her, but now she shrank, conscious of not being herself, sensible 
 how much she had been shaken by all that she had passed 
 through. 
 
 " Why can you not tell me ? " asked he, with the gentleness 
 which sometimes made his voice irresistible — a gentleness which 
 came from nature, not from art. " Do you think I could mis- 
 understand any thing ? Do you think I could doubt her — or 
 you?" 
 
 His kindness overcame all her doubts. A sudden resolution 
 — the wisdom of which she did not pause to question — carried 
 her away on its tide. It seemed as if she had unconsciously 
 prejoared for this, for she had with her the " Imitation " with 
 Mary's letter between its leaves. The book lay in her lap, open 
 where she had been reading, and, as she glanced down, her eyes 
 fell on these words : 
 
 " How often have I not found faithfulness there, where T 
 thought I might depend upon it ! 
 
 " And how often have I there found it where I the less ex- 
 pected it ! " 
 
 Who is not superstitious enough to sometimes throw the 
 weight of decision on such an accident as this — an open book, 
 a sentence fraught with meaning ? To Madeleine, in her per- 
 plexity and doubt, it seemed as if a voice spoke. Her heart was 
 still sore with the sense of having failed to find faithfulness there 
 where she thought she might depend upon it. And now, might 
 she not find it here ? — might she not find a friend, who, as he 
 said, would not misunderstand ? She hesitated only a moment. 
 Then she drew out the letter and gave it to him. 
 
 " There ! " she said. " That will tell vou all." 
 
 He took it, and as he glanced dow^n at Jessie's large, irregu- 
 
THE LAST APPEAL. 431 
 
 liir handwriting, a sudden instinct — a quick apprehension of the 
 truth — was borne to him. He rose and walked away. 
 
 Madeleine was glad of this, and she thought again, as she had 
 more than once thought before, that wherever a delicate per- 
 ception of w^hat was fitting could save a man from a blunder, 
 Devereux would be saved. That fine courtesy which is born of 
 consideration for others, and perfected by social training, was 
 his in preeminent degree. She watched him as he walked away, 
 and when he paused at a little distance, and, standing with his 
 back to her, one shoulder leaning against the tall, straight trunk 
 of a pine, began to read the letter, she found herself wondering 
 at the revolution of her own feeling with regard to him. What 
 a little while ago it seemed since she had utterly distrusted him ! 
 and now she felt as sure of his integrity as of her ow^n ! She 
 had come to expect, as a natural thing, kindness and considera- 
 tion from him. To how few men could she have ventured to 
 show such a letter as that of Mary's, sure that none of the over- 
 weening self-conceit, which is a more distinctively masculine 
 than feminine failing, would come into play ! " He will know 
 perfectly how we have both been misunderstood," she said to 
 herself; but of how few men could she have predicated such a 
 thing with any certainty ! 
 
 He was motionless a long time, or what seemed a long time 
 to her. He must have read the letter over twice or thrice, she 
 thought. Meanwhile, the sun — a great ball of fire — sank slow- 
 ly beneath the far, blue horizon which marked " the fine, faint 
 limits of the bounding day," and after the last fine of his disk 
 had disappeared, his rays of glory, shooting upward, turned the 
 filmy vapors to islets of dazzling gold floating on a background 
 of aqua-marine, which had that peculiar translucent- appearance 
 that one often sees in a sunset sky. Madeleine tried to fasten 
 her attention on the changing tints, but with very little success. 
 After a minute, she looked again at the figure leaning against 
 the pine ; and, as she looked, Devereux turned and came tow- 
 ard her. 
 
 Then it was that the delicate bravery, the supreme reticence 
 
id2 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 and pride of her nature, asserted itself. There was not the 
 faintest trace of the flutter of self-consciousness which an ordi- 
 nary woman would have betrayed on such an occasion. Both 
 courage and high-breeding came to her assistance, and the vain- 
 est man alive could not have misconstrued the calm dignity of 
 her manner. There was no flush on her pale face, no drooping 
 of the lids over her steady eyes. As Devereux reached her 
 side, she saw that he had lost much of his usual composure, 
 and therefore she spoke first — very quietly : 
 
 " I am sure you must have been touched as well as aston- 
 ished by that letter. I was. Its generosity is like Mary ; its 
 mistake was no fault of hers. She was blind, she could not see 
 for herself, and she listened too readily to a story as absLird as 
 it was false. But you understand now why I cannot keep the 
 property." 
 
 " Pardon me, I do not understand any thing of the kind," 
 he answered. " It is true that Mary took too much for granted'; 
 but even if she had taken nothing for granted, I am sure that 
 she would still have left you all that was hers to leave." 
 
 " How can you say such a thing when her own words are 
 before you ! " exclaimed Madeleine. " She sa,ys emphatically 
 that she leaves it to me as a trust, not an inheritance." 
 
 Devereux knitted his brows slightly. " You attach too 
 much importance to those words," he said. " You wrest them 
 from their context. Do you not perceive that she put them on 
 record only because she did not wish the unreserved possession 
 of this fortune to stand as a barrier between — " 
 
 He broke off abruptly, but Madeleine knew what words he 
 would have uttered if he had finished the sentence, and she was 
 angry with herself for blushing. Having been guilty of that 
 involuntary act of folly, she made amends for it by speaking 
 very coldly. 
 
 " Whatever Mary meant," she said, " the fact remains that 
 she left the fortune to me under a grave mistake ; and that i3 
 reason enough for my not retaining it." 
 
 She looked at him as she spoke, and something strange in 
 
THE LAST APPEAL. 433 
 
 his eyes — an expression almost impossible to define — sent a 
 quick thrill of consternation over her. What did it mean ? 
 She did not stop to ask herself, but, acting on an uncontrollable 
 impulse, rose to her feet. 
 
 " That is all," she said. " Now, I think we had better go 
 home." 
 
 " It is early," said Devereux, whose composure came back 
 as she lost hers. " Will you not stay a little longer ? I shall 
 not trouble you much more, you know — I am going to start for 
 Colorado to-morrow — but I have a few words to say." 
 
 The allusion to Colorado was artfully introduced. It made 
 Madeleine pause. Indeed, in the quick reaction of sentiment, 
 she was ashamed of herself. What folly had she imagined ? 
 
 " Are you sure that you are going ? " she said. " Will 
 nothing induce you to stay — at least long enough to make some 
 arrangements aboutr the property ? " 
 
 " Good Heavens, Miss Severn ! " he said, " are vou still de- 
 termined on that ? Then you force me to candor ! Don't 
 blame me more than you can help when I tell you thut what 
 you consider a mistake on Mary's part was not a mistake at all, 
 so far as I am concerned. She speaks in this letter of my love 
 for you as something of which she was sure. She had reason 
 to be sure of it. Do you remember our long interview before 
 she made her will ? She asked me then if I did not love you, 
 and I — to whom the revelation was new, but strong — could not 
 deny the truth." 
 
 " Mr. Devereux ! " said Madeleine. The ejaculation was an 
 absolute gasp. At that moment there was room for nothing 
 but amazement in her mind. Mary's letter itself had not been 
 a greater shock than this most unexpected declaration. She 
 retreated a step and gazed at the speaker with incredulous as- 
 tonishment. He took advantage of the pause to go on. There 
 was no want of self-possession in his manner now. It was 
 that of one from whom a load of silence had been lifted. 
 
 " You must forgive me," he said. " How could I help 
 telling you ? How could I let vou continue to think that 
 
i34 A QUESTION OF UONOR. 
 
 it was all a mistake. Any other woman would have known, 
 but you never seem to think of yourself, and so you did not 
 know." 
 
 Then Madeleine found words. Amazement suddenly swept 
 into indignation. She turned on him with such a blaze of pas- 
 sionate resentment in her soft, brown ej^es, as no one had ever 
 seen there before. 
 
 " If this is true," she said, " if you are not merely playing 
 on my credulity, how can I answer you ? — how can I tell you 
 with sufficient force that it would never have occurred to me to 
 suspect you of such cruel dishonor if you had not borne testi- 
 mony against yourself ? " 
 
 The trenchant words cut the deeper for their unexpected- 
 ness. A flush rose to his brow, but his eyes met hers steadily. 
 "I do not think j^ou have considered," he said; "I do not 
 think you understand. My conscience does not accuse me of 
 either dishonor or cruelty." 
 
 " Your conscience must be a verv callous one," said Made- 
 leine, to whom, for the first time in her life, a power of uttering 
 bitter words came. " To be false to Mary in your heart, and 
 then to tell her on her death-bed — oh, I could not have believed 
 it ! I could not have thouo-ht that any one would be so cruel 
 and so base ! My poor, poor Mary ! To think that she did not 
 even die in ignorance of how she had wasted her love and faith ! " 
 She turned and walked away from him in an agony of tears. 
 It seemed more thaii she could bear. That Mary's heart — the 
 truth, the tenderness, the trust of which no one knew so well as 
 herself — should have been stabbed by such a revelation at the 
 very last, was as keen a sorrow to Madeleine as she had ever 
 been called upon to endure. And Mary had gone away believing 
 her faithless ! This edo-ed the bitterness twofold. No consolinsr 
 reflection came to her that perhaps Mary knew better now in 
 that clear light of eternit}^ which (we hope) solves man}'' a riddle 
 of time. All she felt was the human sense of intolerable pain — 
 pain for the tender heart that had been wounded ; pain for hav- 
 ing been misunderstood ; pain most of all that no word of expla- 
 
THE LAST APPEAL. 435 
 
 nation could now break the great gulf of silence between the 
 living and the dead. Not far from wdiere she had been sitting 
 a fence ran, dividing the hill. She walked up to this, and, lean- 
 ing her face down on the top rail, sobbed like a child. 
 
 As for Devereux, it is not too much to say that he was 
 appalled by the effect of his revelation. He was accustomed to 
 seeing Madeleine so calm and self-controlled, that this burst of 
 anger and grief amazed him inexpressibly. He was more than 
 amazed; he was deeply concerned, and, after reflecting for a 
 minute wdiat was best to do, he walked quietly up to her. 
 
 " I will not ask you to pardon me for paining you so much," 
 he said in a low voice, " for I am sure 3'ou cannot do so yet — 
 you do not understand. But I appeal to your sense of justice 
 not to judge me too hardly before you have heard my story. I 
 know you do not feel able to hear it now, and I — perhaps I could 
 not tell it as it should be told. But may I iGvite it ? If I send 
 you a letter will you read it ? " 
 
 " Why should I ? " asked Madeleine, speaking with a great 
 effort, and keeping her face turned away. " You are right. I 
 cannot forgive you for darkening the last hours of — of — " 
 
 Her voice trembled, faltered, broke down — but he knew what 
 she would have said. He answered gently — almost humbly : " I 
 do not ask you to forgive me until you know all. Will you not 
 reserve your judgment for a little while ? I shall send you the 
 letter to-morrow, and I am sure that you will read it. You are 
 too kind, as w^ell as too just, not to do so. Now I will go. I 
 am sure vou would rather walk home alone." 
 
 "Thank you," said Madeleine. She spoke involuntarily, 
 feeling that, let him be what else he might, it was impossible to 
 deny his consideration — impossible not to be grateful for it. 
 She heard him pass away from her side, speak to Lance, and 
 then £'0 down the hill. When she lifted her face at last she was 
 alone, and the divine flush of sunset had lighted up the whole 
 sky with rose and opal beauty. Even in the east the tender 
 radiance tinged all the bending arch, while the reflected glory 
 fell over the great dumb face of Nature like a smile from God. 
 
t36 A QUESTION OF IIONOH. 
 
 CHAPTER YIL 
 
 DEVEREUX TELLS HIS STORY. 
 
 The next day was Sunday. At seven o'clock, Madeleine 
 went out to church, and when she returned home, breakfast was 
 on the table. As she sat down, she saw that the mail had been 
 brought from the office. Two or three letters lay by her plate, 
 at which she glanced listlessly, until on one she recognized, with 
 a start, Devereux's writing. She could not help wondering if 
 any one else had noticed it, and instinctively she glanced at 
 Basil. He was dividing his attention between his breakfast- 
 plate and a newspaiDer, and did not look up. If he had observed 
 it, he made no sign to that effect. This was like Basil, how- 
 ever, and was no proof of a want of observation. Mrs. Severn 
 was deep in her own correspondence, so with a sense of relief 
 Madeleine slipped the letter into her pocket, to be read when 
 she was alone. 
 
 This was not until some time after breakfast. Church-bells 
 were beginning to peal out in chiming chorus on the air, when 
 she sat down by the ivy-encircled window in her room (which 
 had once been Rosalind's) to read the letter. Her pulses quick- 
 ened a little, with a vague sense of excitement and curiosity, as 
 she did so. What would he have to say ? How could he clear 
 himself of the charge of dishonor ? In all this Madeleine 
 scarcely thought of herself. It did not occur to her, as it would 
 have occurred to many women, to excuse Devereux because he 
 professed to love her. On the contrary, such a plea steeled her 
 heart the more against him. To make her accessory, as it were, 
 to betraying Mary's faith and wounding Mary's love — she felt 
 that she could forgive any thing sooner than that. It was in this 
 frame of mind that she unfolded the letter and began to read. 
 
 " In addressing you," Devereux wrote, '' I will not picture 
 you to myself as I left 3'ou this evening — paiifed, indignant, with 
 averted face, and all the friendly regard which I have won by 
 
DEVEREUX TELLS lilS STORY. 437 
 
 slow degrees and vi'itli so much difficulty, estranged from me. 
 If I thought of jou in that way, I should hardly be able to write 
 at all. I must of necessity address one whom I know better — 
 one in whose eyes kindness and tenderness dwell, on whose lips 
 gentleness reigns supreme, and in whose heart even those who 
 have erred may hope to find comprehension, charity, and justice. 
 I think you will pardon me for this, and therefore it is to that 
 gentle presence that my story shall be told. 
 
 " I do not know when I began to love you. Looking back I 
 endeavor vainly to tell. The sentiment was so subtile, and its 
 growth so gradual, that the idea of analyzing it, the idea of 
 anticipating what it might become, never occurred to me. I had 
 played with edged tools so long with perfect impunity that I 
 did not fear receiving a wound at last. I had amused myself 
 with the counterfeits of love, until I lost all power of recognizing 
 the divine original, and lost also, perhaps, all faith in its exist- 
 ence. My suspicions were disarmed by the manner in which 
 your attraction stole upon me. A fever-fit of captivated fancy 
 would have been perfectly familiar to me — but how could I tell 
 what heavenly spirit was coming with shy sweet steps to 
 brighten the earth for me by lodging in my heart ? 
 
 " Does this sound to»you strained and unreal ? I hope not, 
 for I count much on your sympathy — by which I mean that gift 
 of comprehending the moods and thoughts of others, which is 
 one of your greatest attractions. Try to throw yourself into my 
 thoughts : try to realize how all that was best and subtilest in 
 my nature answered to your touch, as a violin thrills under a 
 master's fingers — and yet how it chanced that I gave to the 
 spell every name but the right one. I said to myself that you 
 charmed my fancy, that you satisfied my taste, that you were 
 the most sympathetic of companions, the most unselfish of 
 friends ; but I did not say that I loved you, until the truth rose 
 up suddenly and stared me in the face. 
 
 *' It was on the night of that ball which neither of us is ever 
 iikely to forget, when we were sitting in the library — do you re- 
 member ? Then I felt with the force of an absolute revelation, and 
 
438 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 with a greater sense of dismay than I can hope to make plain to 
 you, that the strange sentiment which had changed the aspect 
 of every thing for me w\as love. That I was dismayed will not 
 surprise you. A hopeless passion may amuse a boy, but it can 
 only prove the misery of a man. You will say that a man need 
 not suffer from a hopeless passion if he chooses to be his own 
 master. Granted. But think of the struggle which the asser- 
 tion of mastery entails ! To those w^ho fight bravely, victory 
 generally comes at last ; but a life-and-death combat is a thing 
 from which the bravest might shrink. 
 
 " Probably you have forgotten all that we said that night. 
 Zhave not forgotten one word — I do not think I ever shall — but 
 to recall to your memory all that passed, would tax too greatly 
 the patience and kindness on which I rely. I did not betray 
 myself to you, for you suspected nothing, but I betrayed mj'self 
 to one whose ears were more acute because her eyes were blind. 
 Mary came to the door of the library, paused there for a few 
 minutes unnoticed, heard what was said, and then passed away. 
 
 " What followed you know. I cannot relate, I can scarcely 
 even in my thoughts venture to dwell upon, her great tenderness 
 and gentleness when she sent for me. One thing, however, I 
 must say in self-defense — in order to prove that I was not guilty 
 of the cruelty of which this evening jou seemed to think me 
 capable. She asked no questions, she simply said, ' I know the 
 truth ! ' — and how could I deny it, even if denial would have 
 brought conviction to her, which I doubt ? She seemed like one 
 who had already left the passions of earth behind — a calm had 
 come to her which no emotion had power to break. That I have 
 suffered keenly from the thought that such a knowledge should 
 have cast a shadow over her last hours, you will believe — yet I 
 cannot clearly see in what manner to blame myself. I can hear 
 you say, with your eyes shining like stars, that honor should 
 have kept my heart loyal to Mary. Alas ! the truth must be 
 written, and you must forgive it as well as 3'ou can — in the 
 sense of supreme love, my heart never was given to Mary. 
 Tenderness, kindness, pity, all these I felt for her — but not love. 
 
