5fie HART SERIES LIL, THE DANCING GIRL MISS CAROLINE HART HART SERIES NUMBER 3 Paolished by THE ARTHUR WESTBROOK COMPANY CLEVELAND, U. S. A. V Printed in the "uVited 'States of America CONTENTS. PAGE Chapter I p.**n5 Chapter II . 11 Chapter III .> 18 Chapter IV 24 Chapter V 31 Chapter VI - 37 Chapter VII *,.,... 43 Chapter VIII . 50 Chapter IX .,.*...,,. 56 Chapter X ..... 62 Chapter XI f * 6P Chapter XIT - 75 Chapter XIII - 81 Chanter XIV 87* Chapter XV 93 Chapter XVI 99 Chapter XVII i. i > 105 Chapter XVIII - 114 Chapter XIX - 119 Chapter XX V *>> 125 Chapter XXI 132 Chapter XXII 139 Chapter XXIII 145 Chapter XXIV -.. 151 Chapter XXV r 157 Chapter XXVI 163 Chapter XXVII .... 169 Chapter XXVIII 175 Chapter XXIX -.182 Chapter XXX **-* 191 Chapter XXXI 196 Chanter XXXII ... 202 Chapter XXXIII ,* 209 Chapter XXXIV .- 215 Chapter XXXV 221 Chapter XXXVI ...- 227 Chapter XXXVII 234 970409 LJL, THE DANCING QRL' -BY- CAROUNE HART CHAPTER I. The little house was always in order, but it seemed that not a partkle of dust rested upon anything on this great day. Everything looked new and singu- larly tidy in the parlor, where the chairs were placed Closely against the wall; the highbacked sofa stood straight and forbidding in its corner; the table in the center of the floor so exact that the distance must have been measured from every side, and its books lying diagonally upon each corner with the lamp, clear as crystal in polish, in the middle. The rnelodeon stood open in one corner, but even its stops looked the reverse of inviting. The windows were open, and outside the sun* i^ght lay in great rifts about the garden, where the hollyhocks and sunflowers nodded lazily; but evea the flowers had a prim, set look that was not usua! to them in other places. Not that there were many of them. Old Jonathan Esmonde did not believe in them. Their gay coloring looked worldly and altogether too frivolous for this wicked world, and so old Jona- than not only did not encourage their cultivation, O LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 1 v/ould not permit it. The hollyhock and sunflowen he made an exception of, however, and a few of them glowed in the garden, where the sun beat down, ua- reproved. There was not even a balcony around the old coun; house. That seemed to Jonathan too much liks comfort fpiyth&:life, and the new furniture, whicKi stiff and prim T loGrkjng as it could be purchased ^v6u:d--neY^rhay,e. teen bought if he had had his way* But in this instance he did not, which was a most isolated exception. "Lillian sent me the money," Mrs. Esmonde urged: "and now that she is coming home, we ought to have things fixed up a bit for her, you know, father. She will like to see the new furniture; and it is her owrs money." I don't like it!" exclaimed old Jonathan, drawing ;ro\vs together. "It is strange to me where Lil- lian gets the money. I cair t afford it, and I've got as likely a farm as any in the neighborhood. Its strange where a chit of a girl like that gets th* money !" He repeated the words half musingly, but the lit- tle creature who had absorbed most of his ideas oti primness and economy bridled at once. '-\ "She works for it! 1 ' she cried indignantly. "Yui shall not speak of our Lillian, Jonathan Esmonde, a if she was not an honest girl! You know as well as I do that she teaches a day school in a big city, and that she gets sixty dollars a month fur dom' it!" Umph !" muttered Jonathan. "I never could se*i | sense in panmn' out so much money fur boofc fan- tn',^ LIL, THE DANCING-G1RI, 7 "Well, if you can't, other folks does ; and our Lil- lian is a good girl. She sent me the money for the fur- niture, father, and it ought to be bought/' i "Well, buy it, then! But, mind you, I don't ap- prove uv it at all, and you remember that! I don't fcelieve in extravagance, and I don't believe in en- ! couragin' her to spend money fur nothinV But poor little Mrs. Esmonde had obtained the ^concession, and that was all she desired; so she let the remainder of the speech alone, and she and Amy went to "town" and had the pleasure of buying the new furniture. And now to-day Lillian was coming home. Even old Jonathan was putting on a clean shirt in honor of the occasion. Mrs. Esmonde had been ready for hours, and was bustling about the kitchen making sure that everything was ready which she remembered Lillian had liked in the old days. She wore a clean ealico dress, with a stiff linen collar at her throat, and an apron that half covered her. Her hair was part- ed in the middle, and smoothed back behind her ears, W ith not a hair out of place. She came out of the kitchen and went into the par- t lur to make sure that all was right there as a girl , came down the stairs. She was a peculiar-looking girl. Her hair was a I (reddish gold, such as the belle of our modern days ervy hair that would not consent to being smoothed back after the manner of her mother, but insisted upon breaking into little rebellious curls that were the despair of her father Her eyes were dark as midnight, and contained an expression of constant fain and sadness &at would have touched the coldest LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL heart. Her face was beautiful, but the little form was twisted and bent, and she held on with both hands to the rough balustrade of the stair-way in her painful descent. The prim face of the woman relaxed somewhat as she gazed upon the child. j 'Why didn't you wait until father or some one l could help you, Amy !" she asked, more gently than ; she ever spoke to any one else. "You know how it al- I .ways makes you suffer to come down by yourself." "I couldn't wait!" answered Amy, feverishly. "I thought she might come and and me be upstairs. She would think I wasn't glad to see her, then." The woman tenderly passed her hand across the fceautiful hair. "No, she wouldn't; our Lillian loves you, Amy." "I know she does!" cried the girl, eagerly. "She loves us aH. Do you think I don't know? She works from morning until night there in the school and it must be awfully hard on her just to send us the money. You know how Lillian hates to be shut up from morning until night. She never could stand it here at home; she must always be out. She used to long for life, she said long for life and action. I" know it is hard upon her, mother." "Yes; but our Lily is a good girl. .We must all do something for our living." "Not I, mother not I ! It seems to me sometimes as if every one of God's creatures is permitted to do something except me. I must stay here and drag and suffer, drag and suffer, until " There were tears of rebellion choking tke pretty. voice when Mrs. Esmonde interrupted : LIL, THE DANClNG-GIRLj Qj "Hark ! there are the wheels." But it was not so much the rumbling of the wheels that she heard, but the creaking of the old spring- * wagon which had been sent to the depot to meet Lil- " lian. Amy toiled painfully to the door, which Mrs. Es- monde had flung open, and stood there with the light breeze blowing her hair about her flushed, eager face. She knew exactly when the wagon came in at the gate, iwhich she could not see, and she dragged herself wearily out into the garden and stood there. Lillian was not long in coming. She walked quick- ly, and flung her arms lovingly about her mother's neck almost before the little woman realized that she had come at all. Then she threw herself upon Amy, passionately, straining the little creature to her heart, and kissing the upturned face again and again before she released the now smiling child. "And where is father?'' she asked, eagerly, turn- ing to her mother. "Isn't he here to see me?" "He will be in a minute. But turn around and let me look at you." The girl turned to her with a laugh, and stood there silently for a moment. She was like Amy in feature, save that her hair was darker. But there were the same great, dark j| eyes, the same sensitive mouth, the same exquisite complexion, but Well, there all the resemblance ended. She was dressed plainly in a traveling costume ; but about her there was an inexplicable some thing i an atmosphere, a manner that stamped her as far from them as the poles are from each other. In -10 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL spite of the plainness of her attire, she was as styl- ish, as well groomed, as chic as the most admired of society belles. There was nothing of the country-bred young Miss about her, and Mrs. Es- monde seemed to realize that as she gazed. "You have changed, Lillian," she said, slowly; "you don't look like you did at all." The girl colored slightly. "Nonsense, mother!" she cried, gayly. "My hair is exactly the same shade, my eyes and my com- plexion are not altered ; I am the same in everything." The good woman shook her head. "No," she answered, firmly. "I don't say but you look better for the change, but it's there, all the same. I can't tell you ; I don't know enough, maybe. It ain't in the hair and eyes and complexion; but it's there ain't it, Amy ?" "She's the most beautiful girl in all the world, and she always was the most beautiful!" cried the child passionately, throwing her arms about her sister again. "Oh, Lillian, it has been so lonely without you, dear so bitterly lonely! And now that I have you, I don't see how I can ever let you go again! f There used to be something to do when you were i here; and if there wasn't, you invented something; but now the days do nothing but drag into night, and the nights do nothing but drag into day. But you won't go again you won't go, will you, Lily? Or, * if you do, you will take me with you ?" The girl's face change3 curiously. A quick flush mounted to the temples, then receded, leaving her paler than before; there was a troubled light in her eyes, and she bent her head to hide their expression LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL iff frovi her sister and her mother as she tenderly; stroked Amy's hair. "We won't talk of that now, dear/' she whispered, "I must see father." ; The child glanced up eagerly. "And be sure you make him let us go to town to- Ijmorrow!" she cried, half breathlessly. 'There's to j be a fair in the Methodist church. I never attended a fair in my life, Lillian, and they say this one is to be grand. Be sure you make him let us go, won't you r" The elder girl nodded, her cyc^ filling with tears. In spite of the fact that she had lived the greater part of her life in that family, it seemed a strange thing to her that her sister should really take an in- terest in church fairs; but she whispered brightly: "You shall go; rest easy about that Sh! there beui" CHAPTER II. The "town" to which Amy Esmonde had referred, and which was always spoken of in a way that was most indefinite to the rest of the world, consisted of perhaps eight hundred inhabitants, and was by no means what is termed "flourishing" at that. There was no business to speak of. " Storekeepers" sat around outside on boxes and barrels for the greater part of the day, their principal occupation being whittling sticks or chewing toothpicks. X church fair, therefore, was looked upon as the 12 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL greatest possible dissipation, and the little frame structure was crowded to its utmost capacity dur- ing the day and evening of the fair. Pretty, bright-cheeked country damsels, in their * beribboned lawns, flitted in and out of the throrigs,| and even though there were evidences of perspira4 tion and weariness, there was not one of them but * would have told you she was having "just the love* liest time that ever could be imagined." It was upon that scene that Lillian Esmonde gazed, scarcely seeing the old friends that flocked about her, and answering their never-ending questions In a vague sort of way, endeavoring to conceal the shiv* ers that ran over her. "Is it possible/' she queried, mentally, "that I ever could have been interested in such things as this? Amy's eyes are sparkling as mine never did under. a r'lass of champagne, and Great heavens ! I won- der what these people would say to a night at the Pouf! what am I saying? This is a lime to for* get all that. Oh, if I only could for just half an hour! If I could only be the simple-hearted country girl that I was two little years ago! But would I, even if I could?" She laughed slightly. There was just a tiny strain of bitterness and cynicism in it, but the simple-mind- ed country folk did not hear that They never read between the lines. "It must be right hard on ye, now ain't it?" Mrs, Stout had been saying. "I don't think I could ever bear to be a-settin' all day long a-teachin' children, They air so thick-headed, the most uv 'em." It was then that Lillian la LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 13 1 have not found it so/' she answered "It seerns to me that learning comes .naturally enough to these people whom I have tried to teach. I rather think * I have been the one to learn/' ]; Mrs. Stout looked at her a trifle dubiously, and I sighed. v, "Lillian is changed!" she muttered, mentally. i "There ain't no doubt uv that. She's grow'd to be a fine young lady, but well, old Jonathan Esmonde ain't to be envied, / don't think." After a little pause, she exclaimed aloud: "La! there comes the Langfords! Now, I wondef what under the sun fetched them here." "Who are the Langfords?" asked Lillian, more for the purpose of making conversation than any- thing else. "Ain't you heard? Why, they're the new swells ' that's took the old Breckenridge farm bought it, they say. They only stay there fur the summer, and have the house full of company all the time. Fur iny part, I'd think they'd be eat outen house an' home. They go to the Episcopal church when they go at all. There ain't nobody around here as likes "em much. Nobody dcn't seem to be good enough fur , 'em. That's Miss Langford a-gettin' outen that there Icontraphsion now. The Lord knows what you call it." Lillian was standing outside the door of the church under the shade of a great old oak-tree. The end of h^.r white parasol was stuck into the ground at her feet. Her eyes had wandered listlessly toward the party which was drawing: up before the church, but U4 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL as she looked, her expression changed to one ef in- terest. The young lady to whom Mrs. Stout had referred .-was undeniably handsome. She was of the empress type, rather large and commanding. Her eyes were I gray, her hair dark, her carriage superb. She wa? gowned in an organdie lawn that was not intended to be overpowering in its elegance, and yet there was something so different in its appearance from those surrounding her, that it was .like a Worth silk beside a cotton dress. Beside her was a man in white flannels, a tall, dark man with a face full of passionate beauty, and yet a strong, well-chiseled face, a man who might have been taken for a poet one moment and a soldier the next. 'That's one of the visitors," Mrs. Stout exclaimed, as he leaped to the ground and put up his hands to assist Miss Langford. There was a smile in his eyes as he lifted her care- fully beside him that Lillian saw even at that distance, and an expression of even greater interest dawned in her eyes. "Sweethearts !" she murmured, below her breath. "This promises better than I thought." ( \ At that moment Miss Langford evidently caught fcight of her, for she started slightly, then looked puzzled. She evidently said something to her com- panion, for he too glanced in Lillian's direction. He said something below his breath, then looked again. A burning flush crept from Lillian's throat to brow, and her eyes fell. "Is it possible that she has recognized me?" was the LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL TJ thought that flashed through her brain. "Is it possi- ble that" t she flung' up her head defiantly and put the thought from her as the two passed into the building, here are others of the party/' Mrs. Stout whis- j. "That feller in front there is Miss Langford's (brother; Clinton, I think his name is. And that one 'behind is another visitor; and the young lady is visit- in 1 , too. I declare, they must be worth a mint o' money t' nand it ! City folks thinks them in the country kin stard sponging furever, I reckin!" :nost before the remarks had ceased, Miss Lang- lord had come to the door again, accompanied by the gentleman and Mrs. Marsh, a tall, angular woman, the mother of six children, but who looked more like on o!d maid than a matron. "Lillian! Lillian Esmonde, I say, come here!" she crieJ, loudly. "Miss Langford wants to know you, an' I'm sure the wish is mutual/' She smiled affably, as if pleased with herself and the successful speech she had made; then, as Lillian joined her, she said: iss Langford, this is Miss Esmonde, the darter wv ole Jonathan Esmonde. She outgrowed our little town of Burton, and went away to teach school in New York. She's done come back a fine lady now, and one I'm sure Jonathan Esmonde ought to be proud of." Lillian's cheeks flamed again, but there was a merry twinkle in Miss Langford's eyes as she put out her hand cordially. "I am so glad to meet you, Miss Esmonde!" she ex- claimed, lightly. "I quite agree with Mrs. Marsh - j5 LIL, THE DANCING-GIKL about Jonathan Esmonde's pride. Allow me to intro- duce my friend, will you not? Miss Esmonde, Mr. Suniner." She glanced into the handsome eyes above her and bowed, noting the puzzled expression in them, and shrinking somewhat for a moment, only to straighten herself with an assumption of indifference. "Somehow Miss Esmonde's face is familiar to me,"f exclaimed Sumner, regarding her with interest. "Ia N it not possible that we have met before ?" "I believe not," answered Lillian, her voice cool and dainty. "I have never entered the 'social swim' of Js T ew York. I presume you are from New York." "Oh, yes/' returned Miss Langford. "We live there in winter. I thought for a moment that I had seen you; but, of course, it was only a resemblance of some sort It is horrid bad for me to see resemblances; but one can't always help it, you know. Are you sell- ing anything to-day, Miss Esmonde, or only, like our- selves, purchasers?" "My sister has 'a flower-table," she replied. "'I may assist her when she grows tired!" "Let us go and buy her out, then her task will be completed," laughed Sumner. "It will also save you later in the day." "There are Clinton and the others," exclaimed Miss Langford. "Let us wait for them." They came up at that moment, and were presented to Lillian. "Come," cried Miss Langford, gayly ; "we are going to buy Miss Esmonde off from making a martyr of herself selling, so that she can make one of herself LIU THE DANCING-GIRL I# Children of ourselves and eat ice-cream until we can't tat any more." 4 'I craw the line at eating ice-cream!" exclaimed Clinton Langford lazily. "Very well," cried his sister, indifferently. "Then you may pay for what the rest of us eat. Come along, Miss Esmonde; show us where your sister's table is." They entered the church together, and Lillian led the way to Amy's table. It seemed to her that the church fair was suddenly converted from a martyrdom in v te was sacrificing herself for the sake of her si-ter, to a veritable adventure, and a flush of excitement had mounted to her cheeks when she paused beside the little table. Behind it Amy sat, her cheeks glowing, her eyes bright as stars above her little pink lawn gown, whicli Lillian had rendered decidedly tasteful with a few ar- tistic touches. Her face was beautiful, and a smile oi infinite compassion lighted the eyes of Philip Sumner as he stood up to acknowledge the introductions a* her sister presented her to Miss Langford's party. "We are going to sweep the whole table !" exclaimed I Sumner, leaning toward her, "and 'then I'm going to i carry you away to eat ice-cream! Will you come?' 1 As he received the child's delighted rely, he turned -*to Lillian. "My little sister was like her. She died two year* ago. You will let me love the little one, for hex; sake, will you not?" Lillian did not reply, but there was a moisture in the fcyes that destroyed the necessity for words. l8 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL CHAPTER III. "I have heard a great deal of you to-day, Miss Es- monde. You seem to be of inexhaustible interest to the people of Burton/' There was a quizzical smile in the dark, poetic eyes of Philip Sumner as they gazed down at Lillian. They, . were standing alone under a great locust-tree near the v river behind the church. The sun was setting in a huge fiery ball in the western sky, and the scene about the church was growing merrier than ever. She glanced up at him, a shade of annoyance that she strove to conceal visible in her face. "I hope you have not been distressed," she said* earnestly. "The people of Burton are not always con- siderate. They can never be made to understand that what is of interest to the individual is not to the world at large." "Am I the world at large?" he asked, his smile fading somewhat or growing just a trifle tremulous. "I am afraid I have encouraged the gossips. I have been intensely interested, at all events. It isn't every, day that a man hears of the brave struggle a little thing like you can make, and it makes a great hulking fellow, who has never done anything in his life, rathe*, ashamed of himself when he considers what one small girl can accomplish." I am afraid they have greatly overestimated what I have done." "I don't think so. It was a simple little story, after ail. Only that of a wee woman who became desperate LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL K) tinder the circumscribed lines of a country existence. Only a frail child who felt that she was created for something better than mere vegetation, and would not -ent to 'hide her light under a bushel/ but rather cut away, and faced life alone coolly and bravei}'. Only the story of a young creature who let herself adrift in this big, cruel world and faced the enemy 'temptation' alone. But she knew her own strength, She went from this little village to a great city, and iti less than two years, by her own industry and persever- ance, she had established herself as a teacher in that great city, where so short a time before she had beea absolutely unknown. And now she comes home to see mother, father, and little sister, who love her so truly and sincerely, to comfort and cheer their droop- ing spirits. It is a simple story, Miss Esmonde, but one in which I think the most stony heart would be interested. Certainly I have been intensely so." He had been looking over her head at the setting sun, but now he brought his eyes down to a level with her face. Was it possible that there was a look of crimson shame upon it. or had the reflection of the sun become entangled in his vision, making every object red? "'I hope I have not offended you!'' he exclaimed, humbly. She laughed slightly. There was a strained sottnd in it, but she controlled it admirably. "I am not offended, Mr. Stimrier, only amused/' she answered, covering her embarrassment by not at him. "You must not believe all that has been told O LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL "What part of it is untrue ?" he asked, boldly. . She colored again. "The motives of generosity and the courage whicK you have attributed to me," she replied, hesitatingly, "I went because the confining life became hateful to me. I went because action was a necessity and the stagnation here stifled me. I should have gone mad to have continued in the eternal silence of the farm. I went because I was selfish, because 1 could not. en* dure the life they lived. I did not listen to the voices of those who loved me, but I went regardless of tliem* Do you call that brave?" "Yes," he answered, gravely. "You know better than those that surround you. There was a work foir you to do, and you have done it nobly. There is no more noble calling in life than teaching. It is a con- tinual charity, and one I admire above and beyond all others. If I had had the selection of a vocation for you in life, it would have been that of teacher, Ah! I have heard so much of you, so much that is tender and true and lovely. Forgive me. Your little sister and I have become great friends. She has told me all about the home life, and how good you are; how easy you have made it for her and the little mother, and I can so readily believe it of you. Her love for you is noth- ing short of worship, Miss Esmonde. It is beautiful, it is heavenly. It is something that will prove a talisman to you, for it would be worse than murder of the soul to deceive an adoration like that!" She was looking beyond him, a pained expression upon her countenance which he could not quite traus* LIL, THE DANCING-GIRtJ 2f ! iate. The crimson had all faded from her face, and it had grown strangely white. I ' She did not reply to him, and after a little pausa he exclaimed in a changed tone : "Do you know what she has promised me?" Lillian started slightly and looked at him. "Promised you? 1 ' she repeated, rather vaguely. "Yes. She has promised that I may call at youti home. Will you repeat the promise, Miss Esmonde?" "I I don't think you will care to to come/* she stammered. "But indeed indeed I shall!" he exclaimed, ear- nestly. "I clcn't want to offend you. Some way, yott are different to me from other girls. I don't kno.v just exactly what I should say to you. You are so pure, so stainless. I have never known any one quite like yc-u, Miss Esmonde, and it is not extraordinary that I should wish to become better acquainted, is it? Wilt you not grant m- tlu ^.iviiege?" "You will be disappointed/' she cried out, pain- fully. "Amy has made you has made you believs y things of me that are not true, and and " She dkl not seem capable of completing the sentence He leaned a trifle towards her, and as he did so, took lite rose from her hair that Clinton Langford had put there half an hour before. "I am like Amy," he answered, with a smile. "Noth- ing could make me believe that. I fancy that I was interested in her because of her likeness to my little 'dead sister; but I loved her because she talked of you to me afterward. Will you give me this rose, Miss Esmonde?" ! 'fe3 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL i He held the bud in his hand, but it was into her eyes that he looker!. A sweet flush stained her cheeks. She tried to release nerself from the fascination of his eyes, but they heU her. There was a depth of I poetry in them that entranced her. She would have i taken the rose from him if the power had been left j lier, but to save her life she could not. She smiled. Then she watched him put the rose in a note-book he carried, opposite the date. .When it svas safely in his pocket, he said quietly : "But you have not accorded the other permission. J asked Amy if I might not call ; I entreat it of you/* "You will not care to come!" she cried out, pas* sionately, as if struggling to free herself from a dan- gerous fascination. "You will not care to come! It is not what you have been accustomed to. It is all so Stiff, so formal, so so " "What shall I care for that? 5 ' he asked, almost ten- derly. "It is not to see your home, it is to see you, Miss Esmonde. Ah ! don't you understand what this day has been to me? I don't dare tell you, lest you take fright and refuse to let me see you again; but it is the promise of heaven to me. Little one let me come.'' j She tried, but there was something that compelled j her in the handsome face bent above her. She hesi- \ tated, but she had not the strength to resist. "If you will," she answered in a tone so low that he Scarcely heard. There was no triumph in his expression over the concession, but only gladness, and she drew a loOgf sigh. L LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 2J 'Thank you," he said in a tone that fitted her own. "I shall try to deserve the confidence you have shown me. Perhaps when you know me better, you will let me call myself your friend. Ah, little one, man can have no greater honor conferred upon him than the friendship of a pure, true little thing like you." I But there was something more than friendship in the look that was in the poetic eyes, something more than friendship even in those first hours, and Lillian saw it. 1 She lifted herself up suddenly, and exclaimed a!-,' niost joyfully: 'There is Miss Langford beckoning to you. Yott /nust go." , "Must I?" 44 You know it." "I obey you, as I always shall. May I have just minutes alone with you again this evening?*' "Yes; but go!" He smiled and went. With almost wild passion, she turned and walked rapidly in the direction of the river. She leaned against a tree, and for the first time allowed her ex- pression full play. It was desperate. "What a fraud I am!" she cried out, pressing her interlaced fingers against her eyes. "What a hypocrite and fraud! How these people would despise me if they knew the truth ! Would that man care to come to the house if he knew me for what I am? Would his friends receive me? Pouf ! what do I care? It is only for one summer. He will go away again and think nothing of the little 'school teacher 1 whom he met in the woods !" bitterh "If any one suffers, it 24 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL only be I. For Amy's sake and the poor little mother I must keep this secret that seems strangling me, I will do it I swear I will, let the consequences be what they may! I wish to Heaven I had not per- suaded father to let us come to-day ! I wish My, f God! who is that?" Almost at her feet a man had landed his little birch-* bark canoe, and as she spoke to herself he sprung out, muttering a curse as his foot came in contact with the mud upon the river's edge. She would have taken to her heels and fled, but that surprise, or something worse, held her spellbound, and suddenly he glanced up. First an expression of surprise dawned upon his lace ; incredulity, then pleasure. "What! is it possible?" he cried, springing toward her. "Who, in Heaven's name, would ever have ex- pected to find you in this out-of-the-way place you, of all people in the world? I must be mistaken yet. It is a sprite, or the vision my imagination has con- jured. It can't really be Lil, our lovely dancing-girl !" CHAPTER IV. 'Tor the love of Heaven, hush !" she cried lookmg furtively over her shoulder as the criminal does who fears detection. "How came you here? And why have you come?" He had reached her side and laughed lightly as she drew her hand from him. 'That is not a very cordial welcome !" he exclaimed, LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 25 lightly. "Here am I, so delighted to see you that I can scarcely control the exuberance of my joy, and you dash my enthusiasm with ice-water in that heartless way ! I say, Lil, aren't you glad to see me ?" "No!" she cried, her white, passionate face turned toward him, "no ! I hoped for one little month to drop the old life behind me. to be what these good people think me, and you have come to bring up the ghost of the detestable past the forecast of the odi- ous future that lies before me! \Vhy are you here?'* He locked at her a trifle increduously for a moment, then answered : "I am visiting at the Breckenridge farm. The others are all here, but a matter of business delayed me. I thought I should be out of it, but got off sooner than I expected, and rowed down, never dreaming of ;ood fortune. Come, Lil, cut all this nonsense, and be the jolly girl who has got into the veins of blood of every man in New York ! Surely you are not going to turn Quakeress at this late date !" She shuddered. "Don't call me by that odious name !" she exclaimed, glancing over her shoulder again. "I can't bear it here. Listen to me, Kirk. You once told me well, no matter what nonsense, but it leads me to believe that I can ask a favor of you now." "You bet you can !" "It is only this : don't allow any one here to suspect that -you ever saw me before." "What! And lose the chance of your society in this, God-forsaken hole? Not for silver or gold! I came down here simply because I couldn't get out of it r expecting to be buried alive for the space of rny 36 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL visit, and, lo ! here you turn up at the most opportune of moments to save me from an untimely grave. Bjr Jove ! I never had such reason to thank my lucky stars before in my life. And here you ask me to pretend that I don't know you you, of all people in ths world!" f "Be serious for a moment if you can!" she ex> f tlaimed, the agony in her voice not to be mistaken. | "Listen to me. This is no light matter, but one of i more than life to me. I wish I could make you under* stand the situation in which I was placed ; but I never could no one ever would. My father was a stern, hard man who saw nothing but eternal condemnation in any amusement whatever. He ground us down, making us work from dawn till dark, clothed in the coarsest of raiment. A laugh met with a rebuke, a light word with a frown. There was nothing but drudgery from daylight until night, and no recom* pense save coldness and reproof. I could not bear it. It seemed to me that my hungering heart was burning out my life. I could not endure it ! and while I loved my mother and sister with a passion such' as few girls can feel, for my whole empty heart was with them, I determined that 3 would cut away. It would be useless to attempt to describe the scene when I told lather that I intended to go. He predicted failure for me, and that I would crawl to his door, entreating to be taken back, but said that I need not come, that 1 Should never be received. With my mother's tears, my sister's entreaties, and my father's curses in my cars, I went. I would have died by slowest torture before I would have confessed myself a failure^ before I would have asked for bread at his hands! "Well, what would you have expected of a country; girl with little education and less knowledge of the world? I soon saw starvation, or worse, before me. I tried every way even to be a domestic in some fam- ily, but I was too inexperienced for that. One night- God knows how it happened I danced in the parlor of the woman who had taken me in temporarily. There was a man there who was manager of a small dancing-hall. He offered me an engagement. I seized - upon it as a drowning man does at a straw. It kept me from utter despair. "With shamed face I went to the little place and danced. I don't know how it happened, but I suc- ceeded. Some one saw me who recognized that I had talent. .You know old Colonel Chetwynd. He came to me and offered to teach me, to provide what was necessary for a better engagement than I then filled. I accepted the offer simply because it was better than the position I then held, and because it was either that or starvation. "And you must know what the situation at home was. Had I told my father the truth, had I let him know that I was dancing for my living, he would never have allowed either my mother or my sister to recognize me. Even they, brought up as they have been, having received their thoughts and ideas from him and the world that surrounds them, would have believed me lost eternally, and would have turned from me with loathing- and contempt. "I could not bear it. I know they are only simple country folk perhaps to you not worth consideration at all, but they are all I have in life. They are my mother and my sister. These people are those who 28 x LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL have known me from the cradle, and to have them turn from me with contempt would be more than I could bear. I told them that I was teaching school/' She paused with bowed head, and after a moment a roar of laughter burst from Kirk Maitland's lips. ^ Liliian looked up appealingly, and put out her hand * with a little shuddering gesture. ''Don't!" she moaned. "It is like stepping on some K sacred dead thing to me. I know you will think the lie unworthy of me, but I am so -ashamed." "And that is the reason you don't want me to ap- pear to know you?" "That is the reason." "But 'the Langfords are all here. In fact, I am visiting them ; and Philip Sumner is here. They have all seen you dance." "But none of them have recognized me. They have only seen rne, and would never connect a little country school-teacher with Lil, the dancing-girl." The last words were uttered in a low tone so filled with shame, of almost horror, that another man might have been touched; but not so Kirk Maitland, He would have laughed again but that he did not wish to offend her. "If I consent to this absurdity, then," he said, with affected plaintiveness "then there will be no cham- pagne suppers, no drives, no dancing, but only just the demure companionship of a little school- teacher, I call that hard lines, Lil." *'Oh, don't!" she moaned, "for the love of heaven, don't! Tell me that you will do what I ask!" "Let's make a compact. I agree, with a providing clause. You did not treat me very w r ell in New York L1L, THE DANCING-GIRL 2<| last winter. On the contrary, several of the fellows were laughing at me because you snubbed me once or twice. Now, I promise to be as good well, as any ] of those youngsters you have been teaching, if you j will well, agree to be kinder to me in future. Is it a bargain, Lil ?" He looked at her. The expression of his counte- nance was not good to see. She knew perfectly well that she was placing herself in his power, that she was doing something that she might have cause to regret to the last day of her life ; but she was terribly in ear* nest. She would rather have died than have had those people know that she was a fraud, a hypocrite ; that the very virtues for which they had commended her and set her upon a pinnacle were lies and cheats. And then suddenly another thought came to her ; it was of Philip Sumner. She put up her hand suddenly and caught her throat ; then she whispered, hoarsely : "I I have never meant to to be unkind to you. I am willing to do anything that you may ask." "Good!" he exclaimed. "Then what is it that wilt be expected of me? I am to bow modestly and in* differently when some one presents me to you a* some one must, you know, or I should have to kick over the tvhole bargain. But I suppose it won't create comment if I at once proceed to fall head over ears in iove with the village beauty, will it?" She shivered again. t. 