DEVEKEUX TELLS HIS STORY. 439 
 
 " I do not fear from you any harsh judgment on this con- 
 fession. Y^ou know better than to believe that any mercenary 
 motive made me seek that place in her heart which it is now 
 my punishment to have won. The subject is too complex to be 
 dealt with here. Many things influenced me. O gentle sym- 
 pathy, to which I find myself appealing as I write, am I wrong 
 in thinking that you feel what some of them were ? 
 
 "Now do you understand why that letter was written to 
 which you have given infinitely more importance than properly 
 belongs to it ? If I had not betrayed myself when we were 
 sitting in the librarj-, it would never have been written, and 
 Mary would have left her fortune to you unreservedly. It fol- 
 loAVS, therefore, that if you persist in the course upon which 
 you were determined when we parted this evening, I shall go 
 away feeling that I am accountable for your having impover- 
 ished yourself. Whether or not this consciousness will greatly 
 add to my happiness, you can judge. 
 
 " May I hope to see you once more and hear your final deci- 
 sion from you own lips ? I shall leave Stansbury to-morrow 
 night. Before I go, will you grant me an interview ? You may 
 trust me to say nothing to offend or pain you. Over the con- 
 tents of these pages I beg you to draw the kind mantle of your 
 charity, and to believe me always 
 
 " Your faithful friend and servant, 
 
 "Aexold Devekeux." 
 
 The faint color which came into Madeleine's cheeks as she 
 began this letter had increased to a scarlet flame by the time 
 she finished and laid it down. 
 
 " Is he mad ? " she said, half aloud. " What does he mean, 
 and what am I to do ? " 
 
 The last question was harder to answer than the first. What 
 he meant w^as sufficiently plain ; but what she was to do was 
 not so easy to tell. She could not but feel that the difficulties 
 and perplexities of her position were increased tenfold. In her 
 distress and doubt she wrung her hands tightly together as they 
 
ilO A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 lay in her lap. An overpowering sense of indignation against 
 Devereux filled her heart. It was all his fault ! That was what 
 she thought. It had been an evil day when he came to Stans- 
 bury, to wreck the lives and disturb the peace of people with 
 whom he had no concern, by his idle fancies ! 
 
 Poor Madeleine was scarcely to blame for these thoughts, 
 unjust as, in a measure, they were. It is hard to see the whole 
 meaning of our lives altered, our most cherished hopes brought 
 to naught, by the gravest blows of Fate : how much harder, 
 then, when they seem the sport of trifles fit only for contempt ! 
 This was the light in which she regarded Devereux's declara- 
 tion, being overwrought, strangely impatient, and disposed to 
 take an extreme view of things. Certainly he had not found 
 the gentleness, sj^mpathy, and justice, to which he appealed. 
 
 Presently the bells clashed out again on the air, and, rising 
 with a slight sigh, she walked to the mirror to put on her bon- 
 net. She could not stay at home as she felt inclined to do, 
 because she w^as organist, and no one could fill her place. She 
 must go ; but first she must write a note to Devereux. What 
 should she say ? The idea of seeing him was disagreeable to 
 her, yet she shrank from refusing so slight a favor when he was 
 going so far away. In her irresolution she glanced into the 
 mirror, and the sight of the heavy crape she wore for Mary 
 added to her repugnance to discuss any further the subject of his 
 letter. 
 
 " He does not even think of the decencies of life," she said 
 to herself, bitterly. " How short a time it has been since Mary 
 died in his arms ; yet he does not pay her memory the respect 
 of seeming constancy ! No ; I cannot see him ! " 
 
 In this mood she went to church ; but it is pleasant to record 
 that she came away more like herself. On her knees in the 
 sanctuary she had formed a resolution, and, reaching home, her 
 first act was to write a note to Devereux. It contained only 
 two lines : 
 
 "I will see you after vespers. Can you meet me at the 
 church-door at five o'clock ? M. S." 
 
DEVEREUX TEI-LS HIS STORY. 441 
 
 " There will be no answer," Madeleine said to her messen- 
 ger when she gave him this missive to take to the hotel where 
 Devereux lodged. Notwithstanding that direction, he brought 
 an answer when he returned : 
 
 "I am very grateful for your kindness, and shall certainly be 
 there. A. D." 
 
 Vespers were nearly over, and a small ac-olyte was light- 
 ing the candles on the altar for benediction, when Devereux 
 entered the church and sat down near the door. The rich, full 
 notes of the organ were rolling out under the touch of fingers 
 that knew how to draw forth all the magic of the keys ; the 
 choir — well trained, though few — were chanting the beautiful 
 Latin anthem ; the lights flashed out like stars over the face of 
 the altar, and the people scattered about the chapel dropped 
 through their fingers the last beads of their rosaries. After a 
 while the voices ceased, and only the organ still rolled forth its 
 splendid tones. Then the door of the tabernacle was opened ; 
 the congregation sank upon their knees ; the monstrance, flash- 
 ing in the light of the tapers, was lifted up, and the choir burst 
 into the magnificent " O Salutaris Hostia ! " 
 
 Before long all was over, the benediction given, the " Tan- 
 tum Ergo" sung with a pathos and sweetness that might have 
 touched any listener, the organ sobbing out its undertone ; the 
 golden-robed priest left the sanctuary ; the starry lights were 
 extinguished; the people began to depart. The choir came 
 down in a band and went out. As they paused a moment in the 
 vestibule, Devereux heard one of them say : 
 
 *' How we miss Gordon Lacy ! Of course he only came to 
 oblige Madeleine ; but didn't he sing charmingly ! " 
 
 A few minutes later Madeleine herself came down the steep, 
 dark staircase which led to the organ-loft, and found a cavalier 
 waiting for her just inside the arched doorway. He was a cava- 
 lier fitted by nature to please any woman's vanity and touch any 
 woman's heart ; but neither Madeleine's vanity nor her heart 
 was just then in a condition to be touched. He thought that 
 
i42 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 she looked like a fair, cold statue as she advanced out of the 
 _2,-loom toward him, her black draperies sweeping round her. 
 This was a mere fancy, however, for although she looked pale — 
 as was now habitual with her — there was nothing statue-like in 
 her appearance, while her manner had all its usual gentle sim- 
 plicity when she spoke to him. 
 
 *' Thank j^ou for being so punctual. I considered, after my 
 note was sent, that you might think it strange that I should 
 have asked you to meet me here ; but at home we should have 
 been sure to be interrupted, and then — do you not feel some- 
 times more able to talk in the open air ? " 
 
 " I feel so now^," he answered ; " I felt so yesterday afternoon 
 when I followed you to Crag's Hill. Shall we go there again ? 
 Is the walk too long for you ? Perhaps you are tired." 
 
 " I am rarely too tired to walk — it is a relief to me," she 
 answered. "Yes, we will go there." 
 
 So they set forth for Crag's Hill, meeting few people on the 
 quiet streets, for the other churches were " not yet out." Yet 
 it was a relief to both when the streets were left behind, and 
 they found themselves in the woods, where 
 
 " In the deep heart of every forest-tree 
 
 The blood is all aglee, 
 And there's a look about the leafless bowers 
 As if they dreamed of flowers." 
 
 Who does not know that look, when spring is in the air — 
 yet who but a poet would have dreamed of expressing it ? 
 
 Spring was certainly in the air on this fair " day of God." 
 Her buoyant warmth was in the golden sunshine, her delicate 
 purple mist over the distant hills. Every one wore a knot of 
 violets or a few fragrant white hyacinths. Madeleine had not 
 gathered any for herself, but a little child had offered her some 
 when she was entering the church, and they lay now on her 
 breast, their faint perfume exhaling on the air as she moved. 
 
 There was a sense of constraint between Devereux and her- 
 self, though both were too well-bred for this to be outwardly 
 
DEVEREUX TELLS HIS STORY. 443 
 
 apparent. An observant listener (if such a person had been 
 following them) would have drawn the inference principally 
 from the fact that their conversation did not languish at all. It 
 may be taken as an invariable rule that, when people are 
 thoroughly at ease with each other, they are not afraid of being 
 silent together. 
 
 As they passed the Severn house, Lance had joined them 
 without waiting for the formality of an invitation ; therefore it 
 was the same group as on the preceding evening which was to 
 be seen after a little while on the crest of Crag's Hill. A child 
 passing along the road, on a horse behind his father, pointed 
 them out, exclaiming in a shrill treble, "" Oh, look papa ! — a 
 lady and a gentleman, and such a big dog ! " 
 
 " It's Mr. Severn's dog,'"* said the father, turning his glance 
 in that direction. Then he added, " By George ! " The lady 
 in black could only be Madeleine, and Devereux's tall, graceful 
 figure was unmistakable. Everybody in Stansbury was deeply 
 interested in those two, and this acute observer felt that he was, 
 in information, a point or two ahead of his neighbors. 
 
 The lady, meanwhile, was rather tired when she gained the 
 summit of the hill, and sat down on her usual seat to rest. For 
 the first time silence fell between the two — silence which Deve- 
 reux presentl}^ broke : 
 
 "How glad I am that I came here!" he said, abruptly. 
 " How I shall think of this scene when I am far away ! Next 
 Sunday, perhaps, I may be looking at the Rocky Mountains — 
 but I shall never forget these liills." 
 
 " I fear they will not bear comparison with the Rocky Moun- 
 tains," said Madeleine, smiling. " I love this scene very much, 
 but I am perfectly aware that it is what one from a bolder coun- 
 try would call tame." 
 
 " That does not matter," said Devereux. " The beauty of a 
 scene rests in the sentiment with which we clothe it — at least 
 very often it does." 
 
 "Certainly the beauty which the present scene possesses 
 must principally rest in that," said Madeleine. 
 
i44 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 After this, silence fell again. The eyes of both wandered to 
 the horizon which bounded them on all sides like a mighty am- 
 phitheatre. How soft the air was I — how faint yet perceptible 
 the odor of growing things from the valley below ! — what a 
 pearly sky arched overhead ! — and what a delicate drapery of 
 mist hung over the distant, leafless forests ! Devereux thought 
 that it was a picture worth carrying even to the Rocky Moun- 
 tains. Then he glanced at his companion. Should he ever 
 forget that sweet yet noble face, with its sensitive lips, and eyes 
 of tender gloom ? He felt — not as a boy fancies, but as a man 
 knows — that he never would. It was while he was reflecting 
 upon this that Madeleine spoke : 
 
 " I received your letter this morning, Mr. Devereux, and read 
 it before I went to church. If we are to speak to any purpose, 
 I must tell you frankly how it impressed me." 
 
 " Tell me, by all means," said^ Devereux. " What can I ask 
 from you better than frankness ? " 
 
 There was an accent of restrained feeling in his words, but it 
 brought no tinge of color to Madeleine's cheeks, nor change to 
 her manner. She went on quietly : 
 
 " You may ask something better when you have heard my 
 frankness. I fear that I shall pain you — " 
 
 " Never mind any fear of paining me," he interposed, quickly, 
 " That is not a matter of the least importance. Say what you 
 choose. You can say nothing that will ofi'end me." 
 
 " I should be very sorry to do so," she replied, with evident 
 sincerity. " Let me begin, then, by saying that I was unjust to 
 you yesterday. I should not have called you dishonorable and 
 cruel — I might have known that you could not be either of those 
 things deliberately. You have shown me that you were only 
 volatile and careless ; but it seems to me that some of the worst 
 consequences on earth flow from those causes." 
 
 " You are severe ! " said Devereux, who felt that this did not 
 mend matters much. " I wonder if I may venture to say that 
 you are unjust. If my letter showed you that I was volatile 
 and careless, I wrote it to little purpose, after all." 
 
DEVEREUX TELLS HIS STORY. 445 
 
 "What else could it show me?" asked Madeleine, with a 
 glow suddenly coraing into her eyes. " Stop a moment and 
 think ! When 3'ou first came here, five months ago, do you 
 remember how you were attracted by Rosalind ? I do not say 
 that the fancy was strong or lasting, but it loas a fancy — no one 
 could doubt that. You amused yourself with her, as you had 
 probably amused yourself with a succession of other women. 
 Then you saw Marj', and her delicate charm pleased your subtiler 
 taste, you pitied her, and there were reasons which made it 
 expedient for j^ou to marry. You offered yourself, and she 
 accepted you — loving most tenderly, trusting most absolutely. 
 Should not such love and trust, and your own honor, have made 
 you constant ? But your fancy wandered yet again, and in this 
 w^andering stabbed the truest, gentlest, most generous of hearts. 
 You sent that heart away darkened by a suspicion of — of one 
 who would have died sooner than deserve it ; which can never 
 be disproved on earth ; and that great error has led to a legacy 
 of trouble which j-ou leave others to bear. All this your letter 
 made clear to me, Mr. Devereux." 
 
 He was dumb. The list of charges was so unexpected and 
 so overwhelming, that he felt like one whose power of speech 
 had been stricken away. In Madeleine's words, he saw himself 
 as she saw him, and the sight rendered him aghast. He was 
 silent and motionless for so long, that her heart suddenly smote 
 her — what had she said ? Had she wounded him more deeply 
 than she thought possible ? Her lips were unclosing for speech, 
 when Devereux himself spoke, without taking his eyes from the 
 distant purple horizon. 
 
 " God help me. Miss Severn, if all that is true ! No wonder 
 you despise me if you believe it." 
 
 " I fear I have been harsh," said Madeleine, moved to com- 
 punction. " I do not despise you. I think you have been care- 
 less, but I do not believe you meant any harm." 
 
 " You only think that I made the worst kind of harm 
 through very idleness; again I say, God help me if you are 
 right ! " 
 
446 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " And God forgive me if I am wrong," said Madeleine, " for 
 I see that I have pained you. But I thought it best to be 
 frank." 
 
 " It was best," said he, hoarsely ; and then again there was 
 silence. 
 
 Having delivered herself of that opinion, which during the 
 whole day had burned within her for utterance, Madeleine now 
 felt as uncomfortable as people generally do after such a relief 
 to their minds. Had she been unjust? She feared that she had 
 been unkind, that she had spoken with too little regard to the 
 golden precept of charity. It was all true, she thought — but, 
 then, no one knew better than herself that truth is not always 
 to be uttered in uncompromising severity. It was Devereux 
 who ended the pause after a few minutes. 
 
 " I have been asking myself whether I shall endeavor to 
 justify my conduct in your eyes," he said, " and I have decided 
 not to make the attempt. You have seen, no doubt, those draw- 
 ings w^hich, regarded from a wrong point of view, present only 
 grotesque and unmeaning lines — yet from another point exhibit 
 harmony and unity of design. Sometimes a character may be 
 like that. It is not probable, I suppose, that you w411 ever 
 change the point of view from which you regard my character; 
 but if you ever should, you will understand your mistakes better 
 than I can make them clear. Until tliat time, words of justifi- 
 cation would serve no purpose." 
 
 There was something in this proud yet not angry reticence 
 which touched Madeleine more than many sentences of pleading 
 could have done. It was only natural, perhaps, that when he 
 laid down weapons of defense, she should begin to consider that 
 something might be said on his side. 
 
 " You must think me very unkind," she said. " No doubt 
 you also think my ideas very strained. To a man of the world, 
 I can imagine that such things may seem very trivial." 
 
 " Are 3'ou giving me a taste of satire ? " he asked. " Such 
 things ! — do you mean such trifles as honor, and hapi^iness, and 
 the strongest passion of man ? But I forget that you believe 
 
DEVEREUX TELLS HIS STORY. 447 
 
 t 
 
 me to be a Sybarite, a trifler, who can never do more than sip 
 the froth of life." 
 
 "Mr. Devereux, are t/ou just when you hold me accountable 
 for an opinion I never entertained ? " 
 
 " Do 3^ou not entertain it ? Do you not think that I spend 
 my life in a succession of idle fancies ? " 
 
 " Why do you force me to say what will sound harsh 
 asrain ? " 
 
 *• Because I want to know exactlj^ how poor an opinion you 
 entertain of me." 
 
 She looked distressed. This was all very unpleasant, and 
 the worst of it was that it seemed as unendino- as a circle. 
 
 " You forget that I am not altogether to blame," she said. 
 " Your reputation preceded you, and then I have seen — " 
 
 She stopped, and he took up her sentence : " You think you 
 have seen how well my reputation is deserved. In other words, 
 must I understand that you rank my love for you with any fan- 
 cies which may have gone before it ? " 
 
 " Since you force me to utter what sounds so ungracious — 
 how can I rank it otherwise ? " 
 
 " And you do not believe that it will prove enduring ? " 
 
 " Why should I believe it ? But," she went on, hurriedly, 
 with a sudden flush on her white cheeks, " all this is quite 
 useless. According to rules of courtesy I suppose I should say 
 that I am grateful for your — fancy. But you will pardon the 
 omission. I cannot be grateful for what has wrought in every 
 way so much harm. I must not let you suppose that whether it 
 endures or whether it does not is a matter of importance to me. 
 But I have no idea that it will endure." 
 