'Then I have your promise?" she asked, unable to reply to him. "You will not betray me?" ''You have my promise to fall in love with you," be answered "No, of course I shall not betray you JO LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL there, now ! You are not like yourself at all ! Drop the tragic, L51 ; it isn't in your line a bit. You are not natural without your heels in the air. How long are you going to stay in this confounded hole ? Let's cut it in a week, and get back to freedom and champagne." She tried to conceal the look of disgust that crept over her face, but it was almost impossible. She had never liked the man, and now to be forced to share the secret of her life with him was almost more than she could bear; but she controlled herself, as she knew she must, and answered : "It is impossible at present. I am going back to the church now. Don't come at once." "I understand. You may count upon me to play jny part well. Ta-ta for the present. This is a greater krk than I expected in this foreign country." She left him without waiting to hear more, and .hurried away, feeling that another word would de- stroy her self-control. He stood for a few moments where she had left him, leaning against the locust-tree where Philip Sumner had stood. " Ton my soul!" he ejaculated. "Who would have tver thought of a situation like this? Kirk, old boy, you are in a barrel of luck; The little princess cut me last winter, and the fellows never ceased guying ; but hanged if I haven't got her now! Everything comes to him who knows how to wait, and I've got my lady just where I want her. She'll dance to my music now, or Kirk Maitland is away off in his reck- oning!" LIE, THE DANCING-GIRL' (JJ CHAPTER V. The third week of Lillian's visit was drawing to at* i There had been moments when it seemed to her. that the entire happiness of her life had been crowded into those few days, and then a burning shame would stain her beautiful cheeks crimson as she remembered the lie she was living, the false position that she oc- cupied* Philip Sumner had called at the little farm-house, cot once alone, but often, never seeming to recognize the stiffness or discomfort of the place, but regarding it lightly, perhaps pleased that this girl in who.m he was so deeply interested had been brought up under such strict lines. Kirk Maitland came, too, and it ;was on these occasions most that Lillian seemed to realize all the falsity of her position, and she grew to detest him as if he were the cause of the self-loathing lhat oppressed her. Old Jonathan Esmonde did not approve of the visits , of the young swells, as he chose to call them, in the : kast ; but he was proud of Lillian and her success as a teacher, and when she insisted, he yielded. It was an extraordinary thing for him to do, but he explained his good nature rather apologetically by saying : "I suppose some recreation is due you when you air shet up in a school-room all day earnin' money, at other times. There ain't much recreation in teachin' thick-skulled young ones." And so Philip Sumnenend Kirk Maitland continued to come. '32 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL There was but one more week left to her of thai freedomwhich was not freedom, after all, on account of the presence of Kirk Maitland until she saw thai she would be compelled to return to the life which she had never liked, and which she now thoroughly de* tested; but when she had read ChetwyndV letter one rtiorning, urging Tier not to overstay her time by one moment, but rather to cut it short, if that were possi- ble, she shrugged her shoulders bitterly. "I've got to go!" she muttered, fiercely, crushing the letter in her hand. ''It's the penalty exacted for a lie. I've got to go back and dance and smile. Well, what of that? Could I better endure that father should know? that he should separate me from mother and Amy? Philip Surnner would despise me. He .would turn away, as he will do anyway, when he knows! Pouf ! I am a fool. I will go on, accept tho trumbs that fall to my lot, and let fate take care of itself. After all, I did not make my life. It was the only chance I had, and it was either that or -dishonor. But is not this dishonor? My father would not know what Kirk Maitland meant if he should say, 'Your daughter is Lil the dancing-girl/ and yet I believe I had rather a thousand times die than hear it spoken ! | There is no help for me. It is the penalty of a lie. f The net will draw tighter and tighter until " The sentence was broken by the entrance of Amy. * She was excited, and limped into the room in greater haste than she usually allowed herself. "Quick, Lillian !" she gasped. "They are coming I" "Who? 5 ' asked Lillian, striving to smooth the ex- pression out of her forehead with her fingefs, *vhicli ahe feared would attract her sister's LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL JJ "Why, HIsa Lsngford and Kirk Maitland. I think ner is on horaobacfc just behind, but I couldn't see. They are coming here." "Miss Langford?" "Yes ; they've already passed the gate, 1 wondeff ' what wade her call?" "Perhaps to see us," answered Lillian, with a smile* *That is what people usually call for, is it not?" "Yes; but she's been so stiff and nasty since thai at the fair that I never thought she'd come. c's Mr. Sumner now. How lovely you look with that flush en your cheeks ! You are a thousand times ;ier than she is. Oh, Lillian, I wish Mr. Sumnec would marry you, so that you would never have to teada those wretched children again!'* "Hush! 1 " cried the elder girl, almost savagely. "You must not say that. ' I would would not marry Mr. Sumner if if well, if he should ask me!" "Why not?*' But Lillian made no reply. She turned away hastily; and went toward the door, perhaps to conceal the ex- pression wfclcH she could not control. Her heart beat to suffocation. For the first time she seemed to realize what it would be to part from Philip Sumner. For the first time she seemed really to understand why those three weeks seemed to form a turning-point in fief whole life. She went down-stairs to receive her guescs in trfe stiff, prim little parlor, which she had not tried to rearrange because of the impossibility of making it look better. She was effusive in a well-bred way to Miss Lang* 34 ^IL 9 THE DANCING-GIRL ford, friendly in her greeting to Kirk Maitland, an4 coldly haughty to Philip Sumner. He looked surprised and pained, but she turned away to Miss Langford, and did not look at him un- less occasion demanded it. "You were courageous to venture out to-day," she said to Miss Langford. "It is the hottest of the sea- 1 son, I think." "And in spite of that fact, Mr. Sumner and Mr. Maitland tell me that you return to New York next week. Is it true?" "Unfortunately, yes. We bread-winners are never our own masters.*' * There was a bitterness in her tone that surprised Sumner, but he had not recovered from the coldness of his reception, and said nothing. It was Miss Langford who continued : "I didn't know there were any schools open at. this season of the year. I thought every one was out of town." Lillian colored. She could not look at Miss Lang* ford without seeing Kirk Maitland, and she observed fhe curious, quizzical smile upon his face. "They are not open yet," she answered, boldly, "butf there are many things that demand attention besides the mere act of teaching. There are examinations ta stend and positions to secure." "Isn't that done at the close of the school?" "Not always." "Well, you see, I know so little about those things. It is dreadfully trying, to think of a woman battling with the world, and it is tremendously gratifying when 'jane succeeds." L1L, THE DANCING-GiRL 35 ' "Particularly in the line that Miss Esmonde has Chosen/' said Sumner, quietly. Kirk Maitland laughed outright, and Lillian shot Jjfcim a glance which pulled him up suddenly. "It always seems so absurd to me to think of Miss Esmonde as a demure little school-teacher/' he ex- plained, "that I can never keep from * laughing. I should think all the boys would fall so desperately- in love with her that there would be no chance of teach* ing them anything beyond sentiment." Amy entered at that moment and stopped a sub- ject that was growing painful to Lillian. The conversation was general for a moment, then JMiss Lang ford exclaimed : "We are going to have a little dance to-morrow night, Miss Esmonde, and we have braved the heat to come over and ask you to join us. It is only a small affair, with a few of the neighbors asked, but it would be most incomplete without your presence and that of little Amy. You will both come, will you not?'' "It is so kind of you/' answered Lillian, coloring deeply, "But I'm afraid" "Don't say no, Lillian !" cried Arny, excitedly. "You < know father will let us if we ask him! Do let us. go, j Lillian. I was never at a dance in all my life." Lillian glanced at the pleading, wistful face half vj imploringly. It seemed to her that she could not enter * the house of that woman under the circumstances, un- der that lie that she was living. She knew how girls of her class dancing-girls were looked upon in so- ciety, and she felt as a burglar might when he corn- ifLts his first offense through a fancied necessity. And gret she longed to go for the child's sake, the little gfl Lit, THE DANCING-GIRL swhose life was so empty, who knew nothing but pain, "Father would not consent/' she murmured 5 but [Amy cried out: i( - j 'Ask him! Only ask him! Oh, Lily, I would give anything to go!" "Do ask him !" exclaimed Miss Langford, lazily fan- ning herself. "The dance will be quite spoiled with- out you/' "And Lillian 'dances so beautifully!" exclaimed j&my, enthusiastically. "She used to be always danc- ing under the apple-trees, in the hay-loft, anywhere that she could be sure father would not see, but now she never will any more. She can dance lovely, Miss ILangford." "Indeed she can!" remarked Maitland, serenely^ watching the angry color leap to Lil's cheeks. "How do you know ?" demanded Amy. "I only fancy," returned Maitland, "Every grace^ ful girl dances well." * "But not so well as Lillian. Do say you will go t 'dear." "For your sake," The words were spoken gently, but the cry of the heart was fierce. ".What do I care?" she was saying, mentally. "It can do no more harm than has been done already. It ;will give that poor, yearning child one evening of pleasure, or, rather, she fancies it will, which is quite the same thing. After all, what can it matter? My; God, what does anything matter?" And then aloud, rather recklessly, she exclaimed: 1 "Thank you, Miss Langford. I hope I have noil LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 3# eemed ungrateful for the invitation. I am sure I shall enjoy it quite as much as Amy will." CHAPTER VI. There was never anything simpler than tfie tame worn by Lillian to the dance given by Miss I^angford only a Hitle mull trimmed with inexpensive face and yet one of the sirens that so fascinated the clden Greeks could not have been more lovely than she. Amy gazed at her with an admiration that was positively servile, as they were being driven over in ihe creaky old spring wagon. "You are so beautiful that you take my breath away !" she exclaimed at last, never removing her eyes from her sister's face. "Oh, Lillian! if only we were rich if only you did not have to teach that dreadful school how flifferent life might be for us! But it is nothing but grind, grind from morning until night 1 What good is the world, after all? There is nothing in it but suffering and unhappiness." "For shame, little pessimist I" exclaimed Lillian, tap- ping the flushed cheek reprovingly. "Finding fault with life at your age, and going to your first dance at the same moment !" "But I can not forget that you leave me next week. ! I can not forget that I must go back to the same old loneliness, the same old despair. I know I'm only a hunchback, and that I should expect nothing better^ than what I have ; but oh, Lily, I am so tired of th& 38 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL stiffness, the terrible, never-enaing grind, the unceas* ing complaints of father, the total lack of any interest whatever ! It is all empty so hideously empty that I feel sometimes as if every particle of heart and soul had been taken out of my body, and there was nothing left there but the bare shell. Forgive me, dear, but you are going away." There was a pathos in the last words that touched Lillian until the tear's sprung to her eyes. It seemed to her that she would have given all she possessed at that moment if she could have promised to take her little sister with her. She slipped her arm about ths child's waist and held her closely. "But I will come again," she whispered. "Not for a year a whole, endless year! Oh, Lily* take me with you take me with you 1" Lillian did not reply. It seemed to her that if hefi life depended upon it, she could not. She kissed the child upon the cheek, and after a moment Amy went on: "I think sometimes that if I had had a different father I might have been as other girl? are, and I jam sure that if my back had been different I should not be as I am. I might then have been like you. I have read in books where people were cured whose de* \ formity was even worse than mine, and I have beggedT'S him to send me away ; but he only answers with the old story of no money. And I know it isn't true, Lily; I know it isn'tl" There was a passion in the voice that Lillian had never heard there before. It seemed to arouse all hefl conscience more than ever. LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 39 "You would like to see a doctor, Amy ?" she asked, huskily. The child clasped her hands almost fiercely there in the moonlight. "Like it!" she cried, hoarsely. "Would the blind Kke to see? Would the starving like food? Would Tantalus have liked a drink of water? My God! I have crawled from my little, hard bed in the middle cf the night and prayed for the opportunity that seemed so hopeless until it seemed to me that God surely must hear me, far away though I am. It would ot be the same if I knew that father could not afford to send me; but money is more to him than I." Lillian's beautiful cheeks were wet with tears. "You shall go,"Amy!" she cried, passionately, not pausing to consider the promise she was making. For a moment the child started up in wild rapture ; then she sunk back again, her expression more hope- less than before. "I forgot how you have to work for your money," she said, hoarsely. "For a moment there seemed some- thing like hope in the future; but with only your lit* tie salary I couldn't do it, Lily. I am not so selfish *s that, dear." 3 Selfish ! The girl's heart smote her. Her conscience tried out against her. She drew the child closely to tier. fr "You shall go," she whispered. "It is I who have teen selfish I who have been criminal in my negli- gence. I seek some way for an atonement that was denied me yesterday; and let the cost be to myself what it will, I will make it. If medical skill can maks you what you crave to be, it shall be done." LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 1 "LSly " "Hush ! There is the house/" The child had not understood the words that Her sis- ter had spoken, and Lillian was tharikiul that it was too late to ask for explanation of them. n *H They were very silent as deaf old Reuben, their | inan-of-all-work, drove the wagon up to the place * where they were to alight ; but Lillian saw the danc- r t ing delight in her sister's eyes, and a little shiver; v passed over her as she thought of the promise she had made. The grounds were like fairy-land to Amy, who had never seen anything like it in all her retired life, lighted as they were by fairy lamps and fantastic lan- terns, but it was left for the house to dazzle her with splendors that she had never dreamed of. As they stepped upon the broad balcony with its Eastern rugs, its dainty carved tables and great wil- low chairs, and glanced through the windows at the lights, the splendid old furniture the flowers and palms, she caught her breath hard, and paused, catching her sister's arm in a grasp like a vise. "Did you ever see anything like it ?" she panted. But Lillian had forgotten to be astonished. She | might have told of the balls which she had attended | beside which this was merely the pretty country affair f which Miss Langford had intended. But she only, looked at Amy in absent-minded surprise. 'Tike what?" she asked. "This!" panted the child, with a comprehensive wave of the hand. "Don't you see ? Cindrella at the princes' ball saw nothing like it 1" Lillian smi?d sadly, but said nothing. She took the LIL, THL DANCJNG-GIRL 41 little one by the arm, and together they entered the hali .where the servant waited. In a sort of maze of astonishment and bewildering delight Amy went through the rooms, scarcely realiz- ing how the evening was passing. She saw Lillian dancing. It seemed to her that in of all the beautiful dressing of Miss Langford .'riends, there was none in that great place that could compare with Lillian in her simple mull. She had been sitting in a corner for a long time by herself, watching it all, when Philip Sumner came uj> to her. "Are you enjoying it?" he asked kindly of her, . "Enjoying it?'* she repea It seems such a poor expression. I have never heard any music like before. I never saw any flowers like these. I cever watched any one dance except Lillian, and then there was no music only as she herself whistled. I wonder if you would think a person would enjoy a &rst glimpse of heaven ?" He sat down beside her. There was something in- finitely pathetic in the little face that was upturned to him. "And do you never have any desire to dance your- telf ?" he asked, gently. He had expected the expression upon the little eager face to change to one of sadness, but its happiness deepened into a joyous smile. "I shall some day!" she cried, turning her eyes fron* the thrilling scene to his face. "Do you know I have read of lots of people being cured who were afflicted as I am. I have so longed and prayed to go and try what they could do for me, but father could not ^2 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL send me !AnS now Lillian is going to take me v/itK her. Did you ever hear of anything so kind in ail your life, Mr. Sumner? She only earns sixty dollars a month. It has always seemed a very great deal to me, but I knew it will be little enough when she hat to pay doctors' bills. I feel so selfish, but then she is the best and dearest sister in all this world. Don't f you think it is lovely of her, Mr. Sumner?" But Philip did not have an opportunity to reply* ^ Some one came for him, and he was forced to leava the little one alone, but her words kept ringing through his brain. He thought of them every time he glanced toward the sylph-like creature in white mull. "Only sixty dollars a month teaching school," he kept repeating to himself, "yet she can sacrifice her* self in order to help that poor little creature to some- thing better in life. Working from early morning to late at night for a paltry pittance, and spending that upon a sick child to give her hope and comfort, while I, a great, hulking fellow, have more than I could spend in all my life, and never do good to any one. You must look to weak little women if you want to find heroism in this world. How beautiful she "is, God bless her! And as noble as beautiful. It is char- acters like that that makes us worship her sex. I wish I could help her. I wish she would let me help her. But she won't. She isn't a bit ashamed of her stiff, formal, almost formidable little home. Her tenderness for her little, uneducated mother is exquisite, and her respect for that old bore of a father is beautiful. God! it is women like her that make you glad your mother and your wife must be of the same sex* It is little, pure, true things like LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 2 that that make you sorry God himself is not one of them. It would be so much easier to trust Him. I wish to heaven I were worthy ; I'd ask her to be my wife. But I am not fit to make a mat for her small feet. How ashamed a fellow feels of himself and his past life in presence of a girl like her. Heigh-ho! I wish I'd been a better man. I'd ask her to be my wife, and Hang it all! What a conceited puppy I am! A girl like that could never love a worthless nonen- tity like me/' CHAPTER VII. Philip Sumner was not dancing. He had not done so since his last waltz with Lillian, and it seemed to him that he should never do so again without her as his partner. It was the poetry of motion to him, and a good dancer himself, he had enjoyed it is he had never done a waltz before. She danced with another man shortly afterward, and Philip stood in the doorway watching her, thinking holy thoughts of the sweet, pure creature, and when ! she had finished and slipped from the room alone out I into the grounds, he followed her. He found her down among the locust-trees, whose trunks were wound with yellow honeysuckle. There was no difficulty in finding her, for the grounds were lighted not alone with a brilliant moon that was almost tropical in its splendor, but by the fairy lamps and lanterns as well. She was leaning against one of the trees, whose 44 LIL THE DANCING-GIRL garlands of fragrant yellow honeysuckle formed & halo about her head. Her eyes were closed. The merry breeze had blown out the white mull skirt until it had become wrapped about the tree. Her arms .were dropped beside her. It was an exquisite picture, and upon which Philip Sumner looked for some time before disturbing it. "You are like a tired wood-nymph/' he said, softly. I "The fairies bring rest in the moon rays and place 1 lamps at the feet of their goddess. I should like to be an artist to paint you as you are !" She smiled up at him faintly. "I believe I am tired," she answered. "I deiesJ dancing. I sometimes wish I could never hear the strains of another orchestra as long as I live S" Her tone had grown bitterly passionate as her words continued, and she observed his look of surprise. "You would deprive others of the greatest pleasure in existence that of being your partner in a waltz/ 1 he said, soothingly. "You will not be offended with me if I say that you are the finest waltzer I ever saw, will you ?" There was something cynical in her smile. "It is a laudable ambition, is it not, to be a great dancer?" She asked her question in a curious tone, and one which interested him in spite of the fact that he waa not in an analytical mood. "It is the personification of grace/' he answered, thoughtfully. She laughed, striving with all her might to make it sound natural, and yet fearing that he would hear the throbbing of her heart through it. 45 "And it suggests a capital means of livelihood," she exclaimed, the strained expression of her eyes veiled by lowered lids. "When I return to New York I shall study. There is mere money in dancing than teaching I tchool." She flashed a glance at him, and saw him shrink 'almost as if he had heard some note of vulgarity from fcer perfect lips. Then he smiled, but not with mirth. "Of course you only say that in jest/' he said, softly ; "and I was a dunce to be affected by it, but you will laugh when I tell you that it actually hurt tie. I had rather see you deadl" "Why?" "Ah, you don't know the class of women you men* lion, or you would not even speak of it in sport." "But might not something good come out of Naza *ih?" The strained tone had returned to her voice. It was Wlmost appealing* "No!" he replied, speaking more earnestly than he Sad done before. "Contact must of necessity bring Contamination. Don't even speak of it. It hurts me like a lash to hear such a thought from you, even when J know it is not serious. You are too pure, too Tioly!" - She shivered slightly. Her face was deathly pale, I at he saw only the effects of her fatigue and the * K>onlight. "Come over this way. There is a seat," he said, a!- Most tenderly, taking her hand and drawing it through 5b:s arm as he led her across the lawn. "There is something that I want to say to you. I don't know how to say it I wish you would help me. I ara ij6 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL afraid of offending you, and yet and yet. Can't you understand ? I want to do something in life. I seem to lead such an aimless sort of an existence. To tell you the truth, little one, your brave, active life has made me ashamed of myself. I seem for the first time in my life to realize what a great clod I am, utterly useless, utterly good for nothing. I want you to help me. I want you to show me how to be like you, so good, so unselfish, so generous. I know it will seem a hopeless task to you, but will you try? He looked down upon her with the same admira- tion and faith that one looks upon a statue of the Blessed Virgin, and she could have cried out in her agonized self-loathing. She had never felt her posi lion of falsehood and shame before as she felt it then / and yet, if her very life depended upon it, she could not have told him the truth. Once her lips openert to speak it, but they closed again, and only the mur f mur left her soul : "Death first! Death first!" i She looked up at him wistfully. "I wish to heaven I were what you think me!" sh cried out, helplessly. "I wish that I deserved the words that you have spoken." "Deserved them!" he repeated. "There is nothing of good that you do not deserve. I know so much ot your life, little one so much more than you think. You will not be offended that I have allowed the coun- try people to talk to me, will you? You will not think that I have rather encouraged them in the taler* of your bravery and self sacrmce 'f They told me of the life you lead, of the circumscribed lines about you, and of your breaking away. But they also told n?e of UL, THE DANCING-GIRL 4% lie F.oble fight, of your constant care of mother and sister; and then Amy do you think that little Amy has been silent when she had so eager a listener? She has told me only to-night of the noble resolve that you have made to take her to New York for medical ^ attention. She told me of the wee salary that you ex* j pect to make pay the bills that doctors know so well j bow to charge, and Won't you help me to tell you? Lily? You will let me call you Lily, will you not? It is the emblem of purity, and a perfect name for you. I want you I want you to let me help you, dear. I entreat of you to make me happy in that way, to lefc me feel that I, too, am doing good !" "You mean about the money?" she gasped. "Yes, if you will put it that way," he answered, as if he were ashamed. "I " "Great heavens!" she interrupted, her face crimson !With shame. "What will you think when you know, as you must ? You must ! Money ? What is that to me? My God! if I were forced to slave from cen- tury's end to century's end for the bare sustenance of life, it would be better than this !" He did not understand her words. He thought she referred to her father's harshness and to Amy's mis- fortune. He did not hear the despair in her tone, but only thought her excited, and siipped his arm about j her soothingly. "It is that of which I feel so sure," he said, gently. "Oh, Lily, I wish I were worthy to ask you to be my wife ! There, little one ; I did not mean to speak those words aloud ; but my heart has spoken them so often that my tongue refuses to remain silent. I Jove you, ttaiKttq! My lite has not been a pure one. If 5 48 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL could but cleanse it for your sweet sake, I should fan the happiest man alive. But I am not conceited enough to think that you could ever care for me, Be- lieve me, I should never ask it of you, little one, If you will only consent to let me help you, I know i| should never have spoken of my love under the ci cumstances ; that I should have been contented to lovdl you to the day of my death in silence, but it was forceS 1 from me unawares ; but I arn quite conscious that then! never could be any chance for me, Lily. I have neve*, been fool enough to even hope for that Lilyf* She had stopped suddenly in their walk, and wit$ fcer hands pressed closely upon her breast, had locked Kp at him. Something had suddenly dawned in her expressiqu a radiance, a light of brilliant joy, and he paught hetf hands and held them. "Speak to me!" he exclaimed, hoarsely. ''My lift has not been pure. I have lived as men usually di> who regret it, in sackcloth and ashes, for the rest ci their lives; but I lovj j*ou; I love you with all tba strength of my soul! If you will be my wife I wiJ cherish you as woman was never cherished before. I will worship you for the sacrifice you make for me* Lily, Lily, there is something in your face I don'ili know what but it seems to teil me that you love me } } For God's sake, speak! I feel as if my soul were sus* | perided between heaven and hell, waiting for a word i from you! Darling, what is it to be?" Rut the reply came from another quarter. It wai Miss Langford's voice that answered his pleading. have been searching for you two all over ths and the grounds. We are going to dance tha LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 4ut upon you that places you between A of the brute and man." rm of passion in the words and tone that Lillian. She put her arm about her and drew her to her. h, darling!" she murmured, "you must not hope tao strongly. Suppose, after all, it should i 'God would never be so cruel!' 1 answered Amy, !y. "What have I done that such a curse should *be sent upon me?" 1 ' r.ut dear, dear, remember that others, hundreds, ; ate like you worse, perhaps. They bear the burden j patiently, and " "But they have fathers to help them. It is not my life they lead. There is something for them beyond this eternal silence and emptiness. In these few weeks with you I have learned what life is, and I could never g-o back to the old routine. I never could. Don't de- stroy my hope, Lillian. It would be death. I know 52 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL you do it because you fear, because you are the best sister that God ever gave a girl, but don't! don't 1 Oh, Lily, I love you so ! I love you so !" She Hid her quivering face upon her sister's bosom and wept again, then she lifted it with the smites breaking through like the sun from behind a cloud. "I feel," she cried, "as if I could get up and dance the fantastic things you used to do, I am so happy. But oh, Lily, suppose I should be a burden upon you f, Suppose there should not be enough for two, and " "Hush !" interrupted the elder girl, her face crim- soning with the old shame. "There will be enough, more than enough. You need not worry, and " She paused and glanced up. She had heard a foot- fall, and as she lifted her eyes, she saw Philip Sum- ner standing there before her. There was sadness, reproach in his eyes, a heart- hunger that was piteous; but a band of ice seemed to encompass her as she looked into his face. She put her sister aside, and rose stiffly. Amy also struggled to her feet, and while she was doing it, cried cut : "Oh, Mr. Sunnier, I am so glad youVe come! You've always been so kind to me. and I am glad thai you will be the first to know. She has done it ao tually accomplished it, and I am to go to New York with her when she goes. Did you ever hear anything so glorious?" He took both the little hands in his and pressed them warmly. "I congratulate you with all my heart/ 5 he said, earnestly. "First upon the permission you have gained, and next upon having so good a sister. I LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL SJ need not tell you of all the good results that I hope for/ 1 "No; I was so sure you would be pleased." "And you were quite right. May I ask what the plans are. Miss Esmonde? Is she to go into a hospi* tal at once? I suppose it will be an hospital?" "Yes," answered Lillian, striving with all her might to keep her voice steady and indifferent. "It shall be an hospital, and at once. Amy thinks there is not a moment to be lost, and I agree. At all events the doc- tors will 1 ave an obedient pupil, and one for whom hope and de 1 accomplish mn "And that is half the battle," said Sumner, nodding 1 cad encouragingly. "I may be permitted to , may I not, little one?" "Oh, I hope you will. It is so good of you to think of it She started to limp away, nodding over her shout* cler smilingly, and Lillian asked, hastily: "\\hcre are you going?" "To tell mother." "I will go with you. You will excuse us, Mr. "Not unless I must," he answered, looking at her curiously. "Won't you stay? I have something to i fcay to you." | She hesitated a moment, then threw up her head *vith a haughty movement to which he was unaccus- Sumner was a trifle discomfited. He stood for a le time awkwardly, then said, wistfully: "How have I offended you, Miss Esmonde ?' She laughed lightly, just slightly frostily. If he '54 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL could have seen what it cost her, it might have much of the trouble of the after-time. But what ever did see below the surface of a woman's laugh? ''You have not offended me, Mr. Sumner," she air> swered, carelessly. I It hurt him worse than an acknowledgment of tha c charge would have done infinitely worse. But there * were the words Kirk Maitland had spoken, stinging through her brain in voiceless clamor : "She is to be his wife some day!" "He is amusing himself with a little country girl/* she continued, mentally. ''He will marry her; bu^ what matter if the little country school-teacher must suffer eternally because of his faithlessness? Well, he does not know Lil the dancing-girl. I will make him understand." And then, with the resolve in her heart which he could not read, she smiled again. "Are you quite sure?" he asked, humbly. "You are so cold, so frosty. Lily, I told you the other night of xny love, and since then you have avoided me. Do you know what it was I thought ? That you meant to pun- ish me for my presumption." "He does it well!" she ejaculated, mentally, her scorn almost uncontrollable ; but she leaned just a trifle toward him as she replied, seductively: "Presumption in man is like bravery ; his character I is nothing without it. But both are sometimes carried a little too far, and then we call it fool-hardy." "Have I been fool-hardy, Lily?" "You are like a child who pleads for that which is denied," she said, laughing. "Force accomplished more oftentimes than pleading." LIL, THE DANCING-GIRU $g He looked at her curioi; "I wish 2 could understand you," he said, with a little sigh. "You seem changed somehow. Little one, when we were interrupted the other night, it seemed to me that my soul was standing at the open door to Paradise. Has it closed to me since then ?" She controlled the curling scorn of her lip by a smile. "You have not sought for admission since then,* the answered, lightly. "Ali ! you are wrong. I was here yesterday, ami the day before, and the day before that, but you would not see me. You know that. It was that reason that made me believe that I had unconsciously given of* fense. Why was it, Li!; "Amy was ill," she answered, demurely. 