 " Time must answer for me," said Devereux, calmly. There 
 he paused. What would he not have given to know how Httle 
 or how great a place Lacy yet held in her heart ! but he dared 
 not ask. What right had he to utter such a question ? He only 
 looked at her and said, " If I am living three years hence, may J 
 come back and tell vou whether it has endured ?" 
 
^48 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Madeleine's answer. 
 
 Madeleine was vexed with herself for having been led into 
 a discussion which finally drew down such a question. A 
 haughty answer rose to her lips — an emphatic disavowal of any 
 interest in the life or death of Mr. Devereux's fancy — but she 
 did not utter it. One of the generous impulses which were 
 stronger with her than any thing else restrained words which 
 she would have regretted afterward. For in this sad world we 
 cannot easily be too kind, and, if we err at all, it is better to err 
 in that way — it is far better to think, " I might have been more 
 severe ! " than to think, " I might have been more gentle ! " 
 When she answered, therefore, it was with much of her usual 
 sw^eetness : 
 
 " I must be frank with you, and say that there is no reason 
 why you should do so. I hope your fancy will not endure, but 
 I should be very culpable if I let you think that I shall be more 
 ready to listen to it three years hence than I am now." 
 
 He was still looking at her, and an expression so pained and 
 wistful came into his eyes at those words, that involuntarily she 
 turned her own away. The woman who can inflict even the most 
 unavoidable suffering without finding an echo for it in her own 
 breast, has lost from her nature the tenderest trait of woman- 
 hood. Madeleine had not lost it — indeed, through her own pain, 
 she had lately gained a fresher, deeper sympathy for the pain of 
 others — and this sympathy stirred now, despite her belief that 
 what Devereux felt for her was only an idle sentiment whici 
 would soon be swept away by other impressions. 
 
 *' You are quite sure of that ? " he asked in a low voice. " Do 
 you despise me so mdch, or :.s your own nature so unalterable 
 that you can speak with so much certainty of the future ? I 
 have no hope 7iow, Miss Severn, but if I prove myself worthy of 
 better thoughts than you have given me — " 
 
MADELEINE'S ANSWER. 449 
 
 She lifted her hand with an entreating gesture, her lips 
 quivered. " Don't ! " she said. " I cannot bear it. It is not 
 that I despise you, or that I imagine myself unalterable ; but 
 such words are out of place." 
 
 " I can wait," he said, quietly. " And some day — you will at 
 least listen to me, will you not ? " 
 
 She shook her head. " It would be wrong to say even that," 
 she answered. " The woman w^ho promises to listen, promises 
 also to answer ; and there is no answer possible between us save 
 that which I give you now. Do not try to force yourself to 
 remember me ; on the contrary, forget me as soon as possible; 
 and don^t blame yourself — don't think that it is because you are 
 you that I say this — for I should say it to any one else." 
 
 Then the words which he had desired several minutes before 
 to utter would not longer be restrained. " Do you mean that 
 your heart is still given away ? " he asked. 
 
 She turned and met his eager gaze with her soft, sad eyes. 
 " No," she answered, " I mean that it is emptj-." 
 
 " K it is empty, it may be filled," said Devereux with a sud- 
 den flash of resolution on his face. " No ! — do not answer me. 
 I know what you will say. But you cannot hinder me from 
 loving you, and from coming some day in the future to plead my 
 cause — though it may be unavailingly. You are not accountable 
 for this. Remember that, and do not ever blame yourself. If I 
 rush obstinately on pain, it is my own fault, but experience has 
 taught me that nothing worth possessing is won easily. The 
 rich prizes of life are only gained by a man's best effort. It has 
 dawned on me by slow degrees, that it is better to fail in striv- 
 ing after them, than to be content with lower things that are 
 more easily reached. Therefore, I shall not let any thing hinder 
 me from striving after the one prize which seems to me best 
 worth winning on earth, and if I fail — it will be no fault of 
 yours." 
 
 Were these the words of a trifler, of one who cared only for 
 things easily reached, for fruits that grow low, for flowers readj* 
 to the hand? Madeleine could not help asking herself this 
 
450 A QUESTION OF UONOR. 
 
 question. All that was best and most determined in Devereux's 
 cliaracter was in his face at that moment — lighting- up the hand- 
 some, listless features with new expression — expression so vivid 
 that she retained the memory of it afterward like a picture. 
 The eyes grew luminous, the mouth set itself in grave, steady 
 lines under the sweeping, blond mustache. 
 
 ' You leave me nothing to answer," she said after a minute, 
 *' except that I am sorry, oh, very sorry, you have not some better 
 hope to lead you to all that I think you may yet accomplish." 
 
 "I could not have a better hope," he answered, "and, even 
 if it never finds fulfillment, I shall not regret — any thing." 
 
 Madeleine made no reply. The sun sank slowly, wrapped 
 in tender haze. There were not clouds to form a brilliant sun- 
 set, but a rosy glow diffused itself over all the drooping west. 
 In the sky above, a white moon hung. Every thing was fair and 
 still : there were no striking forms or colors, but exquisite tone 
 and sentiment pervaded the whole scene. It was pleasant to sit 
 there with the beauty of the landscape spread before them, and 
 the sweet murmur of flowing water rising from the valley below ; 
 but each felt that the time for ending this had come. When 
 Madeleine rose, saying, " We must go," Devereux assented, 
 though he felt all that the going meant for him. After they had 
 descended the hill and were walking along the valle}'^, he said : 
 
 " You will remember, perhaps, that I asked 3'ou to let me 
 hear your final decision with regard to the Carlisle estate, this 
 afternoon. Surely, you are not still determined to refuse Mary's 
 bequest ? " 
 
 " I am, if possible, more determined than ever," Madeleine 
 answered. " What do you think of me, that you can suppose 
 any thing else ? You have added to my resolution by all that 
 you have told me. Nothing would induce me to retain the 
 fortune now." 
 
 " That is your unalterable decision ? " 
 
 " That is my unalterable decision." 
 
 " Then I will say nothing further on the subject to trouble 
 you, but I must see your brother before I leave." 
 
• MADELEIXE'S ANSWER. 45I 
 
 " Are you o-oiiio; to-nia'lit ? " 
 
 " Yes, to-nig-ht." 
 
 They said little besides this in the course of their homeward 
 walk. Lance, marching gravely behind with drooping tail, won- 
 dered, no doubt, what spirit of silence had come over them; but 
 Lance had a dog-like ignorance of the variableness of human 
 moods. 
 
 When Madeleine reached home, she constrained herself to 
 ask Devereux if he would not come in to tea, " since it is for the 
 last time," she added ; but the effort was probably too plain in 
 the invitation — he declined. " With your permission, however, 
 I will make my adieux to Mrs. Severn," he said. 
 
 This was not a ceremony which occupied much time. " Mr. 
 Devereux wishes to tell you good-by, mamma," said Made- 
 leine, leading the way into the sitting-room where Mrs. Severn 
 was usually to be found, f She was there at present, and 
 although she had no partiality for Devereux — regarding him in 
 the light of the person to whom Madeleine persisted in resign- 
 ing the Carlisle property — she was too thorough-bred to fail in 
 courtesy and well- worded regret. Devereux, on' his part, acquit- 
 ted himself with rather more than his usual ffrace. Havino* 
 made his acknowledgments for all the kindness and hospitality 
 which he had received, he carried to his lips Mrs. Severn's pale, 
 delicate, blue-veined hand. ' If we never meet again," he said, 
 " pray give me a small place in your memorv, for you will 
 always retain a very great place in mine." 
 
 Then he turned to Madeleine, and it may not be uncharitable 
 to suppose that, in kissing the elder lady's hand, he had wished 
 to establish a precedent. Certainly he put his lips, almost with- 
 out a word, on the one which Madeleine extended, and, as she 
 drew back, it chanced that the knot of violets from her throat 
 dr<3pped at his feet. He stooped and lifted theni. "May I 
 keep them ? " he asked, looking at her. " It was an accident — 
 you did not give them — they gave themselves — may I keep them 
 in memory of all your kindness ? " 
 
 " Of course you mav keep them," answered Madeleine, 
 
452 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 hastily, conscious of Mrs. Severn's eyes and ears ; " but tliey 
 are very faded." 
 
 " Thank 3'ou," he said, quietly. " Now may I beg one more 
 favor — will you ask your brother to meet me at the hotel this 
 evening ? My train leaves, I believe, at nine o'clock." 
 
 " I will tell him certainly, and I am sure he will see you," 
 said Madeleine. " I am sorry he is not at home now." 
 
 In this way they parted. With a bow which included both 
 ladies, Devereux left the room, and Mrs. Severn walked to the 
 window for a parting glimpse of him. " What excellent man- 
 ners he has! " she said approvingly. "I have seen nothing like 
 them since I was young. But how strange of him to go away 
 just when you are about to give up all that fortune to him ! I 
 confess I don't understand the business, Madeleine." 
 
 Madeleine did not feel able just then to play the part of 
 enlightener. She was weary in mind and body, and she passed 
 out of the room and went up-stairs. 
 
 Basil came in late, and, hearing with some surprise of Deve- 
 reux's intended departure, took his tea hastily in order that he 
 might reach the hotel in time to see that gentleman. He found 
 him writing a letter in the midst of a room full of that disorder 
 which is so significant of preparations for a journey. A 
 strapped portmanteau stood on the floor, an overcoat was thrown 
 over a chair. Basil paused in the door and regarded these tokens 
 of " flitting " somewhat grimly. 
 
 " I am very glad to see you," said Devereux, glancing up. 
 " Come in and sit down — I shall finish in a moment. I am only 
 writing a few lines to Stringfellow." 
 
 Basil waited till the few lines were finished. Then he said 
 in a judicial tone, " Pray what is the meaning of this ? Do you 
 think it is exactly fair or considerate to take yourself ofi", leav- 
 ing a business unsettled in which 3'ou are more concerned thai> 
 any one else ? " 
 
 '/See here!" said Devereux. "There has been nonsense 
 enough talked about that business. Understand, once for all, as 
 man to man, that I will have nothing to do with it. If your 
 
MADELEINE'S ANSWER. 453 
 
 sister persists in her present intention of making tlie propertj^ 
 over to me, it will simply remain in your hands, unless you 
 choose to hand the management over to some one else. I will 
 have nothing to do with it, either directly or indirectly. It 
 would be a pity for such an estate to go to rack and ruin, how- 
 ever, so I hope you will continue to look after it." 
 
 " To what definite end ? " asked Basil. " By Jove ! I won- 
 der if such a thino; was ever heard of before ! I should like to 
 know if you consider this just to my sister ? You don't think 
 of the position in which she is placed." 
 
 " Yes, I do," returned Devereux, shortly. " But it is a posi- 
 tion the difi&culties of which she altog-ether exagfo-erates. Can't 
 you take my word for that? I know more of the matter than 
 any one else. She will be influenced by you. Don't encourage 
 her in the act of sheer folly which she contemplates." 
 
 "You don't know Madeleine," said Basil. *' Gentle and 
 yielding as she usually is, when she thinks a thing is right she 
 can be like a rock." 
 
 Devereux was lio-htino; a cio;ar and did not answer for a mo- 
 ment. When he did it was to say : " I think I know her well 
 enough to imagine that. But there is no earthly reason why 
 she should think this right. And you neither of you know me. 
 If you fancy I shall yield an inch, you are mistaken." 
 
 " I don't fancy any thing of the kind," replied Basil, drylj-. 
 " I think it is pretty evident that your obstinacy and pride are 
 both in arms." 
 
 " Call my resolution what you please, so that you understand 
 that nothing will induce me to change it. I should like, how- 
 ever, to know that in an}'' case you will remain at the helm of 
 the ship you have managed so long. Won't you promise me 
 that ? I don't ask it in my own name, but — in Mary's. Nothing 
 was nearer her heart than your interest. You know better than 
 I can tell you how grateful she was for j'our faithful friendship 
 and service ; for her sake, then — will you do this ? " 
 
 Basil rose and walked across the room. A full minute 
 elapsed before he could steady his voice to reply. Devereux's 
 
 20 
 
454 A QUESTION OF EOXOR. 
 
 words, simple as they vvere, seemed to bring Mary's presence 
 before liim. For her sake ! Was there any thing he would not 
 have done for her sake, for the sake of that tender friendship 
 which death had hallowed, not ended? When he came back, 
 Devereux knew that his point was gained. 
 
 " I can't refuse," he said, " what is asked in that name. 
 Mary and her father were much more than kind, far more than 
 generous to me. For their sakes it would certainly go hard 
 with me to see the property neglected or abused. I meant to 
 give up all management as soon as the transfer of the estate 
 was made ; but now — " 
 
 ''Thank you ! " said Devereux, eagerly. "Thank you very 
 much. Now my mind is easier. I believe there is little more 
 to be said except to tell you that I shall never forget all your 
 kindness. I have no idea that you remember how great it has 
 been, but I shall never forget. In time of action words are few, 
 however, and I see " — glancing at his w^atch — " that my train 
 is shortl}^ due. Will j'ou walk down to the station and see 
 me off ? " 
 
 " With pleasure," answered Basil. " The night is beautiful, 
 and, thanks, yes — I'll light a cigar." 
 
 The night was as soft as the day had been, and fleecy vapors 
 were floating over the moon, obscuring but not hiding her light. 
 The two young men walked down to the station, aid then paced 
 the platform together, smoking and talking, until the red eye of 
 a locomotive burned in the distance, and a minute later drew 
 its train of vibrating cars beside them. Then their hands met 
 in that tight clasp which with Anglo-Saxon men expresses so 
 much. 
 
 " Take care of yourself," said Basil, " and let me hear from 
 
 vou." 
 
 " Don't forget your promise," said Devereux. " Good-by." 
 The engine gave an impatient whistle ; one sprang on board ; 
 the other waved his hand ; there was another whistle, a clang 
 of machinery, and the train sped swiftly and noisily away. 
 
BOOK YI. 
 
 IN WHICH SOME THREADS ARE SMOOTHED. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " O LAST EEGPvET, E,EGPwET CAN DIE ! " 
 
 Deyeeeux's last words were not without effect. Madeleine 
 remained firm in her intention of resigning the estate, and car- 
 ried this intention into effect as soon as possible ; but the conse- 
 quences to the estate were not so disastrous as they might have 
 been if Basil had carried out his intention of giving up the man- 
 agement. As it happened, the result of the whole matter was to 
 make him virtual owner of the property — an odd kind of own- 
 ership, involving much trouble and very little profit. When 
 Devereux was informed, some time after his arrival in Colorado, 
 that the deeds transferring the estate to him were all regularly 
 executed (though not by the aid of Champion, who persisted in 
 "washing his hands of the affair"), he replied by assuring Basil 
 that the information was not of the least importance to him. 
 " Nothing shall induce me to claim the property, to touch a six- 
 pence drawn from it, or to give any directions with regard to its 
 management," he wrote. " I hope you will keep it in your 
 hands and do the best you can for the sake of those who are 
 dead ; but, even if you decline to do so, I shall not assume any 
 rights of ownership. This is final and unalterable." 
 
 In consequence of this final and unalterable ultimatum, Basil 
 
156 A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 had no alternative but to continue in his position, and to admin- 
 ister as best he could the business of the estate. The Lodge 
 he placed in Jessie's charge ; the mills remained imder his own 
 superintendence, while he was forced to apply and invest the 
 large income arising from the last solely by the light of his own 
 judgment. It was a trying position, and one which would have 
 exposed many men to serious charges and suspicions. But not 
 the most malicious, evil-speaking tongue in Stansbury ventured 
 to hint a doubt of Basil's integrity. Even men who disliked 
 him — and in all such places there are liereditary if not personal 
 dislikes — owned that his honesty was above suspicion. " It 
 would be a capital opportunity for some people to fill tlieir 
 ■ pockets," these shrewd johilosophers observed ; " but there's no 
 danger of any thing of that kind with Severn." 
 
 This was a fact so thoroughly recognized by every one that 
 it even penetrated Miss Champion's bj- no means acute intelli- 
 gence. She did not absolutely say to herself that it showed 
 very little knowledge of the world in Basil 7iot to fill his pockets, 
 but it is to be feared that she dimlv felt somethins: akin to this. 
 She told her mother in the forcible language of her class, that he 
 was " poky " — and further than this the condemnation of the girl 
 of the period can scarcely go. " He will never be any thing but 
 poor, he will never do any thing but superintend those horrid 
 mills, and plod along on his salary," she continued. " I like a 
 man with spirit and energy, if he is a little fast. Better be too 
 fast than too slow." 
 
 " I am not sure of that," replied Mrs. Champion, who began 
 to be somewhat uneasy with regard to the final choice of this 
 self-willed young lady. "Fast men are the last men in the 
 world to marry, Helen. Basil Severn is not slow — unless you 
 call honesty slow." 
 