4i \Yas that the only reason?'' he questioned, eagerly. "Oh, darling, if you knew how I have longed for the answer to my question! Won't you speak, my pure, white Lily?" He put out his arms to draw her to him, but she stepped out of his way. "What was the question?" she asked, with the laugh still lingering on her lips. j "If you love me," he answered, slowly. If he had said, "Will you be my wife?" she might have informed him of what had been told Her. She ' might have denounced him, and so received ati ex- planation of the lie that had been told her; but she only replied, lightly : "You must wait for your answer to that. I have known you too short a time. Do you remember how Jacob served for Rachel?*' 56 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL "Arid is that my sentence, Lily ?" She nodded brightly as Kirk Maitland came into view. lie had heard the conversation, and a grim expres* sion set his cruel, thin lips. "She means to have her revenge/' he muttered to Iiirnself ; "but I don't care to risk it. Not that I mind tier throwing him higher than a kite if it were sure to end there, but it isn't. -It's a dangerous game, and she might find out the truth/ 1 CHAPTER IX. "Ah, Lil ! Back again ! My dear girl, how glad I am to see you ! Do stand off there and let me look at you!" The room in which Paul Chetwynd stood before Lil- lian was a large and airy one, with a smooth, inlaid "floor and little furniture. What there was of it was good quality, though not pretentious, but beyond it, discernible through the light summer portiere, was a dainty salon, all cream and gold, that a fairy mighty have envied. She drew herself away from Chetwynd, who had taken her by the shoulders, and threw herself into a chair with a little laugh. "Heavens !" she exclaimed, wearily lifting the damj> hair from her brow. "How good it seems to be back. I think another week of it would have killed -me!" Chetwynd looked at her critically. "And it hasn't done you an atom of good ! I never 2-IL, THE DANCING-GIRL 57 did believe in sacrificing one's self. It's a beastly bore, does no good. You've lost ten pounds at least, and there are actually circles under your eyes, like, the heroine of a dime novel. I say, you haven't beer? falling in love, have you, L: r the lo . drop that name, and don't make a donk she exclaimed, fretfully. "It isn't like M fellov, I' to death up there, and ! "Then you 1:. The gesture of sec: -ay, Thetwynd only laughed. in my line I ted "Hut who do you suppose turned up the "Ruli.' k Maitlaivl. I nearly drr "Then I supp ry count: skin in the whole State knows the truth ; ::me." .'>; on the contrary, he acted surpr ell, all things considered. You know I have not been any too sweet to Maitland, and I rather feared he would take a d< ing me, but he didn't. The fact is, I shall have to treat him tetter in future, and the prospect isn't pleasant." hat a girl you are, Lil ! I don't believe you have an atom of heart in your whole body." "I wish to Heaven you were right!'' she exclaimed, grimly. "I do, upon my soul! I am going to tell you something, Chet, that will surprise you. Do you know: that I came very near giving up the whole busine shaking the whole thing ancf returning to that place that once seemed nothing short of perdition to me? 58 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL j| I know you will think me mad, and perhaps I. was," but it's the solemn truth, for all that. Poor little mother! What is to become of her in the awful soli- tude, is more than I can imagine! And then I am sure that, in spite of all my father's faults, he really./' loves me. I know he does, poor old dad! You would"; be sorry for him if you could see how proud he is of his little school-teacher !" "He would be prouder than that if he could see you dance/' "Never ! He would despise me. He would separate me eternally from mother and Amy, andand I couldn't bear that, Chet. They are the only two in the .whole world who really love me." He looked at her curiously for a moment, noting the strained expression about the beautiful eyes, then said, softly: "You always leave me out. Do I count for noth- f ing?" "Oh, bother ! I am not talking about that ! I am talking about love that is really love. Oh, you don't understand that sort of thing at all. YouVe always been good to me, Chet, but how long would you love me if I should fail to kick the object you hold over my j head? How long would I remain the idol you call) me if I should fail in a step which you have taken so much pains to teach me? It's another thing alto* gether, old fellow!" She was not looking at him, but out of the window: into the sultry street, looking dreamily, not realizing what she was saying, but rather talking as a parrot Jalks, without consideration. , She did not see the expression that had darkened LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 59 5'iyes, the eyes that had lighted with such pleasure ner entrance. He had not seated himself, and once he took a step , T ard her impetuously, but in the next he had re- ned control of himself, and, with a gesture of de- ciation, leaned against the window-casing. He did )t speak to her immediately, but when he did his >ice was quite calm. ''It is no use to contradict you," he said, slowly. fou never believed in the sincerity of the affection of y one, and it is a waste of breath to try to convince >u But I'm heartily glad you didn't adhere to that st impulse and remain. It is no worse for the little other than it was before/' "Yes, it is. I've brought Amy with me." "What! Are you crazy?" "Xot far from it, I think," she answered, laughing. She has taken it into her head that she can be cured, her deformity, and I have taken her to the New ork Hospital." "Is there anything you would not do if they asked u?" She hesitated a moment before replying. "I don't think there is, Chet," she said, slowly. You said a moment ago that I did not have an atom heart, and yet I really think that I long for love d earnest, sincere, saving loving, as mortal never nged in all this world. I believe my mother and my ster would hate me if they knew and " The sentence ended with a dry, choking sob. If she lad been looking at, or thinking of the man to whom she was talking, she must have seen how her words ouched him how they made him suffer. Once agaia 1>C LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL it seamed that it was impossible for him to check the* flow of words that arose to his lips, but another search* ing look into her unanswering face silenced him. "You don't know how it distresses me to hear you talk like that, Lil," he said, softly. "Why should they; not love you because you dance? If you were any less pure than one of the ice floes from a northern pass, then they might find some fault. But who knows you so well as I ? Not even yourself, I sometimes think." "But you could never convince the world, Chet. I ''know you would if you could, old fellow, and I am a fool to whine at the fortune that has saved me from a long residence in Patter's Field, but to save my life I can't help it once in a while. You could never con- vince them that anything good could come out of Nazareth !" She quoted the sentence bitterly the one that she had Spoken to Philip Sumner on the lawn of the Lang^ ford residence, and shivered as she recalled the time. Chetwynd walked over behind her chair. His hands were in his pockets. Perhaps he had confined them tliere to keep from taking her in his arms to comfort ber in the grief that he saw was tearing her, though he could not quite understand it. There was a vivid color in his cheeks as he leaned a trifle towards her. "I wish to Heaven you had not gone there I" he sai4 quietly but fervently. "So do I, Chet. Upon my soul I do!" she cried, so earnestly that he started slightly. "It is worse than laking up the old burden anew, a thousand times t/orse !" "And I have been cursed enough fool to ask a lot of the people here for to-morrow night in honor of your LJL, THE DANCING-GIRL 6l coxuing home, I've ordered a dinner from Sherry and no end of a blow out, and you in this humor. I wish to Heaven I could content myself sometimes with at- tending to my own business, but it seems I never can/' Lillian laughed at his rueful tone. It was the first thing that had seemed to arouse her. 'I'm heartily glad you have!" she cried, looking to- wards him through a heavy moisture in the eyes which he saw clearly enough. "It is just what I need. Put me to work at once, diet, with not a moment for thought, and when I must stop dancing, surround me .with the gayest company you can find. I tell you frankly, I don't like the mood into which I have fal- len. You say I have lost ten pounds. I don't mind telling you, diet, that I have not slept two hours a' night in over a week. It isn't like me, and and * upon my soul, I'm afraid. Let them all come, Chet, and make them come often. When does the engage- ment begin, old man?" "The twenty-sixth of August, and to-morrow will be the eighth. But there is so much to be done between now and then. I want you to make a great hit in this piece, Lil. I've made magnificent terms." "Never mind the terms. They are always magnifi- cent. Only I wish the work began to-day." "You need rest, dear." "Pouf ! Don't I tell you how impossible that is?" "Then let the real work begin to-day, the work ofi rehearsing. I've invented a new dance, and one I think" you will like. If you can only do one thing, I am quite sure of a sensation." "Oh, Chet, how good you are, old fellow. Why, Fnt interested already, and I never expected to be again. 62 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL j Make me work. Don't give me time to think, just yel When there is no more work to do, spend all the rnag nificent salary of which you spoke to entertain ou friends. You will help me, won't you, old man?" The light in her eyes was almost glassy as she !ifte< them to those of her dancing-master her friend. H< sighed a trifle under the smile that he forced to hi; lips. " You know I will, Lily," he answered, gently. But she shrunk back from him as if he had met he: request with a blow. "For God's sake, don't call me that!''" she exclaimed shudderingly. "I want to forget it. I tell you I mus forget it. I am Lil! Lil the dancing-girl. The othe: life is ended forever, and with it goes the old name There is no nope for me, diet. I have chosen my life and I must follow it to the end !" CHAPTER X. If Lil had been beautiful on the night of the datic given by Miss Langford, she was magnificent, glor ious, upon the evening of the dinner which Paul Che wynd had ordered in her honor. Her s'piriiuelle beauty had never shone out so rarel} so perfectly, as upon that occasion. She wore a gowi of downy white chiffon embroidered in the most ar tistic cf pale-pink rosebuds, with tremendous puffs 01 the shoulders of palest pink velvet. The very lav corsage was finished with a fall of Iace v and fastene from shoulder to shoulder with glittering- diamonc 1-IL, Till N'G-GIRL ^6j that flashed their prismatic fires dazzlingly. Her beau- tiful hair was parted, falling away at the sides in little rippling curls, and fastened in the center above the forehead with a simple diamond star. Chetwynd caught his breath as she came from hen own bijou boudoir into the dancing-room, which they; had converted temporarily into a salon. It was lighted with electricity under colored globes, and as she entered, Chetwynd. in regulation evening clothes, went toward her. "What have you done to yourself, chenef* he asked, as he took her hand. "Upon my soul, you dazzle me! You look like some spiritual creation colored by an artist's fancy. You are always beautiful, but to-night the word does not describe you/' A smile, that gfitterej under all ks bitterness, lighted her features. "Do you think my father would say that if he could see me now ?" she asked, unable to keep the scorn out of her voice. "Do you think he would call me beauti- ful?" Chetwynd hesitated. "He knows nothing of (he world," he answered at last slowly. "He would not understand what the world approves/' "You mean he would not understand that undress; constitutes the full dress of society/' she exclaimed in the same tone, "and that in our world we only observe the extremes of fashion. But his world is not mine, and mine is not his, and there is the bell, thank God!" Her expression changed as if by magic. There was ujrer the look of bitter scorn in- the lovely 64 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL' but a brilliancy that startled Chetwynd. He watched ; her closely for a time, but as the guests began to ar- rive rapidly, his vigilance waned. The last he saw of her she was standing beside a .woman, whom, in derision, they called Mag, a contrac- tion of Marguerite, which referred to the Marguerite Gautier, more familiarly known as "Camille." The woman was chic to a degree that attracted universal admiration, always clothed in spotless white an ac- tress affected with that fatal malady that destroyed Camille in the very presence of her happiness. Her name, the one that appeared on the play-bill, was Nathalia Vinita. No one knew whether she was born so or not, and no one cared. To her intimates she was "Mag," to others Miss Vinita, and that was all. There were those who said she played Camille con- stantly in private life, but certainly any exercise that was unwonted brought the crimson stain to her hand- kerchief that characterized the person after whom she was called. | She was not beautiful, but worse fascinating, and as she stood there beside Lil, they formed a picture that would have attracted attention in any salon. "Ah you can't imagine how we have missed you, cherie" she was saying to Lil in her indolent, attrac- tive drawl. "I should have taken to my heels and scampered over to Europe in sheer despair if I had not received the note from old Chet just as I did,' Heavens! There has been nothing! Quiet is some- 1 thing that I should die under. Did you enjoy youtj Teuf 1" exclaimed Lil, with aaupward shrug of ber IRL 6g ) shoulders. "Does one ever enjoy doing one'? There would be no credit in the \ nice if one should. Under those cirv mid cease to be duty, and i of pleasure, and then ould come in t! .lion one's back del; approving con- iat when God made u> ? He '.o ignited fires into one. One is divinity th :ell." ':gO "I recognize the one, but not the otlu - life is e into a blaze of glory is nothiiu ^n of air. . would be :lon. ^ is a foil been guilty. You r : wrong-doer goes scot- tells :he only po the only i ever allow n >.e who d :ne lines ir> not a philosopher." "I rail, are ri t tr' i Lil, mus- '.ould like you to tell me what nar* 1 to lull it to sleep.*' xclaimed Mis' \ nore energy than shown "action! I nv inv- . i never see anything but the pica -ant T nev< v chance consider the e. She who does that is lost to happiiu . Each . 1 1 keptfl 66 LIL, THE DANCING-GIEL individual day in my life takes care of itself. I see "all jl can of the people I like, and never bother myself with Others. Consideration of one's neighbor iray be charity, but it is much pleasanter to do one's charity; Work through institutions that live by contribution. fill each day as full as the hours W 7 ill hold. It has me alive when doctor's stuffs would have killed me long ago." "I think your prescription is good. Perhaps I shall need a few lessons before I really learn to follow it with sufficient care. Will you give them to me ?" "With pleasure. There is Felix!" A peculiar-looking man had entered the room a man with a large head, made to appear larger by a great shock of half-curly hair thiown back from the forehead after the manner of musicians. He went at once to the side of his hostess, his eyes lighting with a peculiar fire. i "It has been slower than death without you," he whispered as he held her hand. "What a beastly bore* life would be without our special goddesses ! diet-* ;wynd tells me you are going to dance for us tonight/' "He shouldn't have done it. I was reserving it foiv a surprise." "He told me because he wanted me to bring 1 certaftl music to play for you." "You play for me to dance?" . He was the greatest musician of the age, and h&" condescension surprised her. "Yes. It is an honor to play for such" dancing as yours. Are you going to do it in that costume?" She smiled. 'At "It might be suitable for minuet, but that is not itf LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL / my line. I have a startling one that arrived from Paris yesterday afternoon. I am going to try it this evening. Dinner? That is not unpleasant." It was rather noisy, but delightful one of those affairs in which Bohemia delights, where every one knows every one else, and has no fear whatever of mis- construction. As the wine flowed the fun became fast and furious. There was no one intoxicated, nor yet no one present who failed to feel its influence. Lil had never been in such a mood in her life, and more than once Chetwynd's watchful eyes were cast in JKT direction with a clog-like devotion that few at that Aable failed to recognize, but to which Lil was utterly Wind. More guests arrived when the dinner was over, but \hc buffet in the dining-room supplied the inner man, i*nd the clock was upon the stroke of twelve when Lil Mired to her room, while Amilia de Marveaux was ng a chansonctte which she was to do at the music Jiall the week following. When the song had finished, Felix took his position at the piano. He was about to begin his prelude such a one as only Felix could perform when the entrance of an- other guest attracted Chetwynd's attention. "You, Fcrrande!" he exclaimed, putting out his hand cordially. "I thought you sailed Wednesday. You got my note, then?" "I think that had as much to 'do with my not going as anything else. Fact ?.s, Dazian offered too tempting? a salary to be declined, a.?J I've postponed the tramp till next year. But I say, The!: ola man, I'm afraid Tve taken a great liberty. 'An :>rJ *o!l*e chum of 68 1,1 L, THE DANCING-GIRL mine came in from the country today, and as every- thing is so dull, and he seemed rather out of sorts, I invited him here for an evening in Bohemia. Have 1 imposed upon your hospitality?'* "By no means. Bring him in." And as Ferrande left the room, Felix began his prelude. , It began with a dreamy, improvised movement, that gradually changed to a quick time suitable for dancing f but such as an entire orchestra could scarcely equal, for what instrument can excel the piano in the hands of a master? It glided on and on, becoming with eacli moment more joyous, more rollicking, until at last the tyorticres were thrown aside, and Lil Lil the dancing- girl stood before them. Her corsage was even more d&collete than before, her beautiful limbs covered with flesh-colored tights, and about her an airy pink gauze light as down. It ;vvas draped in a fashion that Paris alone can master' artistic, fascinating. She leaped into their midst like a young gazelle, just as light, just as graceful; and as she piroutted upon the tips of her dainty toes -it the beginning of her dance, she glanced laughingly in the direction of Jier teacher, Chetwynd. But it was not into his eyes she looked. For a moment the room seemed to grow blacK before her. She came down from her toes and groped blindly, then she flung up her head and laughed out wildly. ^ It was into the astonished, horrified eyes of Philip; Sumner that she had gazed. 1IL, THE DANCING-GIRi; (yj CHAPTER XI. Lil had never danced in her life as she did that even- ing. It was the maddest, merriest whirl that could be imagined. It seemed that she would never tire; but each shout of approval from the enthusiastic spectators seemed to add more fuel to the fire in her soul. She had never attempted before the feats that she seemed to perform with ease that night, and Chetwynd leaned wonderingly against the door-casing with his arms folded upon his breast. "She is a marvel!" he said to himself a dozen times. "It must be the spirit of Beelzebub that has got into her. I never saw anything like it." The public, that public that will attend a French' ball one evening and draw its smile into Plymouth Rock primness on the next, might not have approved of all that she did, for indeed the spirit of Beelzebub did seem to possess her, as Chetwynd had said. The spectators laughed one moment in side-splitting amusement and watched with breathless intent the next ; but one there was who could see nothing but horror in the performance, and looked on with the dismay he felt but too surely pictured in his counten- ance. That one was Philip Sumner. He neither moved nor spoke until the dance had come to an end, until the wild shouts of bravo had subsided, until the people who had sourrounded Lil to shake her hand in congratulation had left her side, ind then he went up to her. She was still in tights, with that diaphanous drapery "TO* lit, THE DANCING-GIRL' floating about her. He half expected hoped that she would shrink from him, but she met his eye mock- ingly, indifferently. "Halloo, old man '!" she cried out, dauntlessly. "You* look as if you'd seen a ghost! I hope it's the one oj that school-teacher you met up in the country. She is dead, you know, but her spirit does not deserve to rest in peace." If he could have seen how she was suffering, rte might have taken her to his heart and have forgivert and saved her ; but lie did not. He only saw the smit- ing face, the limbs covered with tights, the total lack of shame, the depravity of her manner. It was the most horrible shock that he had even received in his life. He had looked upon her as the purest, bravest, most loyal woman he had ever known, and now An oppres- sion of disgust tied his tongue. It seemed to him at that moment that he had never despised a human crea- ture on all God's earth as he despised her. He remembered all the country folk had said of her, of the bravery and simplicity of her sweet life, and contrasted the story they had told with this scene with that lovely, shameless face that was upturned to his. He suffered enough in that moment to amend a thousand errors. And then a great grief seemed to come over him. \If Lil had not been half blind from the agony upon her, she might have seen that there were tears in his eyes. "Don't speak of that of her here!" he said in a low tone. "You are right. The little school-teacher LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL: 71 is dead, but I think her death has has broken my heart!" She looked at him mockingly. "Hearts don't break !" she exclaimed, with, affected lightness, smiling at him dazzlingly. ''Why don't you tell me that you admired my dancing?" "Because I did not. Oh, Lily, I wish you had died jwith the little school-teacher!" "Pouf! There would have been twenty hearts broken instead of one. Besides, I am Lil here. It must be Lil or nothing. Remember that Is Chet- .wynd a friend of yours?" "Whom do you mean?" "Chetwynd, my old teacher over there." "No. I never met him until tonight. Ferrande " "Oh," she interrupted. "Ned! He is another of my old loves. Then you will come to our affairs often ?" "These things ! For God's sake, do you give them Often?" "No. I give them for my own sake, or rather Chet does, which is quite the same thing. You will come often?" "No. I hope to Heaven I shall never see your face again as long as I live !" She laughed outright. "But you will. I shall send you a special invitation to the next. You will come." "I shall not." "Is it to be a wager? All right, then. A box of cigars to a dozen of gloves. Don't distress yourself about the brand of cigars, because you won't win. ;\Vi)l you excuse me?" tJ2 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL |" v She did not wait for his reply, but slipped sway; \vhile some one else was singing, and returned in a surprisingly short time in the costume she had wora ;earlier in the evening. (t In spite of his intention to go at once, Philip Stun- ner was still there, talking now to Mag, to whom sorip one had presented him. He turned away from hec as Lil entered and looked toward her. He remem;* foered the night of the country dance and groaned. * Could this be the same girl with whom he had idanced that evening? Was it possible that that de- mure little country girl, with her mull gown covering her throat, could be the same as this one, this with-^ lAh! The thought sickened him, and yet, in his own walk in life, in that society which his mother valued, ladies \vore their gowns as low as this without thought of shame. He felt a touch from Mag's fan, and turned to her again. "Do you remember the story of the moth and the 'candle ?" she asked in her sweet, indolent drawl. "Yes," he answered absently. "Is it to be enacted again ?" "What do you mean?" "Don't imagine that I take you for an unsophisti- cated young school-boy, but don't fall in love wifli Lil." "Why?" "She has no more heart than that statue over there. Love is as necessary to her as the air she breathes ; but there is one word that contains no meaning for her. It is reciprocation. She would allow you to LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 73 spend your fortune upon hsr this week, and pass you upon the street without recognition the next." "The reputation is not one calculated to increase, one's respect." Mag shrugged her shoulders indifferently. "Pourquoi?" she inquired. "She gives nothing in return" "iner colored. In spite of his recent discovery, it angered him to hear Lil spoken of in that broad, almost vulgar way, and he deserted the side of the woman who had volunteered the information without an apology. It was indeed the moth and the candle, for he went at once to Lil. e glanced up with a forced glitter in her eye and smiled, determined that she would accomplish the end she had in view. "Come to the dining-room for a glass of cham- pagne?" she exclaimed, familiarly putting her hanc upon his arm. "I am dying of thirst." It was he who shrunk away, but something there \vas in her manner that forced him to obey. He looked down upon her almost fiercely as the/ stood beside the buffet. "Why have you done this?" he asked, savagely. "Is it trvie that you have no heart?" She made a little graceful gesture of annoyance. "The dramatic is not at all in my line!" she ex- claimed with an arch glance. "Come off, will you? Amuse me, and I will love you," watching him close- ly from under her half-shut lids. "Distress or bore me, and I shall cut you. Which do you prefer?" | PANCING-GIRL "The latter, by all means. I wish to Heaven that I could hate you." ; "But you can't. There is no one that ever tried it yet, consequently no one ever succeeded. You won't be the first, will you ?" I She was laughing at him, and he knew it. Yet, forj all that, he picked up the glass of champagne . and ^drained it. "Who is this Chetwynd?" he asked, suddenly. "My teacher/' she replied. "Nothing else? Swear to me that he is nothing else/' She did not allow him- to see how the question cut her. She put her pain willfully from her, and an- swered lightly : "I swear it! But what possible difference can it inake to you?" "None none whatever, I assure you. I am going flow. It seems to me that it has been an evening in perdition. Before I go, there is one thing I want to Jell you : I saw your father this morning/' :, For the first time she colored and her eyes fell. - "Well?" she whispered. "He told me that Amy is to go to the New York Hospital. Is it true?" "Yes," she whispered again, with her eyes still on the floor. "I am going there to see her to-morrow/ 5 She lifted her eyes. They rested pleadingly on, his face. "Don't tell her!" ,she exclaimed, hoarsely, .pausing painfully Between each word. "Don't ; It is not for? UL, THE D,V FRL; 75 ' my sake, but hers. It would kill her ! For the lovft of Heaven, promise!'' CHAPTER XII. ''Philip!''. Philip Sumner was standing at one end of the long room, looking moodily from the window. The ends of his mustache \vcre between his teeth, his hands tin the pockets of his trousers. There was a slight frown between his brows, and his face was ashen, colorless. He started as the low tones of the sweet voice pro- nouncing his name reached him, and crossed the room at once to the side of the little lady in the opposite window. She was a beautiful little creature, with silvery hair curling about a brow as fair as that of a young girL There was a wild rose flush in the prettily rounded cheeks and a wistfulness in the blue eyes that were lifted to him that Philip never could resist. As he reached her side, the tiny, almost childish hand was put out gropingly, and then, for the first time, one realized that the small, snowy-haired, dainty creature was blind. ^ With a tenderness that was touching, Philip took: the little hand between his own and raised it to his ftps. /'I wish I could always be so near you when you call, [sweet mother," he said, gently. "What : s it, dear?" \'l want yo*i to sit down here closely beside me. $6 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL (where I can feel your great strength for awhile. I am sadly in need of it to-day, Phil." "Why? Do not you feel well, dear? Has anything gone wrong?" { She sighed a little, and turned her sightless eyes f toward the window as he drew a chair up beside her* and sat there holding her hand affectionately. She! r did not reply at once, and he sat there watching the| expression of the changing face watching it half un- consciously, until it suddenly dawned upon him that there was more of pain in it than usual, then he leaned forward and kissed her cheek lightly. "Something is worrying you, little one," he said, gently. "What is it?" His manner almost suggested that of a father to a 'distressed child, and a slight smile crept over her fac -i as she turned it to him again. "There are several things, Phil," she answered, hot! ;vcke slightly tremulous. "I want to ask you some- thing, dear, and am half fearful of giving offense J but " He interrupted her with a little laugh in which there was not a ^reat deal of mirth. "Did you ever offend me in your life?" he askecft* (with playful mockery. j, "No ; but there are certain things upon which a man will not bear questioning, even from his mother." "Not from such a mother as mine my other self!" he replied, tenderly. "What is it, dear little one?" She put her hand gropingly, pathetically, until it touched his cheek, the wistfulness of her expression ideepening. "You have not seemed just like yourself, my boy, LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 7fl since your return from the country/ 1 she said, slowly. "Phil, dear, did anything happen between you and Olive Langford that distressed you?" | ( "Why, no!" he answered, half laughing. "AVhat made you think that?" "You have been so silent, so unlike yourself. You are not happy, Phil. You can not deceive your mother. The blind have a sixth sense the ability to read sil- ence I think. What is the matter with my boy?" "You are worrying yourself foolishly, little one, 1 * he answered, with an assumption of lightness, "I was never better in my life-" "Physically, perhaps, but not mentally. Did you have you asked Olive to to be your wife, dear?" . "No, mother." "When are you going to do it, Phil?" There was something so strange and strained in her voice that the young man looked at her curiously] before replying. "Never!" he answered, slowly. J She started slightly. He observed that she grew a ' shade paler and an anxious expression dawned in the Hind eyes. ! \ 1 "Why?" she asked, hoarsely. "You love Olive,.! Phil?" >' "As I might a sister, but not as my wife," he re- , j plied, quietly. J She drew her hand from him, not suddenly, but' slowly. "Phil," she whispered, "II thought you loved her?" He laughed again. r "Why, no, mother. Qlive Is a nice girl, a dear girl. $8 UL, THE DANCING-GIRL 1 but a man does not want to marry every nice girl. 1 like her, but as for love oh, gracious, no ! There is not a semblance of that sort of thing in our friend- ship/' Her face had grown whiter and whiter, until every particle of the lovely wild-rose color had disappeared. He observed how closely the small hands were Ri:;pec!, and some sort of anxiety dawned in the young juan's breast, apart from his own suffering. "What is the matter, little mother ?" he asked, gent- ly. "Was it your wish to see Olive my wife? 1 ' j "Yes," she answered, hesitatingly, hoarsely. "I wished it above all things, Phil/' "But you will not when I tell you that there is no, love in my heart to give her/' he said, quietly. "Is there is there any one else, Phil?" He did not see the quivering of her lips, the strained -expression of the face. The question upset him too rnuch for that. He rose suddenly and walked across the room; then, instead of returning to her, he leaned against the mantel-shelf and looked down at her, Avoiding the range of the blind eyes. I "No, mother," he answered in a choked sort of way. She started a little and bent her head forward as i &he were listening, then lifted it half eagerly. "I am glad of that!" she exclaimed, as if she wer* fcreathing more freely. ^i "Why?" "Because it it makes it easier, dear." There was a little pause, during which she clasped *nd unclasped her fingers nervously ; then Philip went! lack to his old seat and took her hands again. 9 "What is it, dear?" he asked, gently. "Something] LIL, THE DAVTCT \r-GTRL 7# distressing you. Won't you tel! n\? whst it is?" ' "Yes, Phil, because I must tell you ; bur. if there' were any way to avoid it, I would I would give my* life to do it !"' She 'had moistened her dry lips several times during* the speech, had hesitated over the utterance of the words painfully, and when she ceased speaking hs observed that there were tears in hec eyes. "Go on, little mother,'* he said, encouragingly. She waited a moment before replying, then cried out: "Oh, Phil, I thought you loved her!" "And now that you know I do not, does it fret ; so? Had you so set your heart upon my marrying Olive, mother?" "It isn't that, dear it isn't that!" she cried, her voice quivering with emotion, as she caught his hands* more closely and drew him to her. "It is that you must marry her, Phil!" "Must!"' He rose to his feet suddenly, a crimson flush surging- into his face. "What is it that you mean, mother? Pshaw! I s believe you half frightened me for a moment/' I "Listen, Phil !" she exclaimed in that low, vibrating' voice that always commands attention. "I would save you this knowledge if I could. I know you so well,. 