 " Oh, dear, no," said Helen. " I only mean that he tires me — 
 he is too good for me, I think that must be what is the matter. 
 I feel as if he expected me to sit up on a pedestal and be wor- 
 shiped, to be always ' wisest, virtuest, discreetest, best ' — and 
 you know that it is not mt/ style at all. The fact is, he is alto- 
 
"0 LAST REGRET, REGRET CAN DIE 1 " 457 
 
 gether spoiled by Madeleine — he wants every other woman to be 
 on her pattern — and I don't admire her at all?"* 
 
 " I have a very high opinion of Madeleine Severn," said Mrs. 
 Champion, magisterially, " though I think she acted foolishly in 
 giving up the Carlisle estate. I wish your manners were as 
 good as hers, Helen." 
 
 " Her manners are old-fashioned," said Helen, who resented 
 this. " She is old-fashioned herself. I think she is cut out for 
 an old maid, and the best thing she and Basil can do will be to 
 live always together and admire each other." 
 
 Notwithstanding these kindly opinions. Miss Champion did 
 not take any immediate steps to end her engagement with 
 Basil. Probably consideration for self was at the root of this. 
 Stansbury was dull — very dull — ^just then. If she did not sing 
 "Robin Adair" after Lacy's departure, she at least felt that the 
 town was nothing to her without the spice of his presence. 
 Failino- the chief D:ood which she desired, she fell back on a lesser. 
 There are multitudes of women to whom, as long as they are 
 unmarried, an admirer — a subject for flirtation — is a necessity 
 of life. To this class Helen Champion distinctively belonged. 
 Since Robin Adair had gone away in very unpoetical sulks, she 
 consoled herself with a substitute for him — though it may be 
 said, to Basil's credit, that he made a very poor one. He was 
 not a sufficient master of the art of compliment, neither was he 
 content to live in hadinage forever, and he often wearied — gal- 
 lantly as he strove to repress any sign of this — of the froth which 
 made up Helen's conversation. He was too loyal, however, to 
 fail in devotion or attention to the woman he had sought, or to 
 complain of what he had deliberately brought on himself. 
 
 In this manner several months went on. "Winter melted into 
 spring, and spring bloomed into summer with very little change 
 in the attitude of affairs. Twice or thrice during this time, Basil 
 received a letter from Devereux — pleasant, friendly epistles, 
 describing his life in Denver, and asking for news from Stans- 
 bury. After the first of these letters, they contained no allusion 
 whatever to business, and more than once Basil wondered why 
 
458 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 tLey were written. He always handed them to Madeleine, and 
 she read them as she might have read the letters of any ordinary 
 acquaintance. " He writes uncommonly well," Basil would say, 
 and she always assented cordially. " There is no affectation in 
 his style," she answered once. " He writes with the simplicity 
 which is the greatest charm of a letter." 
 
 " It is a great charm of any thing," said Basil, with a slight 
 sigh. Perhaps he was thinking of a character Avhich had lately 
 unfolded itself to him, and which lacked altogether that crown- 
 ing grace. 
 
 As time passed, the friends and countrymen whom Gordon 
 Lacy had left so contemptuouslj^ behind began to hear news of 
 him. This news came throu2:h the channel which he liked best 
 — the public press. A book bearing his name appeared, which 
 excited a great deal of comment — some of which was very far 
 from flattering. Other, however, was laudatory in the extreme, 
 and it has come to be an accepted axiom that it is better for an 
 author to be a bone of contention among critics than for his 
 work to be damned with faint praise, or not noticed at all. A 
 bone of contention this book of Lacy's — a dramatic poem of con- 
 siderable length — undoubtedly became. Some critics of high 
 authority hailed the rising of a new and very brilliant star in 
 literature ; others said emphatically that, although Mr. Lacy was 
 abundantly gifted with pleasant fancies, and was a thorough 
 artist in his choice of terms and use of rhvme and metre, he had 
 not a shred of original genius. " In this volume of graceful and 
 melodious verse," wrote one of the latter class, " we find every 
 proof of an agreeable fancy and a cultivated taste ; but that 
 which the performance most fatally lacks is strength. When- 
 ever the author attempts to soar bej'ond a certain level of mu- 
 sical prettiness — we are heartily sorry to pain him by the use of 
 the last word, but it is unavoidable — he does so on borrowed 
 pinions. There is much in the book which suggests Morris, 
 there is a flavor of Rossetti, and there is a great deal of Swin- 
 burne. At the feet of all these esoteric poets, Mr. Lacy has 
 plainly sat. In many instances, he has inclosed thoughts which 
 
"0 LAST REGRET, REGRET CAN DIE!" 459 
 
 are his own in forms so plainly borrowed, that the imitation is 
 evident to the most casual observation. We are sorry to add 
 that, in borrowing much which is good — the peculiar charm of 
 the author of the ' Earthly Paradise,' for instance — he has also 
 taken much that blots the delicate grace of his pages. There is 
 a sensuousness here and there which would do credit to Mr. 
 Swinburne." 
 
 In the above key all the depreciatory criticisms were written. 
 There was no lack of kindness in any of them — there w^as no 
 excuse for Lacy to consider himself a second misjudged Keats — 
 but they all made the same charge with singular unanimity. A 
 copy of the book, with a complimentary inscription on the fly- 
 leaf. Lacy sent to Helen Champion as soon as it appeared, and 
 she carried it in a glow of triumph to Madeleine. " I thought 
 you might like to see it," she explained, " and the booksellers 
 here have not received their copies yet. It must be making a 
 great sensation. I saw a very complimentary notice of it in the 
 Journal of Literature and Art this morning." 
 
 " Thank you," said Madeleine, quietly. " I shall be glad to 
 look over it." 
 
 After Miss Champion went away, leaving the daintily-bound 
 volume on the table in the room where Lacy himself had often 
 sat and read the manuscripts of his poems aloud for Madeleine's 
 criticisms and suggestions, Mrs. Severn roused from her usual 
 placid calm to express an opinion. 
 
 " I never knew any thing to equal the ill-breeding and inso- 
 lence of that girl ! " she remarked. " To think of her bringing 
 you a book which Gordon Lacy sent to her ! Why did 3-ou let 
 her leave it, Madeleine ? I should have told her that I had no 
 desire to read anything he had written." 
 
 " Oh, no, mamma ; 3'ou would never have told her any thing 
 of the kind," answered Madeleine, with a smile. " You are 
 angry for me now ; but if you had been in my place you would 
 have acted as I did — knowing that she would have been very 
 much gratified if I had declined to receive the book." 
 
 " I hope, at all events, you don't mean to read it," said JMrs. 
 Severn, still indignantly. 
 
i60 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " Why not ? " asked Madeleine. " Do you tliink I have lost 
 all interest in Gordon ? On the contrary, I am very anxious to 
 see it." 
 
 Later in the day she carried the book with her when she 
 went for a walk, which ended — as her walks often did — on 
 Crag's Hill. She could scarcely tell why she liked this place so 
 much, except that it was elevated and lonely, and the view from 
 it w^as very fair, now that the land was clothed with summer's 
 green, and smiling with summer's abundance. As she sat there 
 on this evening, soft, tricksy breezes played about her, the great 
 voice of Nature's multitudinous life rose up from the valley 
 below^, while through the pines behind a sighing murmur now 
 and then crept. Every thing was still and peaceful. The low, 
 slanting sunshine lay like a mantle of gold over the earth — sun- 
 shine full of serene beauty — while from the distance came the 
 faint tinkle of bells, as the cattle wended their way homeward. 
 It was an hour so suggestive of happiness that sadness seemed 
 more than sadness, loneliness twice loneliness — and it is impos- 
 sible to deny that Ivladeleine was both sad and lonely. She did 
 not yield weakly or morbidly to these feelings — indeed, no one 
 ever struggled more valiantly against them — but sometimes 
 they overpowered her, and this was one of the times. As 
 Lacy's book lay in her lap — as she opened it and saw on the fly- 
 leaf Helen Champion's name in his well-knowai w^riting — it was 
 not jealousy nor absolute pain, but a great sense of desolation 
 which made her tears fall in a quick, fast shower. Almost in- 
 voluntarily she murmured some lines which had haunted her for 
 many days, as fragments of poetry will, in certain states of the 
 
 mind : 
 
 " We walked too straight for fortune's end, 
 We loved too true to keep a friend ; 
 At last we're tired, my heart and I." 
 
 The pathetic voice uttered the last words with an accent so 
 expressive of loneliness aud weariness, that it touched the only 
 heart near at hand to be touched. Lance pricked up his ears, 
 and, turning, looked in his mistress's face. If he did not under- 
 
"0 LAST REGRET, REGRET CAN DIE!" 461 
 
 stand the words, he understood the tone, and when, after a 
 pause, she repeated again, 
 
 " So tired, so tired, my heart and I ! " — 
 
 he could bear it no longer, but creeping close, with a low 
 whine, laid his massive, gentle head in her lap. She started and 
 looked down. No words can describe the love and faithfulness 
 shining dumbly in the liquid eyes uplifted to her. It was as if 
 he spoke — as if he said, " Stop and think how many there are 
 who love you yet ! " She bent down suddenly and kissed the 
 broad, intelligent forehead. " Thank you, dear Lance," she 
 said, " and God forgive me for my ingratitude ! " 
 
 After this she resolutely turned to the first page of the poem 
 and began to read. A better antidote for the regret which had 
 almost overpowered her could scarcely have been devised. 
 Familiar as she had been with Lacy's mind, and with the change 
 which had been coming over it when they parted, she was not 
 prepared for such a revelation. She saw in every verse signs of 
 decadence, not only in the poet, but in the man. Was this 
 half-pagan singer, with no light but sunset, and no hope but the 
 grave (as some one has well said of the school to which he 
 belonged), the same whose earlier, simpler, purer songs she had 
 loved and commended ? She could hardly realize it. She saw 
 the fatal spirit of imitation in these pages, as she had detected 
 its first indication on that far-gone afternoon in the cedar sum- 
 mer-house — and, when at last she closed the book, there was a 
 look of unselfish pain in her eyes. This pain was all for Lacy — 
 for the mist which had come over his spirit, the cloud over his 
 eyes. All that was best and highest seemed eliminated from 
 his work — and, let us say what we will, an artist's work reflects 
 his soul. In all God's world it has never been known that a 
 clear fountain sent forth a polluted stream. " O my poor Gor- 
 don ! " said Madeleine, as she closed the book. It was all that 
 she could say. They had drifted too far asunder for any thing 
 save sorrow — sorrow for him — to cross the gulf between them. 
 
 When the volume was returned to Miss Champion, she 
 
i62 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 expressed, even more effusively than before, her admiration. 
 " I think it is perfectly exquisite I " she said, " and I have writ- 
 ten to Mr. Lacy and told him so. I am afraid my letter was 
 absurdly enthusiastic ; but then I can't be moderate about what 
 I really admire ! Have you any message, Madeleine, if I should 
 write again ? " 
 
 " None at all," answered Madeleine. 
 
 This was in July. A week or two later — the first of August — 
 the Champions left home for a summer campaign of some length. 
 " AYe may go as far as Canada, and we certainly shall not be 
 back before October," said Rosalind, when she came to say 
 good-by, looking charmingly lovely from the consciousness that 
 the world, full of untold possibilities of pleasure and admiration, 
 was before her, with only " James's odd ideas " as a slight draw- 
 back. *' If you had kept your fortune, Madeleine " — Rosalind 
 never wearied of harping on this string — " you might be going 
 anywhere you chose — to Switzerland, perhaps." 
 
 " Very true," said Madeleine, smiling ; " but, since I did not 
 keep the fortune, it is not worth while to discuss the possi 
 bility." 
 
 Miss Champion also came to make her adieux, and was very 
 coquettish with Basil, very sweetly patronizing to Madeleine. 
 She, too, was intoxicated with the hope of future conquests. 
 " Perhaps I may never come back," she said, laughing. *' I am 
 not so enamored of Stansbury that I can promise to resist an 
 excellent opportunity to remain in some gayer place. What do 
 }■ ou say to that, Mr. Severn ? " 
 
 " You must act altogether for your own happiness," answered 
 Basil, gravely. They were walking together in the soft summer 
 moonlight, and the young man thought this a good opportunity 
 for an explanation. " I hope you will remember," he went on, 
 " that I do not wish you to sacrifice any thing to your engage- 
 ment to me." 
 
 " As if I were likely to do so ! " thought Miss Champion, 
 with a sense of profound scorn for the dullness of some men. 
 But she was not frank enough to say this openly. She had been 
 
"0 LAST REGRET, REGRET CAX DIE!" 463 
 
 premature once, and she was determined not to be premature 
 again. " I was only jesting," she said, looking up with her 
 dark, starry eyes. " You should not take every thing so liter- 
 ally. I only wanted to hear what you would say." 
 
 This was an opportunity for Basil to utter some impassioned 
 flattery — something to please her vanity, and touch the fancy 
 which did duty for her heart. The kind of lover she desired was 
 one who had all the light nothings of gallantry and sentiment 
 ready at his tongue's end, who was expert in turning every 
 remark into a compliment, and who never wearied her by a 
 seriousness and earnestness which she could not comprehend. 
 To such an ideal, Basil bore no resemblance. Just now his 
 heart was too sad for flattery. It has been known, since the 
 beginning of the world, that at parting we are most likely to 
 learn how much we love, and the parting looming before him 
 now taught him that this woman was dearer to him than of late 
 he had imagined. He began to feel the self-reproach, common 
 to all generous natures, to think that he had judged too hardly 
 her folly and frivolity. He did not answer her last remark for 
 some time — then he said : 
 
 " One thing is certain — you will know your own mind and 
 yoi-u" own heart thoroughly when you return. You will be able 
 to tell then where your happiness lies. If you can come back 
 and share willingly the life which is all that I have to offer — 
 I hope I do not need to tell you, Helen, how happy I shall be ! " 
 
 " You don't talk as if you would be very happj-," said Helen, 
 with a slight pout." " When Xcare for any thing, I care for it 
 to distraction. I never understood cold peoiDle." 
 
 " It can't be possible that you think me cold ! " said Basil, to 
 whom this was a new charge, though lately his companion had 
 more than once hinted her disapproval of him in various waj's. 
 
 Miss Champion replied uncompromisingly, that she did think 
 him cold. " I don't believe you would care very much if I did 
 not come back at all," she added in an injured tone. 
 
 " Don't try me — that is all ! " said Basil, smiling. This was 
 undoubtedly folly, pure and simple ; but he felt indulgent toward 
 
tG4 A QUESTIOX OF HOXOR. 
 
 it, since it sprang, or seemed to spring, from love for liim. It 
 did not occur to him that vanity is very often as strong as love 
 in a woman's breast — the vanity which desires to be sure of the 
 power to inflict pain. 
 
 In this manner Miss Champion took her departure — still 
 engaged to Basil, and promising constancy even when the prom- 
 ise was not demanded. August passed. From mountain 
 spas and sea-side resorts came rapturous letters, principally from 
 Rosalind, now and then from Helen, describing, with much 
 underscoring and many admiration-points, the gay life they were 
 leading. When September spread over the earth its mellow 
 beautv, these letters were dated from New York. Then it was 
 that a paragraph in one of Rosalind's prepared Madeleine for 
 what was to come. 
 
 " We have seen a great deal of Gordon Lacy since we have 
 been here," Mrs. James Champion wrote, *' and I think it only 
 kind to let you know that he is very attentive to Helen. You 
 know she has been crazy about him for a long time, so of course 
 this delights her. The matter may end by a marriage, since 
 James says that Gordon is very much disgusted with the life of 
 a literary hack, and very anxious to obtain an income that will 
 relieve him from the necessity of writing for newspapers and 
 magazines. I give you this hint in order that you may tell 
 Basil to write and hreah the engagement. I do not want her to 
 have the gratification of jilting him. He may use my name as 
 freely as he pleases. I told Helen that I meant to let him know 
 how she is acting. She only laughed. Evidently, she thinks 
 he is too deep in her toils to escape. I hope he will prove the 
 contrary to her." 
 
 Madeleine had no alternative but to show this letter to Basil. 
 It was not only meant for him, but to spare him pain by retain- 
 ing it would have been, in all probability, only to defer the blow 
 and render it harder in the end. She gave it to him, therefore, 
 and watched his face with wistful, loving eyes as he read it. 
 When he reached the paragraph quoted above, she saw him 
 start, and his lips set themselves. Beyond this, he showed no 
 
"0 LAST REGRET, REGRET CAN DIE!" 465 
 
 sign of emotion, and, having quietly read to the end of the letter, 
 he folded it carefully, returned it to the envelope, and then 
 looked up and met her gaze. Something in that gaze touched 
 him, and made him smile a little — the brave, sweet smile with 
 which he had gone into many a battle, and faced worse than 
 hostile cannon in his life of dailv, self-sacrificins: toil. 
 
 " Don't be sorry for me, i^etite^"^ he said, caressingly. " You 
 know 3'ou are clear of blame — ^}^ou warned me. I did not heed 
 the warning, but that was my fault, and, after all, it scarcely 
 matters. Disappointment and pain are not as hard to me as 
 they might be to one with less experience of both. It is possi- 
 ble to grow used to any thing ; and then you remember my 
 motto : 
 
 " Come what will, come what may, 
 Time and the hour run through the roughest day." 
 
 " But you deserve something besides rough daj^s^" said Made- 
 leine. " It seems so hard that you should have set your 
 heart — " 
 
 " Never mind," he interrupted, quietly. " It is the fate of 
 many a man, and I hope I know how to bear it. Perhaps it is 
 best so. I am afraid I never could have made her happy." 
 
 " And do you mean to follow Rosalind's advice ? " asked 
 Madeleine — though she felt sure what the answer would be. 
 
 He looked at her and she read it in his grave, handsome 
 eyes. " No," he replied ; " a gentleman never gives a woman 
 back her faith. If Miss Champion chooses to jilt me, she may 
 do so. She wall lower herself, but she cannot lower me." 
 
 A few weeks went on, and then the end came, as Rosalind 
 had predicted. Not one line to the man to whom she was 
 engaged did Helen Champion write, but Basil opened a New 
 York paper one day, and there he saw her marriage to Gordon 
 Lacy recorded. 
 
iG6 A QUESTION OF HONOR 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DEYEEEUX IS RECALLED. 
 
 So far this narrative has followed the course and endeavored 
 to tell the story of certain exceptional events which happened 
 within a short space of time. Occasionally such periods occur 
 in life, but as a general thing the rule of existence is monotony 
 — a very depressing rule we are sometimes tempted to think, 
 and yet it may be that God's providence appears in this, as in 
 all else, were we only clear-sighted enough to recognize it. 
 The flame which is constantly fed by excitement would burn 
 out too quickly ; so perforce we must rest in long, sluggish calms 
 when day follows day, with nothing save the ordinary affairs of 
 life to mark their passage. 
 
 Such a calm as this came to Basil and Madeleine after the 
 events which ended in that marriage on a crisp October morning 
 in New York. A week later, Mr. and Mrs. James Champion 
 returned to Stansbury, and the former made one — only one — 
 allusion to his sister's marriage when speaking to Basil, which 
 showed how deeply his pride and sense of honor had been 
 wounded. 
 
 " I was powerless to prevent the marriage," he said, " but 
 nothing would have induced me to be present at the ceremony 
 if she had not been under my protection. I told her at the 
 church-door that she had disgraced herself by acting as no 
 Champion, to my knowledge, ever acted before, and I did not 
 see her afterward." 
 
 Then, before Basil could reply, he turned the conversation 
 abruptly to business, and the subject was never mentioned 
 between the two men again. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Gordon Lacy were able to support with cheer- 
 ful philosophy any disparaging remarks which Stansbury saw fit 
 to make about them. In the first place they did not hear the 
 remarks, and, in the second place, they would not have cared if 
 
DEVEREUX IS RECALLED. 4G7 
 
 tliey had heard them. Both had acted with due deliberation 
 and due regard to their own interest, which is of course the only 
 thing a sensible person ever thinks of regarding. Helen flat- 
 tered herself that Basil Severn had " broken his heart" over her 
 loss, but Gordon indulged in no such fancy of Madeleine. He 
 knew her better ; and sometimes it cost him a pang to think how 
 complete her contempt for him must be — not bitter or keen, but 
 quiet, decided, and most sorrowful. As time went on, however, 
 he grew careless even of this thought, and banished so effectually 
 from his heart the sweet face which had once been the li2:ht of 
 his life, that finally it ceased to haunt his memory. It is not 
 worth while to follow the record of his life — which indeed at the 
 present day is still most prosperous. Who, that has looked atten- 
 tively at the great web of human existence, has not seen many 
 such a choice made as his — the lower path taken, the goods* of 
 this world chosen, self triumphing over honor, passion over faith, 
 high powers prostituted to igTioble uses, the desires of the flesh 
 exalted above the aspirations of the spirit ? Such a choice is 
 usually crowned with success, but who would not rather be 
 Bayard dying by the wayside with his knightly honor unstained, 
 than the victorious conqueror and traitor who stood before him ? 
 
 Eighteen months passed very quietly for the Severns. 
 Basil's position with regard to the Carlisle estate, which at first 
 had seemed so anomalous, fell into the routine of accustomed 
 things over which people cease to marvel. In Madeleine no out- 
 ward change of any kind was apparent — the serene grace of her 
 presence filled the home in which she had been born, as it had 
 filled it for many years, and no one was able to say, with that 
 compassionate interest which gossips love to afi'ect, " How dif- 
 ferent she has been since that afi'air with Gordon Lacj' ! " Per- 
 haps those who were in sorroAV found a change in her, for her 
 manner was even gentler and tenderer than of old, and little 
 children never looked into her face save to smile ; but this had 
 been very much the case always, so it was not singular enough 
 to be remarked. 
 
 Of Devereux it may be said that she thought now and then, 
 
i68 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 wondering a little, as women will, if lie had altogether forgotten 
 the words which he had uttered before going away — the resolu- 
 tion W'hich he had expressed with so much impetuous decision. 
 It is true that she rebuked her own frivolity for indulging in 
 such conjectures, and told herself that he had no doubt forgot- 
 ten and ignored every thing connected with that past fancy ; 
 but still, as every woman will understand, it was imjDOSsible not 
 to wonder. During the two years which had elapsed since he 
 left Stansbury, he had 'maintained a tolerably regular corre- 
 spondence with Basil, and it was very clear from this that he 
 had, to use his own expression, " kept steadily at the oar " since 
 he had been in Denver. He alluded once or twice to the fact 
 that his friend and partner had gone away for a holiday ; but 
 he never spoke of any holiday for himself except once, when he 
 said that he had joined a party to the Rocky Mountains, and 
 inclosed a few flowers for Madeleine, " since I have her violets 
 yet," he added. " What nonsense ! " said Madeleine, when she 
 read the letter ; but she did not refuse to keep the blossoms 
 which had been gathered in the defiles of the far "Western 
 mountains. It struck her as a little strange that a man who had 
 probably had half a dozen love-affairs since his untoward attempt 
 at one with herself should care to remicmber her in this manner; 
 but she explained the matter to her own satisfaction by reflect- 
 ing that gallantry of the kind was no doubt natural to a man 
 like Devereux. 
 
 The second spring after the departure of the latter, Basil 
 began to experience unaccustomed difficulties in the manage- 
 ment of the mills. For the first time he had trouble with his 
 operatives. He had never before known any thing of the kind, 
 for he possessed in a remarkable degree that power of governing 
 men — of uniting kindness and consideration with perfect subor- 
 dination — which is a special gift bestowed by Nature on special 
 men formed to exercise authority over their fellow-creatures. 
 But, even in the best-drilled corps, mutiny sometimes appears ; 
 and so it was in this instance. During the winter one or two of 
 the principal mill-hands died, and their places were supplied by 
 
DEVEREUX IS RECALLED. 4G9 
 
 new-comers who sowed the seeds of mischief, and, after a good 
 deal of indirect trouble, they, "with two or three aiders and 
 abettors, were summarily dismissed for insubordination. 
 
 They did not receive their dismissal quietly. On the con- 
 trary, they complained loudly, and continued to iiang about the 
 neighborhood of the mills, though ordered several times to take 
 themselves oiF. Once or twice Basil was warned that they were 
 uttering threats against him. The young man only smiled. 
 " Such blustering is not likely to frighten an old soldier," he 
 said. "Let them do their worst." 
 
 They took him at his word ; but it was a worst which he had 
 not anticipated. One night the cry of " Fire ! " rang out on the 
 Stansbury streets, and people sprang from their beds to see a 
 glare brighter than that of day lighting up the sky, and to be 
 told that the Carlisle Mills were burnino-. What Basil felt 
 when he heard the news it is impossible to describe. There was 
 scant time for words ; but Madeleine'never forgot the expression 
 of his face as he mounted his horse and rode away at full speed, 
 in advance of the fire-engines, toward the lurid splendor of the 
 conflagration. It was a splendor dearly bought, for he found, 
 when he arrived at the scene of action, that the incendiaries 
 had done their work thoroughly. The watchman had been 
 faithless or negligent, and the fire made great headway before 
 any alarm was given. Consequently, Basil saw at once that it 
 was hopeless to think of saving the buildings ; but he made a 
 desperate effort to save the valuable books and papers from the 
 counting-house. On this service of danger he would allow no 
 one to accompany him; but, having stationed outside two or 
 three faithful men to receive what he was able to bring, he 
 entered the burning building alone. Three times he came out 
 with his arms loaded, and three times he returned. The fourth 
 time there was a tumultuous shout from the assembled multi- 
 tude when he appeared ; but it suddenly died away into awed 
 stillness, for, before he could cross the threshold, he was struck 
 down by a falling timber, while rolling smoke and leaping flame 
 appeared to sweep over him. 
 
470 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 There was a moment's pause of horror — then half a dozen 
 intrepid men rushed forward to the rescue. Scorched, begrimed, 
 senseless, thej drew him out — his right arm doubled under him 
 and evidentl}'^ broken. After this the fire had very much its 
 own waj, and finished its terrible work unmolested. Even the 
 engines lost heart and ceased to play, except on the cottages of 
 the operatives, which they drenched thoroughly, and so saved 
 from destruction — the inhabitants of these cottages meanwhile 
 stood by in despair. It was their bread which the cruel flames 
 were devouring, and when they heard that Mr. Severn had been 
 killed, or something very near it, despair broke into lamentation. 
 Women sobbed and men cursed. It was a scene to be long 
 remembered — the wild glare of the fire on excited faces, the 
 uproar of many voices, the roaring and crackling of flames, the 
 crash of falling walls, and the imprecations poured forth on the 
 -authors of 'such a work. If one of the supposed incendiaries 
 had ventured to show his face, it certainly would not have been 
 well for his neck. Angry men are not, as a rule, inclined to try 
 suspicion by the test of reason, nor to remember that law of 
 fair play which demands that both sides shall be heard 
 
 Meanwhile, Basil, still senseless, was taken back to Stans- 
 bury and placed in the hands of his sister, and the doctor who 
 was hastily summoned. The latter pronounced his injuries very 
 serious indeed. Concussion of the brain is in itself no trifle ; 
 but besides this — from which he could not recover for some 
 time — the young man was severely burned, his shoulder was 
 dislocated and his arm broken. So, when the morning sunlight 
 reddened the smoking ruins of the Carlisle Mills, it found him 
 unconscious both of the destruction which had been wrought 
 and of his own danger. 
 
 That unconsciousness and danger lasted for days, and it was 
 upon Champion that all the labor resulting from the fire fell. 
 lie started swift and hot pursuit after the suspected incendiaries, 
 who had one and all decamped, and he attended as far as possi- 
 ble to the loose odds and ends of business demanding attention. 
 The position was not ver}"- much to his taste, however, and, com- 
 
DEYEREUX IS RECALLED. 47I 
 
 ing in one day, lie electrified Madeleine by asking if she did not 
 think Devereux ouo-ht to be summoned. 
 
 " I have not thought of it at all," Madeleine answered, " but 
 why should he be ? You know that he has never claimed the 
 property, nor even expressed the least interest in it." 
 
 " Nevertheless," said Champion, whom any allusion to the 
 matter always irritated, " I suppose it is his — if it can be said to 
 be anybody's. Basil will be in no condition to attend to any thing 
 for weeks — ^perhaps for months. If it were his business or yours, 
 I would attend to it with the greatest pleasure, but I have no 
 time to spare in looking after Mr. Devereux's interests." 
 
 "I understand," said Madeleine. " Something must be done, 
 of course. As soon as Basil is better, I wdll ask him what it 
 must be." 
 
 Basil was a little better the next day, and opened the con- 
 versation himself by asking what had been the result of the 
 fire, and if various matters, which he mentioned, had received 
 any attention. 
 
 " James Champion, assisted by Mr. ^Yillis " — the latter was 
 foreman of the manufactory — "have done their best to put 
 aifairs in order," answered Madeleine. " Two of the men who 
 are supposed to have fired the mills have been apprehended and 
 committed for trial." 
 
 " I doubt if any thing positive can be proved against them," 
 said Basil. " But I wish you would send for Willis to come 
 here to me : I must give him some directions." 
 
 " You must do nothing of the kind," returned Madeleine. 
 " The doctor says you are not to be worried or excited. Do 
 let the mills alone ! They are burned, and that is an end 
 of it." 
 
 "That is not an end of it," replied Basil. "You don't 
 understand — there is an enormous amount of business to be 
 transacted. Oh, if I were only not lying here incapacitated ! " 
 
 " Whose fault is it that you are incapacitated ? " deraan-dcvl 
 Madeleine. " If you had not been so rash — " 
 
 " Don't let me hear any thing about that ! " said Basil with a 
 
472 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 groan. " Never hit a man when he is down — and I am down 
 unmistakably just now." 
 
 Madeleme reflected for a moment and tiien decided to men- 
 tion Champion's suggestion. "Do you think Mr. Devereux 
 ouo'ht to be informed of the loss of the mills ? " she asked. 
 " He has taken so little interest in the property that it scarcely 
 seems worth while, and yet — they are, or were, his, you know." 
 
 " Of course, he ought to be informed," said Basil. " Has 
 nobody written to him ? Whether he takes interest or whether 
 he does not, the property belongs to him, and it is my duty to let 
 him know of such a loss as this. Write at once, Madeleine. Tell 
 him all about it, and how I am situated." 
 
 " Very well," answered Madeleine, quietly. She had no fancy 
 for the task, but it did not occur to her for a moment to shirk it. 
 Why should she not write to Devereux, as she would write to 
 any other man, a letter of business ? This was what she asked 
 herself — indignant with the folly that made her, even in thought, 
 hesitate for a moment. 
 
 She brought writing-materials to the side of the bed, and, 
 assisted by Basil's dictation, this was what she wrote : 
 
 " Dear Ms. Devereux : I am sorry to tell you that the 
 mills have been burned down. Every one thinks that the fire 
 was the work of incendiaries, but there is no positive proof to 
 support this ojDinion. It rests entirely on what, I believe, you 
 lawyers call presumptive evidence. Basil discharged several 
 hands for insubordination a fortnight or two ago, and instead of 
 going away they remained in the neighborhood, and more than 
 once were heard to utter threats against him. He disregarded 
 this, because he thought they only threatened him personally. 
 If he had thought of the mills, he would have redoubled his 
 usual watchfulness. On last Thursday night, between midnight 
 and mornino- the alarm of fire roused us — the mills were in 
 flames. When Basil reached them he was too late to do any 
 thing except make a desperate effort to save the books and 
 papers. This he succeeded in doing. Very little which wa"* 
 
DEVEREUX IS RECALLED. 473 
 
 valuable iu that line was lost, but he was severely injured, and 
 is consequently unable to write to you. His right arm was 
 broken, his shoulder dislocated, and his burns are very serious 
 and painful. He bids me tell you that the loss is partly covered 
 by insurance, but that it will nevertheless prove very heavy. 
 x\s soon as he is able to do so — which cannot, however, be for 
 some time — he will send you a detailed statement. The accu- 
 mulated income of the last two years will warrant, he says, the 
 immediate rebuilding of the mills, and he hopes that you will 
 write as soon as possible and let him know your wishes on the 
 subject. 
 
 *' Pray pardon me for adding that T, also, hope you will do 
 so. I am sure you must feel that it is scarcely generous to 
 throw on my brother all the weight of responsibility, as well as 
 of labor. During the last two years he has toiled faithfully, 
 with no sign of interest or encouragement from yourself; but 
 now that he is disabled and suffering, I am confident that your 
 kindness and sense of justice will conquer your pride, and that 
 you will give him the aid which he asks and needs — the aid of 
 sympathy and direction. That the presence of the owner of the 
 property is very much needed here at present, you may perhaps 
 imagine ; but Basil hesitates to ask you to come, not knowing in 
 what spirit you may receive the request, and I can only say, for 
 him as for myself, that if you come at all it must be to assume 
 the duties as well as the rights of ownership. 
 
 " I cannot close without congratulating you on your success 
 in your profession, and with the kindest regards of my mother 
 and Basil, I am, 
 
 " Very sincerely yours, 
 
 " Madeleine Severx." 
 
 It will be perceived that a more altogether formal and com 
 monplace letter could scarcely have been written, yet, when 
 Devereux received it, his heart leaped up like a school-boy's. It 
 is trite to say that absence extinguishes a weak passion and 
 deepens a strong one, but many trite things are true things— 
 
474 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 and this is one of tliem. Two years had done notliing toward 
 extinguisliing that " fancy " which Miss Severn had treated so 
 severel3\ On the contrary, it had been so materially strength- 
 ened that Devereux had ceased to ask himself to what order of 
 passion it belonged. It is only when men are doubtful, when it 
 is sentiment not love which has come to them, that they analyze 
 and dissect their hearts as a botanist dissects a flower. With 
 certainty comes repose. Let a man desire something as a 
 supreme good, and he will cease to ask why or how he desires 
 it. Still it must be admitted that, notwithstanding all he had 
 (very sincerely) said when leaving Stansbury, Devereux — warned 
 by much experience — had not been altogether sure of his own 
 constancy. But he was sure of it on the April morning when he 
 unexpectedly found on his table that letter addressed in Made- 
 leine's fair, clear writing. He tore open the envelope, wonder- 
 ing what had moved her to write, and grateful for the cause, 
 whatever that cause mio-ht be. The news which the letter con- 
 tained did not in any manner diminish the exhilaration of his 
 spirit. He felt absolutely grateful to the incendiaries who had 
 fired the mills, and his resolution was taken immediately. He 
 would go to Stansbury : she wished it, and that was enough. 
 When his friend came in presently, he announced this reso- 
 lution : 
 
 " Those mills have been burned down. Hurst," he said, " and 
 Severn has been badly injured. I fear I must go to Stansbury 
 and look after matters. It hardly seems fair for that poor fel- 
 low to have all the trouble of ownership without any of the 
 profit." 
 