'dear, that I am perfectly sure that you would never yield to my entreaty to make Olive your wife, when: your heart has not preceded the asking. You would not yield a point of conscience. But there are reasons why it it is necessary, Phil." \ "I don't see what reasons could make such a thing- 8O L1L, THE DANCING-GIRL necessary. I am no longer a boy, mother. I see that something is distressing you beyond measure. You must tell me clearly, fully, what it is." "It is this, Phil your father's honor!" she cried, leaning toward him dramatically. "My son, a few;*, months ago there was a threatened failure at the bank* If it had occurred, your father would have been Iblamed by the courts and by all the world." I "My father!" ? ; "Wait! It would have sent him to State's jprison! He believed at the time, Phil, that he was doing right. He did not intend to to embezzle, or whatever the dreadful word is that they use for it, [But you know, Phil, that the world nor the courts ever look to the intention. You know that your father [was not a thief, and I know it ; but that would never convince the world." : She was leaning toward him with her sightless eyes upon him, strained, haggard, as if she were striving to make him believe something which she herself doubted, as if she were forcing belief, and Philip saw. 'He staggered to his feet again in deathly silence, stared at her for a time, then when he could command ihis voice, whispered hoarsely : , "Well!" She moistened her stiff lips again and went on, /leaning toward him in an uncanny so/t of way and jspeaking in a tone that seemed to freeze his blood. "Arnold Langford knew the truth. He held the proofs. He He holds them today. He consented to help your father to save him under one condition v that you marry Olive. I I thought you loved her, jPhil. I thought there would be no hardship in it for LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 8' you, my boy, and by by my advice your father con sited to the arrangement Well, Phil, Arnold Lang*{ 'ford is becoming impatient. He demands that the. promise be made good. He wishes the marriage to jtake place at once. It is the price of your father's honor, Phil!" ^j I She- was leaning toward him breathlessly, and hia ( j hoarse reply brought a wildness to her eyes that smotd [ him to the soul. ,,, "There is no honor that has a price !" She stood up a little thing not larger than a child,, but the anguish in her eyes was awful. "Then his liberty!' 9 she whispered, hoarsely. /'Phil, for the love of a merciful Heaven, you would not open to your own father the door of Sing Sing, ;would you?" CHAPTER XIII. /* ~* * Philip Sumner shuddered. Even in the horror that was upon him, it suddenly; occurred to him what a strange thing it was that he, Philip Sumner, should stand there and listen whi!0 his father was called a thief! He put it in plain English there in his own mind, f for he knew that was no other word that would 'ex- ! press the awful truth. His father a thief! And he, 1 proud man that he was, proud man that he had always been, must needs stand there and listen in silence, for he knew they were spoken by one who would soonefi have cut outrher tongue than have uttered them. She 82 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL was palliating the offense, striving to shield the mail she loved with all the strength of her true, loyal soul, but Philip understood, and she knew he did. If 'she herself had committed the offense, she could not have looked more the guilty, shrinking thing tliait she did, standing there with bowed head and white*, trembling lips ; and after a moment of stunned silerice, Pliilip went up to her and took her almost fiercely in his strong arms. "Are you sure that this is all true ?" he asked, heavily. "Are you sure that there is no mistake?" "There is none, Phil. I had corroboration from his own lips." "And you love him as you did before?" "I love him as women should only love their God !'* she answered in a voice that was choked with anguish* "I sometimes think it is the punishment He has sent for a usurped worship. Oh, Phil, it is your mother's- life as well as your father's liberty that I am asking t My son my son " "Hush!" he whispered, silencing her lips with his own. "You must give me "time to think of all this. It ' is so new so unexpected, that it has stunned me. ' You must give me a little time, but my motheir knows that she can trust me I" / There was an emphasis upon the last word that cut her to the soul. She shrunk back as if from a blow, but he was too much bewildered to see. He kissed her gently while he whispered : "I am going now where I can be alone for a little while. Don't let me be disturbed. Don't fret, little mother. Your son's shoulders are broad enough to beat your burden F* LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 83 lie took his arm from about her and left her, mount- ing the ctairs slowly and seeking his own room. When he had gained it, he locked the door, then stood .still, striving to think of the situation. It seemed to him that he was mentally dumb for a j time, incapable of thought, and then a word went through his brain as if fired from a cannon. His father a thief! The very idea seemed ridiculous, and then: "She she said it," he murnv.r ,d aloud, wearily, "she who would give her very so., to save him from harm. He has told her all, he-~c-r, coward! The in- famous coward! Why was it iccjssary that he should Jburden her poor life with that? Why could he not have come to me? Because he knew that I should have demanded to know the truth. Because, while he had the nerve to become a thief, he was too great a coward to hear it from the lips of his son. God! /, the son of a thief! I" He interrupted himself with a hoarse, bitter laugh, a laugh that startled even himself, and he pulled himself up shortly, and crossing to the window, threw himself into a chair before it. There was a mocking smile ). still lingering upon his lips as he continued his self- i communion. 4 'I despised her because she danced for a living, and now my father a thief ! Verily, the punishment for my pride has not been retarded. God ! What a world it is! I have been a Don Quixote all my life, fighting wind-mills. I have tried to see truth and purity in all I have met, but how can purity spring 1 ;!from putrefaction? If I were like the rest pf .the 84 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL , I might go on and be happy in the same way. would call me fool, in that I object to eating bread bought with stolen money. They would call me fool, in that I hesitate to save myself and my fortune by making a beautiful woman my wife. They would call me fool, in that I resolved to avoid temptation in remaining away from the girl with whom I have fallen so madly in love ? because she happens to be a premiere dans e use. Well, and are they all wrong and I the only one who can be right ? The world would tell me, save your fortune, by all means. Marry this girl of wealth and beauty, and then if the premiere danscuse still attracts you, is there any reason why you should avoid her society any more than the rest of mankind ? Pouf ! Are you to constitute yourself the savior of the world? You, the son of a thief? "After all, what better is Arnold Langford than Halford Sumner? Arnold Langford conceals the theft and sells his daughter to the thief's son. What reason has he for that ? Great God ! I must be mad indeed when I ask the reasons for the facts of a thief's accomplice. Well, what answer is there that I can make to my mother? Only this : I, the son of a thief, will rnarry the daughter of his acocmplice, and so save the world the knowledge of the knavery of this precious pair. There is nothing else that can be asked of me, I suppose? I can not be compelled to love .her ! Ha ! ha ! I wonder if she knows the terms of this compact? Well, it has not taken me long to de- termine upon my future course. What a change a few hours can make in a man's life! This morning; 'When I received a note from Lillian Esmonde Lit the dancing girl I determined that I would not accegti LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 8g her invitation to a tete-a-tete dinner, an invitation? is- sued through sheer bravado, but now now " TT threw up his head and laughed again, a laugh that was horrible. Then he range his bell violently. \ "Ferdenande/' he said hastily to his valet, "ring for i a messenger. I want to send a note at once. Then get any evening clothes."" . He went to his escritoire as he spoke, and hastily; penned the lines : "My DEAR Miss ESMONDS, Pardon a delayed an- swer to your charming invitation. I will explain the reason for it when I see you at the hour you named* seven. Ever sincerely, PHILIP SUMNER." He dispatched the note, then, with the assistance of his valet, got into his evening clothes. If Ferdenande observed the singular expression upon the handsome features, he made no comment; but the grimly set mouth did not exactly correspond with Philip's care of his toilet, concerning which he had never been so particular. When it was completed, he descended the stairs and again entered the presence of his mother. She was still sitting beside the window, white- dipped, anguished ; but his own pain, for the first time in his life, blinded him to hers. For he was suffering as only men of his nature can suffer. She lifted her head eagerly as he came into the room, then rose unsteadily and put out her hands with- out speaking. He went up to her and again took in his arrm. ".Well, Phil?" she exclaimed, breathlessly, not r86 * Lit, THE DANCING-GIRL to fbrce her voice above a whisper. "What is it?** 1 "I am ready to make the sacrifice for your sake,, little mother," he answered, endeavoring to speak lightly, but only succeeding in making his voice sound reckless. "Don't let it worry you any more. I was a. fool to have hesitated at all, but it was only for a mo- ment. After all, Olive is a beautiful woman, and has; been brought up in that society which has taught her not to exact too much of a husband. Kiss me, little one." She lifted her mouth obediently, but the quiver oj the lips 1m/ 1 him. "Don't grieve, dearest," he said, tenderly, drawmgj iher to him caressingly. "After all, I dare say we shall be as, happy together as the general run of married people, Olive and I. It is only that it has rather knocked me out, from being a sudden blow from a most unexpected quarter. I am going out to dinner now. To-morrow I shall be all right." "I am glad you are going out, Phil." He wondered if she would be glad if she knewr where he was going; but he only smoothed her hair tenderly for a moment, then left her. It was five minutes before the appointed hour that he pushed the button of the front door leading to Lil's flat. He went up in the elevator and rang again. Lil's trim little maid answered the summons and showed him at once into her mistress's reception- , room. Lil was standing there in the center of the floor, gowned in a pale-blue chiffon. It was decollete, expos- ing her beautiful throat, bare of jewels. There was a smile upon her lips more darling than diamonds. She LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 8/ put out her hand, and as Philip Sumner took it he lifted it to his lips. "Miss Vinita compared my case to that of the moth $nd the candle/' he said, with his admiring eyes ypon hers. "I tried to prove even to myself that it was not true, but the attraction was too strong. I tried to remain away, and so left your not^ unanswered ; but I could not. You see I am here. You know your power fully, and I have given myself up to it, heart and spul." CHAPTER XIV. Lil looked at Philip Sumner in a little surprise. She observed the expression of excitement in his eyes, the flush upon his cheeks, the recklessness of his man- jier, but did not translate it aright. She smiled up at him as she withdrew her hand, exclaiming, archly : "Then you have entirely recovered from your shock. You do not despise me because of the lie I lived for a month at home ? You do not hate me as you s^id ?" He shrugged his shoulders curiously, and a bitter half-sneering smile curved his lips. "Why should I ?" he asked, quietly. "Are you dif- ferent from the rest of the world? I made a confes- sion to myself this afternoon. It was this : 'You have teen a Don Quixote all your life, fighting wind-mills. You have been a fool as mad as he!* And so I have dropped the wind-mill racket, Lil, and have joined the ranks of pleasure-seekers. The greatest pleasure that life promises is in your society, and so I seek it." She looked at him earnestly. There was something '"88 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL* in his tone and manner that distressed her, but sh< could not exactly analyze it. * She threw herself into a chair, and looked up at film with the dazzling smile upon her lips and in her eyes intensified. And then the servant announced idinner. ( They were alone. The dining-room was not bril-i liantly lighted, but only from the candles that shone Softly under colored shades. The servant was not present save as summoned, and the table was not large^ iThere was a vase of lotus blooms in the center of thd (table that gave out a seductive perfume that seemeq |o tie itself bewilderingly into the brain and bubble through the blood like an intoxicant. The very dim- ness of the light was seductive. / "I can imagine nothing more heavenly than to si| like this through life," he said, recklessly, leaning toward her as if to drink in the strange beauty of her iface. "I wonder if you are as much a philosopher as I have become? For the rich man life was made ifor pleasure, and he who tries to do anything but en* jjoy himself is a fool. Do you not think so, Lil?" ^ She did not reply directly to his question, but an- swered with another. i "Why do you call me Lil? I thought you hated it." "It is inseparable from your new li'fe. It does not fit the character. My lily was a sedate little flower [with a quiet dignity that was as lovely as its own pure {whiteness. My Lil is more like that lotus bloom Seductive, bewildering, intoxicating. I loved the lily; I am entranced by the lotus bloom. The effect is a delicious harmony of thought and feeling which pro- duces a sensation for which even death has no terror* LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL ftjj Ah, Lil, I loved the dainty, debonair little school- teacher, but I worship the biasing, glittering", dazzling dancing-girl as the sun-worshippers were wont to adore their god." He laid his arm upon the table, palm upward, invit- ingly, entreatingly. She hesitated a moment She scarcely knew what to do. Could it be possible that Kirk Maitland had lied to h She was more than half convinced that he had. e put out her dainty cool palm and allowed it to fall upon his, soft as a snow-flake. She almost started as the heat of his hand met hers. It was like a fiery furnace, scorching with red heat. But liis fingers closed over hers before they could be withdrawn. "God!" he exclaimed, .g his chair nearer to her, "do you think I will ever let you escape, now that I hold you? Lil! Lil! give yourself to me, darling ! Let me love you as I can. Do you remember the night of the country dance ? It seemed impossible then that I could ever aspire to such perfection as you, yet I have grown bold with desire rnad, perhaps. Lil, love me!" She dkl not reply. It seemed, somehow, that the fteat of his passion had rather dazzled her. She stared at him for a moment in absolute silence, scarcely dar- ing to listen to the voice of her own heart and then, she scarcely knew how it happened but .she found herself in his arms, with her lips answering his wild 25. "Darling!" he whispered, "darling, let me hear it once ! Tell me that you love me! Lil, my own, speak tome!" And then, for the first time in all her life, her lips "^O LIL, ,T#E DANCING-GIRL spoke those words that had never left them save in mockery : . "I love you, Philip I" His arms closed about her more passionately. ,He had thought to be happy when he had heard them spoken, and yet they seemed to ignite in his soul the! fires of hell. He dared not let her see his face, and so; concealed it in her bosom. It was the first dishonor-; able act of his whole life, and it stung him through 1 with the flame from perdition. But it did not last long. He calmed his conscience iwith a reckless laugh and flung up his head. The crimson flame was showing through his cheeks, and lighted his eyes with a glow that blazed. "I am the happiest man in the world !" he exclaimed, in uncontrollable excitement. "To our love, Lil to our beautiful love!" \ He lifted his champagne-glass above his head and looked at her, with the reeling, intoxicated expression growing with each moment. She lifted hers, and they clinked glasses merrily. His mood had seemed to impart itself to her. She had ceased to think of Kirk fMaitland and the words that he had spoken. She loved Philip Sttaner. She was taking the joy from the passing hour without thought of the future. But she trusted him. They paused in their rapturous conversation only While the servant was in the room to change a course, and it was with a sense of relief that both arose from the table at last. As they entered the reception-room, Lil flung her- self into a great chair, lifting her beautiful dimpled arms above her head. When they f eH they were about LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL QF is neck as he knelt beside her. She drew his head osely to her and kissed him upon the eyes. 'Ah, love/' he murmured, "what a life it will be! ere will be the need of heaven? Champagne, and owers, and love! What combination could a poet jggest that could fill a life more full of royal living lan that?" "And you will always love me, Philip?'