 " He must be an uncommon fellow to fill such a position,'' 
 said Mr. Hurst. " I have been convinced of that for a long 
 time. But I thought you were determined never to claim the 
 property." 
 
 " I never shall — in the manner they desire. But matters 
 can't possibly go on in thig unsatisfactory, unsettled fashion 
 forever. Something definite must be decided upon, and there- 
 fore I must go to Stansbury." 
 
A LOST IDEAL. 475 
 
 " I shall be sorry to see you go — I fear you'll never come 
 back." 
 
 " Don't fear any thing of the kind. I shall come back as 
 certainly as the sun is in the sky. I could not, if I would, re- 
 turn to my old, idle, aimless existence ; you have bitten me too 
 thoroughly with the mania for hard work." 
 
 " As far as that is concerned, you have gone beyond me," 
 said Mr. Hurst, " and it would certainly be a pity if you gave 
 up your profession again, now that you are so likely to mount 
 in it." 
 
 " Nothing shall induce me to give it up," said Devereux. 
 " You ought to know me well enough to be sure of that." 
 
 " One never knows a man w^ell enough to be sure what he 
 will or will not do, for the sake of a woman," returned the 
 other, sio;nificantlv. 
 
 " You are talking nonsense, as men always do when they 
 don't know what they are talking about ! " said Devereux. 
 " Because you see a woman's writing on this letter, you leap to 
 a conclusion — like a woman. Miss Severn has written to me 
 because her brother is unable to do so — that is all." 
 
 " That may be a good deal," said Mr. Hurst, glancing sus- 
 piciously at Miss Severn's letter. 
 
 ^ CHAPTER III. 
 
 A LOST IDEAL. 
 
 It was the last week in April when Devereux arrived in 
 Stansbury, and the weather was perfect. The earth green with 
 its first delicate emerald, and bright with countless blossoms, 
 the air rich with fragrance, tlie skies arching softly in their 
 misty blue, and dropping light tears upon the turf, roses blush- 
 ing, feather}'- leaves rustling, light and warmth and odor every- 
 where — this is what April means in the South. 
 
47G A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 This was wliat it meant on the particular day vvlien Devereux 
 found himself once more entering the familiar Severn gate. An 
 odd home feeling came over him as he did so — perhaps because 
 the house was so eminently one of those which we are apt to 
 associate with the idea of home. He remembered how he had 
 seen it first with the mellow October sunlight streaming on it, 
 and suiting admirably, he had thought, its look of mellow age. 
 Now, was it that his mood had changed, or why did the tender 
 beauty of Nature's awakening life, the capricious glory of her 
 April smile, seem to suit as well the mossy roof, under which 
 succeeding generations had lived and loved, suifered and died ? 
 Certainly there seemed entire harmony between the season and 
 the old house which had witnessed the beginning and the end 
 of many jubilant springs. The trees drooping over it were half 
 clad in dainty leafage, the ivy had put forth its lighter green, 
 high over the portico a yellow jessamine clambered, and swung 
 its fragrant bells — 
 
 " Like golden censers on the golden day." 
 
 Basil, with his arm in a sling, his shoulder bandaged, and 
 his scorched face not improved by having all the hair and beard 
 as much as possible cut away, was lying on a low, broad couch, 
 by one of the sitting-room windows, when the sound of advanc- 
 ing steps on the gravel-walk made him turn his head. " Some 
 one is coming, Madeleine," he said. " Who is it ? " 
 
 Madeleine laid down the novel she had been reading aloud, 
 and glanced out of the open window. She, too, heard the step, 
 but the jessamine was so luxuriant that she could not see be- 
 'yond its wall of green and bell-like flowers. Lance, who was 
 dozing just outside the window, sprang up and darted forward 
 with a growl, which changed the next instant to a whine of 
 recognition. When she heard this and a voice saying, " Why, 
 Lance, old fellow ! are you still here ? " she knew who had come. 
 For an instant — not longer than a heart-beat — she was silent, 
 then she said, " It is Mr. Devereux." 
 
 " Devereux ! — is it ? " said Basil. " He has come quickly 
 
A LOST IDEAL. 477 
 
 To explain which it may be stated that Devereux had tele- 
 graphed the news of his departure from Denver. 
 
 " Yes," said Madeleine. She spoke absently, for she was 
 debating whether or not slie should leave the room before he 
 rang the door-bell. There was time enough to do so, but, as 
 was to have been expected from her good sense, she decided in 
 the negative ; and so it chanced that the first thing Devereux 
 saw when he entered was a full, soft, well-remembered gaze 
 shining out of two brown eyes. 
 
 For a man of the world, his greetings were rather incoher- 
 ent, but there Avas no room to doubt one thing — that he was 
 glad to be back. He not only said so at first, but — after he had 
 sufficiently inquired into Basil's condition — he repeated the state- 
 ment. 
 
 " It is strange that I should feel so much as If I had come 
 home," he said. " It has been many years since I had the same 
 sensation about any other place ; and I have lived in various 
 places much longer than I ever lived in Stansbury." 
 
 " You have lived in Denver four times as long," said Basil. 
 " By-the-way, how do you like that place ? " 
 
 " Very much in some respects — not at all in others. Yet I 
 fancy I shall live there always. A roving life is pleasant enough 
 when a man is quite young, but as he grows older — especially 
 if he has any ambition to rise — he must have a definite place 
 and fixed home in the world." 
 
 " When I knew you first it w^as your favorite belief that j^ou 
 had no ambition." 
 
 " I have learned a great many things since then," said Deve- 
 reux, glancing at Madeleine. 
 
 He thought, as he did so, how little two years had changed 
 
 her. The sweet, earnest ej^es ; the gentle, soft-cut mouth ; the 
 
 stately grace and charm of her manner — how well he remembered 
 
 all, and how exactly he found them as he had left them ! If he 
 
 had doubted before seeing her whether or not his heart was in 
 
 her possession, it would have been impossible to doubt it after 
 
 her hand had touched his, her voice had spoken his name. Look- 
 2] 
 
478 A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 ing at her, he was conscious of somethiDg very different from 
 any of those passionate fevers of the earth with w^hich, like 
 many another man, he had been too familiar. It was as if his 
 soul rose and yearned toward its highest good and best inspii-a- 
 tion — yearned with a strength which had in it something of the 
 calm of a great resolution. 
 
 " I am glad that you have not come back to be disgusted 
 with our quiet life," she said, meeting his glance with a com- 
 posure which he knew enough of women to be aware did not 
 augur well for his hopes. '' The fire was our last great event, and 
 you must not fancy that 3-ou can escajoe it long. You will be 
 deluged with accounts of it — indeed, I see Basil is ready to begin 
 now, so I shall leave you to his mercy, with a recommendation 
 of patience." 
 
 " One minute, Madeleine," said Basil, as she rose. " Send a 
 messenger to the hotel for Mr. Devereux's traps — that is the 
 correct Western phrase, isn't it ? " he added, turning to that gen- 
 tleman. *' You must stay with us — I will take no denial. You 
 said in your telegram that you were coming to serve as my 
 riofht hand, and what the deuce could I do with a rio-ht hand at 
 the Stansbury Hotel ? " 
 
 '* Probably Mr. Devereux did not expect to be taken so 
 literally and promptly at his word," said Madeleine, with a 
 laugh. 
 
 The low, sweet cadence set Devereux at his ease immediately. 
 It told him that she desired him to stay, and therefore his mo- 
 mentary hesitation was at an end. " You are mistaken," he 
 said. " I shall be only too happy to be taken at my word — as 
 literally and promptly as possible. But I do not wish to trouble 
 you. Miss Severn." 
 
 " There is no fear of that," she replied. " I onl}'' hope we can 
 make you comfortable. I may send for your — traps, then? 
 Thanks." 
 
 In this way, rather to his own surprise, and much to his own 
 satisfaction, Devereux found himself settled under the Severn 
 roof, and admitted to that informal family companionship which 
 
A LOST IDEAL. 479 
 
 is sometimes a very pleasant thing, and sometimes exceedingly 
 the reverse. To be made to feel at home and considered " quite 
 one of the family " is not ahvays the best luck which can befall 
 a stranger. There are families which do not appear to advan- 
 tage when viewed en deshabille j they should be seen only in 
 the robes of state with which they adorn themselves for the 
 inspection of Mrs. Grundy. To this class the Severns did not 
 belong. Those charming manners, which were so universally 
 admired, were not worn by them as a society mask, but showed 
 to best advantacre within the threshold of home. Devereux 
 soon appreciated this. Though by nature and training indis- 
 posed to enthusiasm, he told himself that his taste had never 
 been so thoroughly pleased before. 
 
 The possession of the Carlisle estate remained, meanwhile, 
 an open and tacitly avoided question. Devereux jDroved exceed- 
 ingly capable and energetic in transacting business ; but he 
 acted altogether under Basil's direction, serving as a most effi- 
 cient right hand, but carefully avoiding any thing which com- 
 mitted him to an acknowledgment of ownership. Both Basil 
 and Madeleine observed this, but neither pressed the matter. 
 "It will right itself after a while," the former said, and the lat- 
 ter, it is to be supposed, acquiesced. 
 
 They were pleasant days — days with an almost idylUc 
 charm — which followed. Basil's injuries made him a prisoner ; 
 but it was not an irksome captivity when lightened by Deve- 
 reux's labor and Madeleine's companionship. The three spent 
 most of their days and all of their evenings together. Occa- 
 sionally Rosalind dropped in — moved more by curiosity than 
 any thing else — and she was soon shrewd enough to perceive 
 what was likely to be the end. She told her husband that it was 
 evident Devereux meant to marry Madeleine as he had endeav- 
 ored to marry Mary Carlisle, from motives of interest, 
 
 " That may be," replied Mr. Champion ; " but what are the 
 motives of interest ? The fortune is already his." 
 
 " But he IS too proud to take it," said Rosalind, " so he 
 thinks he will take Madeleine along with it as a compromise." 
 
480 A QUESTION' OF HONOR. 
 
 The man credited with this acute view of things was, mean- 
 while, more thoroughly discouraged with regard to his suit than 
 he had been even during those two years in Colorado. Tlien 
 he had thought that time was working for him, and that when 
 he returned at last Madeleine might be ready to listen. Kow 
 he felt that if he spoke it would only be to receive the same 
 cold, gentle kindness which had sent him away before. Feeling 
 this, he asked himself, in a fit of salutary humility, what right 
 he had to expect any thing else ; he looked dispassionately at 
 his character, his past life, and turned from both with a sense of 
 weary disgust. There was no consolation in remembering how 
 many women had regarded him with favor — how many hearts he 
 had lightly won, and as lightly lost. These were not women 
 like Madeleine Severn ; they were not hearts which had more 
 than idle fancy to bestow. This sentiment of honest self-con- 
 tempt grew so strong that presently it found expression, as all 
 strono; sentiments do. 
 
 May had come with a rush of summer warmth, a glow of 
 more than summer beauty. The close of a day of intense heat 
 found Madeleine, Basil, and Devereux in the garden. As the 
 sun sunk, they had adjourned there for coolness, and they found 
 at least quiet and fragrance. Roses were everywhere — for it is 
 May, not June, which is the month of roses in the South — and 
 their perfume, together with that of honeysuckle and jasmine, 
 loaded the air. The little group of three were seated on garden- 
 chairs on a grassy plot where a large magnolia — the finest in 
 Stansbury — grew. Among its glossy leaves the pure white 
 blossoms were opening, exhaling the richest fragrance of all 
 — indeed, so rich that Basil pronounced it almost overpow- 
 ering. 
 
 " I do not like such highly-perfumed flowers as the magnolia, 
 the tuberose, and the cape-jessamine," he said. " Give me some- 
 thing that is faint as well as sweet." 
 
 " Violets, for instance," said Devereux. 
 
 " Yes — and roses. One cannot have too much of their odor. 
 See those Madeleine is wearing — we know just how subtly fra- 
 
A LOST IDEAL. 481 
 
 grant tliey are, though we can perceive nothmg but this stun- 
 ning magnolia." 
 
 " Roses suit Miss Severn — and so do violets," said Devereux, 
 looking at her. She made a picture just then worth looking at. 
 Dressed in white, with roses on her breast and in her soft brown 
 hair, she was verj near beauty — quite near enough, the man who 
 was regarding her thought. He would not, if he could, have 
 changed a line of the graceful figure, or a tint of the delicate 
 face. She smiled as she niet his eyes. 
 
 "You say very kind things to me," she answered. "But 
 how lanc;uid this sudden heat makes one, does it not ? I ousrht 
 to water my flowers, and instead I am sitting here idly." 
 
 " Let me water them for you," said Devereux. • 
 
 "I don't think either of you need trouble about the flowers," 
 said Basil. " There is going to be rain within the next three 
 hours. Look at that cloud in the southwest. Keep still and be 
 comfortable ! It is not weather to exert one's self unnecessarily. 
 Madeleine, will you light me a cigar ? " 
 
 " I am afraid you will be dreadfully spoiled when you recover 
 the use of your arm," said Madeleine, taking the cigar-case 
 which he extended with his left hand. " Mr. Devereux, is this 
 a good cigar ? You must give me a match to light it — and I 
 cut ofi" the end, do I not ? Now " — after Basil had received it 
 and found it satisfactory — " may I light one for you ? " 
 
 " For me ! " said Devereux. " Are vou in earnest ? I shall 
 be greatly honored — but how good of you ! " 
 
 " ^Yhj so ? " she asked, laughing, as she selected another 
 cigar. " If we were in Spain I should make 3'ou a cigarette. 
 Do you like cigarettes ? I know how to make them admirably 
 —do I not, Basil ? " 
 
 " Pretty well," said Basil, in undemonstrative brotherly fash- 
 ion, " but you need a particular kind of tobacco for cigarettes." 
 
 " Some day I shall ask you to make some for me," said 
 Devereux, " but at present I am very grateful for my cigar." 
 
 She had lighted and handed it to him with a grace which no 
 Spanish woman could have excelled. Her smile thrilled him to 
 
4S2 A QUESTION OF HOXOR. 
 
 the heart, but only to cast his hopes more utterly to the ground. 
 Indeed, he thought despondently that he had no hope whatever. 
 The very frankness and sweetness of her manner filled him with 
 a sense of despair. In all his experience he had never known 
 any woman treat the man she loved with such calm, unembar- 
 rassed kindness. 
 
 Evening deepened, and dusk — the magical dusk of May — ■ 
 crept softly round them. A mocking-bird was singing in the 
 crest of the magnolia like an incarnate spirit of melody. The 
 odor of tobacco mingled with the odor of flowers, and along the 
 verge of the southwestern horizon fitful flashes of electricity 
 began to play. Basil rose after a while and strolled away, but 
 Madeleine and Devereux kept their seats. " Exercise is too over- 
 heating," said the former, and the latter answered, "It is pleas- 
 anter here than anywhere else." 
 
 There was silence for a minute after this — silence which 
 Madeleine's voice broke. " You must let me thank you, Mr. 
 Devereux," she said, " for all your kind service to Basil. What 
 he would have done without vou durino- these last few weeks, I 
 do not know ! " 
 
 "I am glad if I have been of service to him," said Devereux. 
 " In my useless life, to be of service to somebody is a novelty 
 and luxury. But you forget that your brother has a right to all 
 that I have given," 
 
 She did not commit the blunder of asking what right, but sbe 
 answered the other part of his remark : " Why do you always 
 speak of yourself in such a depreciating manner?" she asked. 
 " I do not like to hear it. If any one else spoke so, I might 
 think it a pardonable affectation, but I know you better than to 
 suspect such a thing, so I am sure it is honest. But I am also 
 sure it is unjust. Why is your life less useful than the lives of 
 other men ? " 
 
 " My life is useless because I live for no one but myself," he 
 answered. " I often think that if I had been killed in battle it 
 wouM have been the best thing that could have befallen me. 
 My life was very young then, and a 'death-bed of fame' would 
 
A LOST IDEAL. 4S3 
 
 have redeemed its errors — but there is something suggestive of 
 anti-climax in coming safely through the rain of bullets which 
 sent many a hero to heaven — your brother and my brother 
 among the number — to spend the best years of youth as an idle 
 trifler and sybarite." 
 
 "Why do you say such harsh things of yourself? I think 
 they are very unjust." 
 
 "Do you?" — he spoke eagerly — "but you said them once 
 yourself." 
 
 " Are you sure of that ? I am sorry if I was so rude. But 
 I learned long ago that I am not infallible." 
 
 " You were perfectly right, however, in that case," he went on, 
 with the humility and despondency of his heart finding faithful 
 echo in his voice. " I did not appreciate how right at the time 
 — but I do now. I have squandered my fortune and wasted my 
 youth ; I am not necessary in the least degree to the comfort or 
 happiness of any human being. I can give no reason for my 
 existence." 
 
 " The best reason is that God bestowed it on you," said 
 Madeleine, in her reverent tones. " But I repeat again that you 
 judge yourself too hardly — nothing is more necessary than that 
 we should have patience vydh ourselves. It will not do to give 
 way to disgust and contempt of our own shortcomings, else 
 there would be hours for all of us when we could scarcely bear 
 to live." 
 
 " There is certainly a great deal of folly in abusing one's 
 self," said Devereux, a little grimly. "Do you remember the 
 advice which an old diplomatist gave Prosper Merimee, ' Never 
 speak evil of yourself : your friends will speak enough ' ? " 
 
 " And I suppose you add, like that ingenuous and amiable 
 gentleman — Merimee, I mean — that your great virtue is mod- 
 esty, that you carry it to excess." 
 
 " No — as a rule, only very vain people claim to be modest. 
 A truly modest man knows how vain he is." 
 
 " That is paradoxical, but true, I think. So, being a naodest 
 man, you know that you are vain ? " 
 
484 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " Insufferably vain sometimes — at others, a flash of wisdom 
 comes to me like an inspiration. I see myself in my true colors, 
 and then no longer wonder at an}' failure which life has brought 
 or can bring me." 
 
 "Humility is wholesome," said Madeleine, "but it should 
 not be suffered to grow morbid. Take care that yours does not 
 become so. When you have fallen hopelessly in your own 
 esteem, come to me and perhaps I may assist you back to proper 
 self-appreciation." 
 
 "You should not tempt me by such an offer — especially 
 since I cannot fall lower in my own esteem than I am at 
 present." 
 
 "Ah!" she laughed softly. "Then let me see if I cannot 
 reinstate you. I think — indeed, I know — that you are kindly, 
 generous, and unselfish. Can one desire a better foundation on 
 which to build a character than those qualities ? " 
 
 " If I possess them, they are what your theologians call 
 natural virtues : I deserve no credit for them." 
 
 " Few of us deserve any credit for the little good that may 
 be in us ! — few are wise enough to cultivate virtues as we may 
 cultivate flowers. An amiable character is often as much God's 
 gift as a beautiful face — but we love both." 
 
 " You are kindness itself. Miss Severn. You are too kind, 
 indeed. I wish I could make you understand — but that is im- 
 possible." 
 
 He broke off abruptly, and for a moment there was silence. 
 Then suddenly came a flash of lightning, and a quick, rattling 
 clap of thunder. Madeleine was perhaps not sorry for an excuse 
 to rise. She felt that the conversation had wandered to the 
 brink of possibilities which were best avoided. 
 
 "Basil was a true weather-prophet for. once," she said. 
 " Usuall}'- his prognostications are chiefly remarkable for their 
 inaccuracv. But mv flowers are to be watered from the clouds 
 to-night. We had better go in, Mr. Devereux — especially as I see 
 Ann coming to say that tea is ready." 
 
 As they were going to the house Devereux thought, " If she 
 
A LOST IDEAL. 4S5 
 
 was not so kind, I might make one more effort — I might ask her 
 if there is any hope for me in the future — but what is the good 
 of it ? I should only bring constraint into our friendship. She 
 certainly does not care for me." 
 
 After tea an incident occurred which strengthened this opin- 
 ion. The prophesied rain was pouring in torrents, but the draw- 
 ing-room, with its shaded lamps, was almost as full of fragrance 
 as the garden had been, from the cut roses which filled every 
 vase and hanging-basket. Madeleine was at the piano — her 
 touch lingering over the keys in the dreamy strains of Schu- 
 mann and Chopin ; Basil was reading by a table strewed with 
 books, papers, and late periodicals ; Mrs. Severn and Devereux 
 were playing backgammon, which, it may be added, the latter 
 held in cordial detestation. Discovering, however, that his host- 
 ess liked the game, he had hypocritically expressed a partiality 
 for it — in consequence of which the board was brought out every 
 evening. Three games at least were always played, and Mrs. 
 Severn was generally victorious — whether by good fortune, skill- 
 ful playing, or the courtesy of her adversary, it is difficult to say. 
 This evening, as usual, she won two games out of three, and 
 w^hile Devereux, with a pleasant sense of penance accomplished, 
 closed the board, Basil called his attention to an essay in one 
 of the magazines. " It is worth glancing over," he said. 
 
 As a matter of pure complaisance, Devereux accepted the 
 book. He desired to go to the piano, where Madeleine's mu- 
 sic — sweeter than the songs of the sirens — summoned him; 
 but, being obliging to a fault, he sat down instead to read the 
 essay, in which, at that moment, he felt not the least interest. 
 He glanced hastily over it, feeling the effort of doing so to be 
 quite a task, and receiving its propositions into a very distract- 
 ed mind, but when he came to the end, his eye fell on a poem 
 which occupied the opi^osite page, and which instantly attracted 
 his attention. It was entitled " A Lost Ideal," and signed " Gor- 
 don Lacy." The title and signature startled Devereux, and 
 almost involuntarily he began to read the verses — which were 
 these : 
 
486 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 A LOST IDEAL. 
 
 She stood beside rae long ago, 
 
 Her mystic fingers touched my brow, 
 Whereon, in dreams, I feel them now : 
 
 Her voice was tender, soft, and low. 
 
 " Look up, soul ! " she said — and smiled, 
 " See in thy sky Hope's morning-star. 
 
 By no false splendor be beguiled. 
 But follow me afar." 
 
 I knelt and kissed her gracious feet, 
 
 I bade her lead the onward way, 
 
 For could I falter, fail, or stray, 
 Blessed by a guide so fair and sweet ? 
 Her eves shone on me with the light 
 
 Of powers divine and fancies high, 
 Of hopes and glories pure and bright 
 
 As God's eternal sky. 
 
 She led me from the haunts of men, 
 
 She whispered thoughts beyond the reach 
 Of human minds or human speech, 
 
 She bent and gently touched my pen : 
 
 " soul," she said, " be brave and strong, 
 Keep faith and courage on the way, 
 
 For faint hearts fail as life grows long 
 Toward the setting day: 
 
 " Let no earth-glamour come between 
 Thy face and mine : no passion rise 
 To veil my beauty from thine eyes. 
 
 And from thy sight my glory screen. 
 
 While thou art faithful I am true, 
 And over paths of loss and pain, 
 
 Trod by a brave immortal few, 
 I hold divinest gain." 
 
 Long while ago this heavenly voice 
 Spoke to my soul the mystic word. 
 Still cherished there, though now unheard, 
 
 Of hopes that made my heart rejoice ; 
 
A LOST IDEAL. 487 
 
 The morning star has paled away, 
 Gone from the sky its rosy flush, 
 
 And long ago the garish day 
 Eeplaced Aurora's blush. 
 
 Long too ago that pure Ideal 
 
 Turned her sad face and tender eyes, 
 
 From where my chosen pathway lies. 
 Amid the tumult of the Real ; 
 Her white robe passed beyond my sight. 
 
 Her presence left my empty days, 
 With one last glance of sorrowing light, 
 
 She vanished from my gaze. 
 
 And now I seek, and now I yearn 
 For that lost vision of the dawn, 
 From my false side forever gone, 
 
 That radiant guide, whose footsteps turn 
 
 "Where, through enchanted meadows fair. 
 Immortal asphodels still shine. 
 
 And pearly morning fills the air 
 With opal touch divine. 
 
 O'er world-worn paths my footsteps tread, 
 The world's loud echo fills my ears. 
 But, through its din, my spirit hears 
 
 The sound of that sweet voice which led 
 
 My soul adown the golden past. 
 fair Ideal, betrayed and lost, 
 
 Earth's treasures at thy feet I cast, 
 Won at too dear a cost ! 
 
 From the last line the young man looked up, and, to his sur- 
 prise, met Madeleine's gaze. So entirely had his attention been 
 absorbed by the poem, that he had not heard her leave the 
 piano and cross the floor to the table. She had spoken to him 
 once without obtaining any reply : now she said, " What is it 
 that interests you so much ? " 
 
 His first impulse was to close the magazine, and answer, 
 " Nothing of any importance : " his second (which he followed)' 
 
488 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 to say carelessly, " Your brother directed my attention to an 
 essay whicli I have found rather interesting." 
 
 " Ver^ interesting, I should think, to judge by the manner 
 in which it absorbed you," said she, smihng. " May I see it ? " 
 
 " It really is not worth your attention," he answered — anx- 
 ious, he scarcely knew why, to keep from her this, which even to 
 him seemed full of earnestness, as if it came directly from Lacy's 
 heart. 
 
 She looked at him curiously. "Why is it not worth my 
 attention, if it was worth yours ? " she asked. Then she 
 extended her hand and took the magazine. " I am a daughter 
 of Eve," she said. " I must know what it is." 
 
 " If you must know," said Devereux, in a low voice — think- 
 ing it best to be candid at once — " it is a poem which I thought 
 might pain j^ou — by Mr. Lacy." 
 
 " Why should it pain me ? " she asked — blushing, not so 
 much from the sound of that name as from the tone in which it 
 was pronounced. "You surely forget," she added, a little 
 haughtily, " how entirely it has passed out of Mr. Lacy's power 
 to pain me." 
 
 " I don't forget any thing," said Devereux. " God forbid that 
 I should ! But you must read the poem now^ — then you wall 
 understand what I meant, and why I thought to spare you pain 
 by keeping it from you." 
 
 She opened the magazine wonderingly, yet a little reluct- 
 antly — doubting what might be before her. She was prepared 
 to be shocked, for Lacy's poems of late had drifted nearer and 
 nearer to a standard which is " advanced " without being high, 
 and from this very reason she was not prepared for the verses 
 on which her glance fell. The poem was less artistically 
 polished than much of his work, but it possessed a spirit of 
 pathos and sincerity which many more elaborate efforts had 
 lacked. 
 
 As she read this message which seemed addressed to her 
 comprehension alone, all the past rushed back over Madeleine, 
 and tears gathered so thickly in her eyes that she could scarcely 
 
AMONG THE ROSES. 489 
 
 readl Suddenly they startled Devereux, as well as herself, by 
 dropping on the page, and then saying, in a scarcely audible 
 voice, "Poor Gordon! " she put down the magazine and left the 
 room. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AMONG THE KOSES. 
 
 It may be imagined that Devereux's reflections, when he 
 went to his chamber that night, were not agreeable. He sat 
 down by an open window to smoke, and while the damp air 
 came in, laden with fragrance which the rain had exhaled, he 
 asked himself wdiat new knowledge this was which had brought 
 to him such a great revelation of pain. Was it the knowledge 
 that Madeleine did not love him ? But he had fancied that he 
 knew that before. Was it the realization of how much he loved 
 her ? — of how entirely, for good or ill, his heart was in her keep- 
 ing ? That, too, he had known — though not, perhaps, with the 
 sharp distinctness borne to him. Was it jealousy? — was it 
 longing ? — was it hopelessness or passion ? He could not tell, 
 and he was in no mood to analyze his own sensations. That his 
 soul was sick with pain, he knew : that he was possessed by a 
 sense of anguish which is old as humanity — the strong yearning 
 for a good which cannot be reached, the burning sense of wasted 
 effort and impotent powers ! There could be no doubt of one 
 thing — his whole nature w^as roused at last. He had scoffed at 
 earnestness and played with passion, and now they turned like 
 tigers to rend him. " My God ! if it were only a fancy ! " he 
 said aloud, remembering Madeleine's words when they had 
 parted two years before. " If it were only possible to put it out 
 of my life as I have put many another sentiment ! " But, while 
 he spoke, he felt that such a thing was impossible. He might 
 fail, as men unnumbered have failed, to win the desire of his 
 heart and the light of his eyes, but he could not thrust aside the 
 
490 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 love wliioh had grown within him until it seemed to say with 
 unchano^ino: resolution, "I have come, and I shall abide — to 
 bless or curse ! " 
 
 Considering these things, reflecting on the incident of that 
 night, his heart rose up in indignant protest. She had called 
 liim light and fickle, she had sent him away refusing even to 
 believe in the depth and strength of his love, and now before his 
 eyes she could show how her heart still clung to the memory of 
 a man who had not only failed in faith to her, but who had 
 renounced every high ideal in life and art. That sting, as was 
 natural enough, pierced deeper than any other. He felt in every 
 fibre of his nature the intensity and constancy of his own love, 
 and for this love to be made a thing of naught would have been 
 hard to bear under any circumstances, but for it to be disre- 
 garded and rejected while an unworthy shadow of the past was 
 exalted above it — ^this was something which he felt scarcely 
 able to endure. A fierce sense of rebellion overpowered him. 
 Why should that which he would have toiled and suffered — ay, 
 even died — to win, be denied to his passionate longing, and 
 given to one who had no need or care for it, who, if he recog- 
 nized his great mistake too late, could sit down and sing of it to 
 the world in words that hardly veiled their meaning "^ 
 
 Such questions have been asked since the beginning of time, 
 and throuo'h all the ao:es no answer has come that the human 
 heart is willing to hear. No answer came to Devereux now. 
 There was nothing to calm the tumult of his soul. The clouds 
 broke away, the stars looked at him through the jasmine-hung 
 window, but the serene majesty of Nature had no power to still 
 the passionate fever of his heart. When he rose at last and 
 flung the bm-ning end of his last cigar among the wet flowers 
 below, the words which came to his lips were those . which 
 Schiller gave to princely Wallenstein : 
 
 " This anguish will be wearied down, I know : 
 • What pang is permanent with man ? From the highest, 
 As from the vilest thing of every day, 
 He learns to wean himself: for the strong hours 
 Conquer him." 
 
AMONG THE ROSES. 491 
 
 That a change had come over Devereux was perceptible the 
 next day to every one. It was a subtile change, but it did not 
 pass with the day, nor with many days. He was colder and 
 quieter in his manner, he withdrew more to himself, his interest 
 seemed to flag;- in the work which Basil and himself had under- 
 taken — the rebuilding of the mills — and now and then he spoke 
 of an early return to Colorado. All this looked ominous, and 
 Basil — who had become sincerely attached to him — spoke 
 gravely to Madeleine. 
 
 " Something has come over Devereux," he said. " I don't 
 understand what it is, but he seems unaccountably altered. 
 Have you done any thing to him?" 
 
 " I ! What should I have done to him ? " She laughed, but, 
 as she laughed, she colored, and Basil, noting the fact, looked 
 at her suspiciously. 
 
 " I am half inclined to think you have," he said. " Deve- 
 reux has changed too suddenly for something not to be the 
 matter. Now that I come to think of it, he has not seemed like 
 himself since that evening I left you in the garden together. 
 Madeleine, he really is a very good fellow, and if you have done 
 or said any thing to wound him — " 
 
 " Basil, your conjectures are running aWay with you," said 
 Madeleine. " I have not, to my knowledge, either said or done 
 the least thing to wound Mr. Devereux. Nothing passed be- 
 tween us on the evening to which you allude save a little idle 
 talk, and then we came into the house." 
 
 " He has not been like himself since that evening," repeated 
 Basil, obstinately, " and he says he is going back to Colorado 
 next week." 
 
 " I am sorry to hear it ; but there is nothing I can do to pre- 
 vent his going." 
 
 " You might speak to him — you have a great deal of influence 
 over him — and tell him that he ought to stay and take charge 
 of his property." 
 
 " I cannot," said Madeleine, shrinking, she scarcely knew 
 why. " You should not ask it of me, Basil. I have not men- 
 tioned the property to him since he came — I cannot do so." 
 
492 ^ QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " Well, say what you please to him, so that you induce him 
 to stay — for a month or two longer, at all events. It is really 
 impossible for me to assume the entire responsibility of these 
 buildings." 
 
 " Why don't you tell him so? " 
 
 " I have told him so — and he replies by shrugging his 
 shoulders and saying that I must. Now, he won't answer you 
 in that manner." 
 
 "He may not answer me in that manner, but the substance 
 of his reply will probably be the same." 
 
 " Try," said Basil, laconically. 
 
 Thus urged to effort, and her mind " put upon thinking," as 
 Robinson Crusoe says, Madeleine began to consider what the 
 meaning of the change in Devereux — evident to her as to Ba- 
 sil — could be. A little while before he had said that he would 
 probably not go back to Denver before the end of the summer, 
 and now he talked of returning next week ! This sudden reso- 
 lution was plainly the result of some recent cause ; but she was 
 unable to imagine what that cause was, until the hint which 
 Basil had given with regard to the evening in the garden sud- 
 denly enlightened her. Like a flash she remembered Lacy's 
 poem, and how it had affected her — how she had read it before 
 Devereux, how her tears had fallen on the page, and how she 
 had left the room. From that hour the change in him had 
 dated. 
 
 This revelation came to her with almost startling force. She 
 was alone in her own room ; but, glancing in a mirror opposite 
 her seat, she saw that a flood of crimson dyed her face. " How 
 could he ! — how could he ! " she cried, and then, stung by a 
 sense of having been misunderstood and misjudged, she aston- 
 ished herself by bursting into tears more passionate than those 
 she had shed over Lacy's " Lost Ideal." 
 
 It is an accepted fact that, when two people live in the same 
 house, they must of necessity see a great deal of each other. 
 It is certainly true that they have ample opportunities for doing 
 so ; but it is also true that if they are inclined to avoid each 
 
AMOXG THE ROSES. 493 
 
 other, thej can accomplish that as well under the same roof as 
 in any other position. If either or both are good tacticians, it 
 makes the matter more interesting and agreeable. To avoid 
 each other, and jet not to betray the secret of tliis avoidance to 
 casual lookers-on, requires very good tactics indeed, and a grace 
 of social diplomacy not often found. 
 
 This diplomacy both Madeleine and Devereux possessed, and 
 for several days they exercised it in a truly admirable manner. 
 The latter thought that he had scorched himself badly enough, 
 and that his best wisdom lay now in avoiding the fair but cruel 
 flame which allured him. The former felt some slight resent- 
 ment of his injustice, but much more of that instinct of reserve 
 which often makes a woman seem cold when she only feels that 
 it is her right to be wooed before she is won. Under tliese cir- 
 cumstances, there was a great deal of courtesy in the manners of 
 the two, but very little of that frank ease into which, for a little 
 while, they seemed to be drifting. AYhen matters reach such a 
 point, they rapidly tend to a culmination of one kind or another 
 — and a culmination came here shortly and sharply. 
 
 It occurred at breakfast one morning. Several letters lay by 
 Devereux's plate when he came down, and on the first he recog 
 nized at a glance Mr. Hurst's writing. HaWng read it, he looked 
 at Basil with a smile. 
 
 " My furlough is at an end," he said ; " the bugle sounds 
 ' Boot and saddle ' again. Hurst writes that I must come back 
 at once. He is called away to one of the Atlantic cities on im- 
 portant business, and I am needed in Denver." 
 
 " I wonder if you have not something to do with the im- 
 portant business ? " said Basil, suspiciously. 
 
 " On my honor, no. Here is his letter if you like to read it.'* 
 He tossed it across the table. " You can see for yourself what 
 he says." 
 
 Basil read the letter, and returned it gravely. " I suppose 
 you can't avoid going," he said. 
 
 " Even if I had any desire to avoid it, which I have not, it 
 would be quite impossible to think of such a thing," replied 
 
i94 A QUEbTION OF HONOR. 
 
 Devereux. " 1 owe more than I can say to Hurst — he has been 
 the kindest and most generous of friends to me — and I should 
 be intolerably ungrateful if I inconvenienced him now by neg- 
 lectino; to answer his summons." 
 
 " When do you mean to start ? " 
 
 " To-nio-ht." 
 
 " When there is any thing like a journey in prospect, what a 
 hurry gentlemen always are in to be off ! " said Mrs. Severn. 
 " I think they are as impatient as children. Now, why cannot 
 you take things quietly, Mr. Devereux, and wait for a day or 
 two ? " 
 
 " For one reason, because, while I was taking things quietly, 
 Hurst would be taking them very much the reverse," said Deve- 
 reux, smiling, " and because there is no good in making a pain- 
 ful thing a long thing." 
 
 " You don't want to go, then ? " 
 
 " How can I possibly want to go when you have ail been so 
 kind to me ? " 
 
 " We think the kindness is on your side, who came so far to 
 relieve Basil," said Madeleine. " Of course, if your friend needs 
 you in Denver, we cannot be so selfish as to ask you to stay ; 
 but we hope that you will come back." 
 
 " I do not promise myself such a pleasure," he answered, 
 without looking at her. " I scarcely think I shall come back — 
 unless Basil breaks his arm again." 
 
 Silence followed this announcement. Nobody cared to take 
 up the gauntlet thus thrown down, and introduce on the scene 
 that oft-discussed and much-vexed subject of the Carlisle prop- 
 erty, Mrs. Severn elevated her eyebrows in mild surprise, and 
 glanced at Madeleine. Basil also looked at her, as if to say, 
 " You see how right I was ! " while Madeleine, on her part, 
 felt in the position of one who is held accountable for vagaries 
 beyond all power of regulating. On the spur of the moment 
 she formed a resolution which after breakfast she proceeded to 
 execute. 
 
 The horses were before the door for Basil and Devereux to 
 
AMONG THE ROSES. 495 
 
 ride, as usual, to the mills. They never troubled themselves 
 about haste in starting, however, and this morning was no 
 exception to the rule. Basil found it necessary to go to his 
 room in search of some missing plan which the builders needed, 
 while Devereux, seeing Madeleine starting to the garden with 
 her basket and shears, could not resist the temptation to accom- 
 pany her. He had not done any thing of this kind of late ; but, 
 after all (he thought), why should he not singe his wings a little 
 more ? Opportunity for doing so would soon be over, and cer- 
 tainly he had no need to guard from harm a heart which had 
 already passed so far beyond his control. He walked up to her, 
 therefore, as she was tying on her hat. 
 
 " May I come with you ? " he asked, in the tone of one who 
 is not altogether sure what reception he may expect. '' I am 
 fond of roses, you know, and perhaps you will give me a bud to 
 put away with 3'our violets as a souvenir." 
 
 " Is it possible you have those violets jet ? " asked Made- 
 leine, looking up with a smile — a smile so bright and sweet that 
 Devereux's heart startled him by a great throb. The delicate 
 face under its garden-hat seemed to him at that moment the 
 fairest on which the sun of May ever shone. The glamour 
 which Love brino-s in his train touched its beaut v with a divine 
 charm, like that which the face of the first woman — ^j'et un- 
 stained by sin — may have worn to the gaze of the first man. 
 
 " Of course I have them yet," he said, answering her ques- 
 tion. " Did you think I was likely to have given or thrown them 
 away ? " 
 
 " They were not worth giving away — who would care for a 
 knot of faded violets ? — and scarcely worth throwing away, 
 since that requires an efi'ort ; but you might have lost them." 
 
 "I have taken excellent care not to do so," he replied. 
 *' Frail and faded as they are, they have been my only memorial 
 of — of much which I had better forget, perhaps. If I were a 
 poet — like Mr. Lacy — I would tell you the storj' of all they have 
 been to me. But then, very probably, after my story was to?d, 
 you would not care to hear it." 
 
496 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " Why should 3^011 suppose so ? " she asked. Then, feeling 
 that the opportunity was come for what she had determined at 
 breakfast to say, she went on in a low voice : " I am glad you 
 have spoken of Mr. Lacy and his poems — it reminds me of some- 
 thing which for several days I have wanted to say to j'ou. I 
 have been afraid that vou mio;-ht have misunderstood what I felt 
 on that night when you showed me — or, rather, when I read, 
 despite you — his ' Lost Ideal.' " 
 
 Devereux was slightly startled, for he had not in the least 
 expected any thing like this ; but his self-possession rarely for- 
 sook him, and he did not lose it now. They had been crossing 
 the lawn as they spoke, and, as he answered, they entered the 
 garden under an arch over which a rose-vine ran. 
 
 " I do not think I misunderstood any thing," he said, quietly. 
 " I knew how the poem would affect you, and therefore I did 
 not wish you to see it. There is an odd kind of sympathy be- 
 tween us — there has been from the first. I felt that it would 
 pain you ; but you must not fancy that, for a moment, I did you 
 any injustice." 
 
 "Are you sure that j^oudidnot?" she asked. "Are you 
 sure that you know why it pained me?" 
 
 She turned as she spoke, and looked at him with her candid 
 eyes, which, whether he would or not, seemed to compel a truth- 
 ful answer. 
 
 " I imagined that I knew exactly why it pained you," he 
 replied. " You felt the tenderest pity, and you have still — may 
 I say this, sure that you will not misunderstand ? — the memory 
 of love." 
 
 " I am glad that you have been frank enough to say this to 
 me," she answered, a deeper color flickering into her cheeks, but 
 her eyes remaining steady in their grave regard. " In justice to 
 myself I must tell you that you are mistaken. Poor Gordon I 
 what I felt for him was indeed pity, the purest pity — and you 
 know how near akin pity is to pain. I saw the beginning of 
 his unfaithfulness to all high ideals so long ago, and I have 
 watched with so much sorrow his downward path ! The love I 
 
AMONG THE ROSES. 497 
 
 once gave him has passed almost from my memory — entirely 
 from my heart — but it is impossible not to be sorry when we see 
 a spirit sinking into the mire of earth, weighed down with earthly 
 things, whose wings we once hoped might bear it to the stars." 
 
 She spoke, Devereux thought, with the simplicity of a child 
 and the gentleness of a saint. His heart leaped up with such a 
 sense of relief, of absolute trust and confidence, that he could 
 have knelt and kissed her dress as it swept the dewy grass be- 
 neath their feet. He felt a pang of shame that he had ever 
 doubted her, that he had not read her meaning better. 
 
 He expressed something like this, adding : " I can only ex- 
 cuse myself when I remember that the heart sends up mists 
 which cloud and confuse the brain. Will you forgive me for 
 saying that I have no capability of cool judgment where you are 
 concerned ? If I had, I should not have blundered so unpardon- 
 ably." 
 
 '* You have so often judged me more kindly than I deserved," 
 she said, "that I can afford to pardon you for judging me once 
 w^th slight injustice. Now that you understand, however," she 
 went on, with a smile rising to her lips and into her brown eyes, 
 " will you have the rose that is to be a companion souvenir to 
 your violets ? " 
 
 "1 will have any thing that you choose to give me," he an- 
 swered ; " but since you make me bold to ask, I would rather 
 have a rose that you have worn. Will you give me one out of 
 your hair — to-night ? I have often wished that I might fall heir 
 to one that had rested for a whole evening among your soft 
 tresses." ' 
 
 She looked at him with something like wonder in her gaze. 
 ^^^lat woman, who is not vain and shallow, but feels humbled 
 and touched by the supreme height to which a brave man's love 
 exalts her, with all the imperfections (which he does not see) 
 thick upon her ? It may be safely asserted that in exact pro- 
 portion to the fineness of a nature, it feels this. There are 
 women who never feel it — to whom such homage is only a vul- 
 gar triumph. 
 
498 ^ QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 " Certainly, you shall Lave the rose to-night," she said ; " but 
 will you not have one now also? Here is a lovely Malmaison." 
 
 Devereux received the fragrant, half-opened bud which she 
 offered, and kept in his own the hand which gave it. He was 
 not thinking of the Malmaison ; he was thrilled by a sudden 
 divine hope which came to him so much like an inspiration that 
 he felt unable to disregard it. 
 
 " I told you a little while ago that I should not come back," 
 he said. " I thought then that there would never be any good 
 in doing so — that my only hope for peace was in remaining 
 away ; but now you are so kind — you must blame yourself if I 
 am presumptuous — that I feel impelled to ask j^^ou if I may come 
 back?" 
 
 She did not reclaim her hand ; she only lifted her eyes to his 
 face for a moment, and then the lids fell again, as she replied, 
 " Surely there is no need to ask such a question. Do you not 
 know that we shall be very glad to see you come back ? " 
 
 " We ! " he repeated. " I only spoke of you. No one else 
 matters. Will you be glad to see me ? " 
 
 " Very glad," she answered, simplj^ 
 
 "And when I come," he went on, growing bolder and laying 
 his other hand over the one which he held, " may I tell you the 
 story of all that has so long been in my heart regarding you — 
 the story which I promised when I went away that I would come 
 back in three years to tell ? " 
 
 "Oh, no," said Madeleine, with a low laugh. "You are mis- 
 taken — my memory is better than yours. You only said that 
 you were coming back to tell me whether or not your fancy had 
 endured." 
 
 " But there is no need for me to tell you that," he said. 
 " You know now — what I knew then — that it is no fancv, but 
 the passion which colors a man's whole life. I feel as strongly 
 as possible that I have nothing to offer which is worth your 
 regard — that, taken at my best (which, God knows, is poor 
 enough !), I am not and never shall be worthy of you ; but still, 
 if you can give me any hope — if you can let me think that some 
 
AMOXG THE ROSES. 499 
 
 day 3'^ou may learn to love me — I shall strive to wait as patiently 
 and serve as faithfully as the knights of whom you spoke to me 
 once." 
 
 " Do you remember every thing that I ever said to you ? " 
 asked Madeleine, with a slight quiver in her voice. '* I wish — I 
 wish I had uttered things better worth remembering." 
 
 " I never heard you utter any thing that was not worth re- 
 membering," said Devereux, with a sincerity that could not be 
 doubted. " What power your Words have had over me I shall 
 not try to tell you — I would rather show you." 
 
 " I wish you would forget some words that I once spoke to 
 you," she said. " They were not only harsh, but deeply unjust. 
 I have felt that for a long time. Do you know what I mean ? I 
 said that you were frivolous and fickle — and — and other things 
 of the same kind. AVill you forgive me ? I know better now." 
 
 " Forgive you ! " He kissed passionately the hand he held. 
 " There is nothing to forgive. I was all that you said — and 
 worse. If I am better now, it is you who have made me so. I 
 claim no credit for my constancy. How could any one know you 
 and not love you ? — how could any one love 3'ou and forget 
 you?" 
 
 " Oh, you think too highly, far too highly of me ! " she cried, 
 touched, melted, overcome, not so much by the words themselves 
 as by the great earnestness which filled them. " If you could 
 see me in my true colors, you would not care so much for me — 
 you would not think me a prize worth winning." 
 
 " Then God forbid that I should ever see you in your true 
 colors ! " he said, with something like a laugh. " The world 
 would be emptied for me if I lost my belief in you as I know 
 and love you — my queen, my star, my truest inspiration and best 
 hope in life ! O Madeleine ! do you not know that, after all this 
 sweet kindness, I cannot leave you without some assurance for 
 the future? My love, my lov^e, will you try to give me the an- 
 swer I desire when I come back to tell my story ? " 
 
 He looked at her with passionate, pleading eyes, in which 
 she read all that was in his heart — the heart which had remained 
 
500 A QUESTION OF HONOR. 
 
 true to her through coklness, scoru, neglect and absence. As 
 she thought of this, a swift remembrance came to her — ah, 
 would to God it came to all of us when hands are clasiDed to say 
 good-by ! — that on this sad earth of pain and loss we are certain 
 of nothing save what we hold in our grasp. The present mo- 
 ment is ours — the next may be forever beyond our reach. To 
 Madeleine this thought was like a warning. The man wdio loved 
 her was going away, and could she be sure that her glance would 
 ever rest on his face again ? The doubt cost her a pang which 
 ended all hesitation. With an impulse full of the bravest and 
 sweetest grace, she held out her other hand. 
 
 " JSTeed you wait to tell your story until you come back ? " 
 she said. 
 
 Who is not able to imagine what Devereux answered ? It 
 was the light of Paradise which suddenly filled the sunshine for 
 these two, as they stood among the roses of May. There are few 
 lives which such an hour has not brightened w^ith that same pri- 
 mal radiance which in the oldest love-story of earth rested on 
 the two — type of all who were to come after — amid the bowers 
 of Eden. 
 
 Basil went that morning to the mills alone ; but for him, too, 
 there was a brightness on the earth which had not been there 
 before — the brightness of an unselfish joy in the happiness of 
 others. There was no thought of envy or repining in his sou], 
 for his was that true and simple courage which, accepting life as 
 it is given, bears its burden cheerfully over the roughest road. 
 
 Devereux remained firm in his resolution to leave for Colo- 
 rado that night, and Madeleine did not try to dissuade him ; but 
 when the sun Avas sinking, they went in the sweet May gloam- 
 ing to Mary Carlisle's grave, and there one promised to w-ait — 
 the other to return. 
 
 When it is said that he did return, all is told. It is good to 
 think that sometimes on earth faithful love and tender hope are 
 crowned with that golden gift of happiness which our hearts 
 desire ; but it is also good — nay, better — to believe that if they 
 are not so crowned, there are some gifts better lost than won. 
 
AMONG THE ROSES. 501 
 
 some souls called to taste the divine sweetness which lurks in 
 the bitterness of sacrifice, rather than that rich nectar which 
 men call joy, and who are taught the great lesson that, out of 
 weary longing and bafiQed efforts, and failure which seems almost 
 too sad to be dwelt upon, a victory which shall endure forever 
 may be wrought. 
 
 22 
 
 THE END. 
 
 I 
 
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 THE PRINCIPLES OF MENTAL PHYSIOLOGY. With their Ap- 
 
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 THE EXPANSE OF HEAVEN. A Series of Essays on the Wonders of 
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 PHYSIOLOGY FOR PRACTICAL USE. By various Writers. Edited 
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 THE GREAT ICE AGE, and its Relations to the Antiquity of 
 
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 " Every step in the process is traced with admirable perspicuity and fullness by Mr. Geikie." — Lon- 
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 " ' The Great Ice Age,' by James Geikie, is a book that uiiit«s the popular and abstruse elements of 
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 ADDRESS DELIVERED BEFORE THE BRITISH ASSOCIA- 
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 THE PHYSIOLOGY OF MAN. Designed to represent the Existing State 
 of Physiological Science as applied to the Functions of the Human Body. By 
 Austin Flint, Jr., M. D. Complete in Five Volumes, octavo, of about 500 
 pages each, with 105 Illustrations. Cloth, $22.00; sheep, $27.00. Each vol- 
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 The above is by far the most complete work on human physiology in the English language. It treats 
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