* There was something so wistful in the tone thai: it Duched him. "First and best always, my darling!'' he answered, lore earnestly than he had yet spoken. "First and est always. You must never doubt that, Lil, what- cr comes." She smiled up at him happily. The step of the *rvant in the hall was heard and he arose. Not, owever, before the girl had seen their positions, and slow smile curved the domestic's lips. She set her ay upon the table, a tray containing champagne and asses, and left the room. Lil rose, but before :,he could reach the table, Philip umners arms were about her. She yielded to him oyously, and neither heard another step in the hall> quiet, firm step of the dancing-master. He was oming in with some piece of news which he thought ould interest Lil, and had even lifted a corner of ie portiere, when the tableau met his eye, He did not speak, but dropped the portiere and went way quietly. The anguish in his heart was awful. "It is goodbye to hope," he murmured. "My Lily, too pure for this to mean anything but an honorable larriage, a marriage that will separate us eternally. Jod knows I would not stand between her and happi- 92 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL ness. I never expected that she could love me, but I hoped I hoped What he had hoped seemed to be vague enough, for he never completed his sentence. He only sat down upon the side of a chair, and, covering his face, groaned. Meanwhile, Lil and Philip were still unconscious of the whole world about them. They were living in the first hours of love, the one with a fever of remorse turning his soul, the other with a sentiment as pure end holy as that which marks the affection of $, child for its mother. For while Lil had determined at one time that she would make Philip Sumner suffer for what she thought to be a flirtation at her expense, she believed now as truly in the sanctity of his love as she did in that of her Creator. And she was yielding her- self as completely to the joy of her love as the enthusi- ast does to the first inspiration of religion. And then, while the thirst of heart and soul was being assuaged with kisses, the bell rang. Neither C)f them heard it, but a discreet cough from the domes- tic who had entered before warned them. She lifted the portiere and announced: ! "Mr. Maitland!" And Lil was too happy to feel annoyed. She sud- denly recalled the words that he had spoken concerning 1 Olive Langford, and a smile of supreme content crossed her mouth at the remembrance. "When did you come down from the country?" asked Lil, when she had shaken hands with him. "Only to-day. Did you not know that you would be the first upon whom I should call ?" LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL He looked at her reproachfully, and in some Mice. Philip exclaimed: "Then you knew Miss Esmonde before?" , "\Vhy, certainly. Lil and Tare old friends, but 13 certainly did not expect to see you here, old man! She and I had many a laugh over how completely you were duped up there in the country. By the way, Miss Langforcl came down this morning. She is to remaini a week, 1 believe. Of course you will see her?" CHAPTER XV. It is doubtful if there was ever a more miserable man than Philip Sumner was when he left the resi- dence of the dancing-girl that evening, and yet with that reckless defiance of fate and conscience that i so newly born within-him, he endeavored to still the voice of disgust and self-contempt. \ He did not return home, but went to the club, a^icj for the first time in his life some of his friends and associates saw him under the influence of drink. Ha played poker rather wildly, that also being a new ex- , perience, and with the luck of a new player, rose from the table with an unsteady smile upon his lips, and a, thousand dollars in his hands that had not been there when he entered the room. } "You should invest it in a souvenir!" exclaimed one of the gamesters, laughing, as he looked into ihe 1li) -bed and rather swollen face. "I will!" he cried, a little wildly. "It shall purchase a diamond star for my sweetheart." 94 LIL, THE PANCING-GIRL t ' "A star in her own right?" laughed the first speaker "I heard last night that you were rather hard hit vv ; t one of the Thespian firmament. Seductive Hide witch ! But I say, Sumner, take care! She is fooling thee! That dainty, airy little creature is more like an eel than anything you ever saw. You've got her one minute, or ? rather, think you have, and the next she has slipped through your fingers, and clean escaped you. I shall look out for the souvenir the next time I dine with her: tcte-a-tete." A dark cloud gathered on Sumner's brow. One mo- ment it seemed to him that he must throttle the smil- ing scoundrel that sat there gazing up at him so non- chalantly, and then he turned away with an upward shrug of the shoulders, not able to find voice for a (reply. He hated himself because he loved her, this woman whose name was handled so lightly by every roue in town, this woman who indulged in tete-a-tete dinners .with every Tom, Dick and Harry that happened to come along. He had felt himself a scoundrel early in the evening that he had made love to a woman whom he had no intention of asking to be his wife, yet now an expression of sneering scorn disturbed his features in that his supersensitive conscience had smote him. Perhaps it was the wine he had drunk that caused it, but whatever may have been the reason, he fell into a deep slumber when he had retired early in the morn- ing, and did not awaken until his valet had aroused him. His head ached. There was a sense of sullen oppression upon him. He lay there for some time staring up at the ceiling, and recalling the events of LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL <) the evening before. It was certainly not calculated to lighten the burden in his brain. He remembered vividly the speech of his fellow, clubman concerning Lil, and it sent a stinging shame into his cheeks. Then he recalled the words of his mother in this wise : "Arnold Langford is growing impatient for the con- summation of the promise made him." A low, sneering laugh left the rather pale lips, and Phil sprung from his bed. The cold plunge did hint good, but his breakfast was still untasted when he left the house and went down-town to his office. There seemed nothing to be done there, and he sat thinking for some time, the old recklessness growing upon him again. At three o'clock he left the office, drove to a florist's and sent Lil a magnificent box of fiowers, with a line upon one of his visiting-cards: "A setting for the jewel of love.' 5 Then he re-entered the coupe again, after giving the coachman Olive Langford's address. A grim smile was upon his face as he took his seat. "Verily," he said between his set teeth, "it is a fitting beginning for the life that I have planned in my efforts to be as great a scoundrel as my fellows. I go from a message to my sweetheart to the home of my future wife." He drowned the sting of conscience in five little words that had burned themselves into his brain : "The son of a thief !" Olive entered the room where he waited, ten min utes after his card had been sent her. "I thought you would come!" she exclaimed,, cordi* 96 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL, ally, extending her hand to him. "Have you seen Kirk Maitland?" "Yes," he answered, coloring as he remembered where. "He told me you were here, and I came the first moment afterward that decency would allow. [Why did not you send me a note ?" "He said he would tell you. It is father's birthday; next week, and I came down to purchase some pres- ents." The reference to her father caused Philip to wince,, but he continued to smile. "Then your visit is not for long?" "No ; only a few days," "I hope you will get time to run in to see mother be-< fore your return. She is very fond of you." "I shall certainly take the time. I, too, am fond of her, and feel flattered that she likes me." "It is more than that, Olive. The little mother had a daughter of her own once, a poor afflicted thing, but perhaps loved all the better because o that. The idol died, and since then the mother-heart has longed fon another daughter. She hopes you will be that one, Olive." Miss Langford looked at him in genuine surprise. She had hoped for many months to hear a declaration from his lips, but certainly now was not the time that she had expected it. And then, there was no passion in his utterance, no preamble of love, only this plain matter-of-fact statement almost immediately following 'his entrance into the room. The lack of affectation in her surprise interested [Philip. "I am -afraid I have taken an undue advantage of LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 97 ou," he went on, quite calmly, "in, so to speak, spri: ig this upon you in this unexpected way; but you now that in spite of his prerogative, it is an cmbar- assing thing for a man to ask a woman to be his wife, t looks so infernally conceited for a fellow to think tiat a beautiful girl like you could think enough of him or that. I shall know that it is quite what I deserve E you refuse unconditionally, but I wish you would ,ot Will you be my wife, Olive?" She did not reply. Every particle of color had van- shed from her cheek?. She sat down in a chair and Doked up at him vaguely, as if his words were little ess than an enigma to her. And he stood there look- ng down at her and chewing the ends of his mustache avagely, the troubled look deepening in his eyes. He lad tried with all his might to tnfuse his voice with tomething like affection, but to save his soul he could lot succeed in making it anything but deathly cold. He forced himself to go up to her after an em' rassed silence, and lean over the back of her chair. "Won't you at least speak to me, Olive?" he asked. She seemed for a little time to be fighting down her, ^motion, then she cried out passionately : "What is it that you are offering me your love or, simply your name?" He straightened himself and stared over her head fof a moment out of the window. To save his life he could not be sufficiently false to himself and his man- hood to tell her the lie that he knew very well was de- manded of him, and after a time he spoke hoarsely : 'I must tell you the truth. I can not lie to the woman whom I am asking to share all my future life. It is not the love which I hope will come with OS LIL. THE DANCING-CTRL not the love which I wish to God it were now. If you refuse, because of my brutal frankness, I shall deserve' it, and shall have no censure for you, but I beg that you will not. I entreat that you will accept what f have to give now, being sure that I shall try to deserve the trust you place in me." It is just possible that she hated him then, as it had never seemed possible to her that she could hate him. The expression of her gray eyes was not good to see. There was something absolutely greenish and cat-like in them, but Philip was not looking at her. It seemed to him that he could not do so with his conscience sa in revolt against compulsion. Neither of them knew how long that stony silence was continued, but Olive Langford arose at last stifty. "I am going to surprise you," she said, heavily, "by accepting the offer that you have made me. I confess that from your attentions in the past, it is not what; I expected, but Well, let that go. Perhaps it is pure selfishness that causes me to do it. It is not necessary; to analyze emotions at present. I will be your wife, Philip." { He started toward her in a perfunctory sort of way, as if to put his arms about her and kiss her, but she stepped back and flung out her hand passionately. "No, not that net that!" she cried. "Neither now nor at any future time until you tell me that the love your wife has a right to demand is mine. 'You will understand that and respect it?" "I will understand it and respect it." "Thank you. Will you leave me now ?" "When may I come again?" "This evening, if you wish. It may be pleasanter if LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL* $ you bring your mother with you, provided of course she is not engaged elsewhere/ 1 "I will bring her." lie left the room humbled, admiring her more thart he had ever done before in his life; but perhaps he i .would not have done so could he have seen the ex- pression of her countenance when the door had closed upon him. Her fingers were clinched in the palm of her hand, and her eyes blazed with fury. "It is that little school-teacher that has done this, curse her !" she exclaimed, hoarsely. "I understand it all. He could not make her his wife. He offers me that exalted position, while he gives his love to her. iWell, we shall see. I will discover the secret of all this, and then and then they both shall suffer. Trust Olive Langford for that !" CHAPTER XVI. , Lil was dresse'd again for one of those evenings at home for which she had become famous among women of her own set and clubmen who frequent the homes of actresses. When she was playing, or, rather, dancing in the theater, she held them from twelve o'clock until the people got ready to go home, at least three times a week, and when she was not engaged in the early part of the evening, her house was always open. It cost her no end of money, but then, Lil was the rage, and she made no end of money. After five o'clock in the afternoon, the dancing- 1 IOC LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL room, or practice-room, was always converted into large salon, in which the guests were entertained, a the other rooms were too small to accommodate thos who came to share her hospitality. There was an added brightness in her eyes and ; flush upon her cheeks that had not been there of lat< .when she entered the room where Chetwynd awaitec her. She wore a 'blue crepe embroidered in silver- one of the most elaborate gowns in her possession- and upon the left breast, just above the heart was fas- tened a great diamond dagger surmounted by a mag- nificent pearl. It was the only jewels she wore, and as she entered the room and it met^Chetwynd's eye, $ sort of groan was strangled upon his white lips. "Where did you get it, Lil ?" he asked, motioning to the dagger, but not touching it, though she stood di* rectly before him. She smiled up at him saucily. "Guess !" she exclaimed. "It is of fabulous value/' he said, evasively. "Thai pearl in the end alone is worth what would be a for- tune to some people. I should say the dagger must have cost the donor full five thousand dollars/' "I rather think you are right," she replied, looking down upon it admiringly from the corner of her beau- tiful eyes. "It is a new mash, diet." "I'm afraid it is a serious one this time, little girl.** Even then she did not see the drawn, haggard look in the eyes, nor note the whiteness of the face. All \vomen who are in love are unconsciously selfish. She looked up at him, the smile vanishing, and a~lit tie wistful expression drawing her lovely mouth. "I am very happy, old friend," she said, slowly, heC LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL IOI yoke and expression not quite fitting her words. "I find that there is one mar in the world great enough of soul to forget the posi?K>n I. occupy and think only 01 Nvhat I am in reality. I thought myself th^ most miserable of women when I came home from the country; out instead of that', I .did-not realize the hap- jpiness that was in store for me. I guess that was be- cause I have never quite learned to trust any man but you. I know now, however, that there i's another good one, and that I have won his love. .Won't you con- gratulate me?" "With all my heart. But will you be offended, little One, if I put a question ?'' "Offended with you? Never!" "It may sound insulting, but you know old Chet could never mean that to you." She put her hand upon his shoulder and touched his cheek with her lips. It stung a drop of color into them, but he did not shrink from the touch that must have seered like a red hot iron. He put his hands upon her shoulders and held her back from him, looking earnestly into her eyes. "It is marriage, little one, is it not?" i She was about to reply, but before the words could Cleave her lips, the portiere was thrown aside and Na- thalia Vinita was announced. She came forward with her usual indolent step, and put out her hand to Lil. "What a lucky girl you are, my dear!" she said, "drawlingly. "You are never without some one to make love to you. [When all lse fails, there is Chet- ,wynd." "You are very much mistaken if you think Chet '102 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL makes love to me," laughed Lillian. "I don't believe he would know how. I'll bet he never made love to a woman in his life; did you, Chet?" He concealed his pain,, and answered, lightly: "No."" ' "There f I knew it!, He knows no more about love than that 'fellow Plato did when he wrote his absurd theories." "I have my doubts as to your paramount knowl- edge on the subject, also," said Miss Vinita, softly, lazily waving her ubiquitous fan. "For my own part, I think Plato far and away more sensible than Ovid; and I believe that, as far as you are concerned, you know about as little of one as the other. You are a glittering piece of frosty ice, pretty Lil !" "I shall convince you, inside of thirty days, that you don't know what you are talking about!'' cried Lil, gayly. "How?" "I refuse to answer; but I'll make any bet with you that you like that it is true." Miss Vinita looked interested. "Are you engaged ?" she inquired dubiously. "I decline to answer that also; but if you'll make the bet, I'll give you your own odds." ; A number of others entered the room at that men tnent and shook hands. j "What's the matter, Mag?" queried one of them, "You look so queer?" 'Well, I feel queer," she answered in her ac- customed drawl. "It's a sort of puzzle that I can't make out. I have been given the end of a tangled skein and told to unwind it while my eyes are closed/* LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL IC>3 I * Ifil was laughing heartily. She paused to welcome Kirk Maitland, looking into his eyes a trifle defiant- ly, while she spoke some words daintily. "Tell us of it!" exclaimed some one to Miss Vi- nita. "You have aroused our curiosity." "Have I your permission, Lil?" : "Pourquoi pas?" asked their hostess, with a little Upward shrug of the shoulders. "I think Lil was trying to make me believe that she has fallen in love," said Miss Vinita, slowly, as if she were carefully measuring her words. A burst of laughter from the women present greet- ed the assertion. "No, but wait!" continued Miss Vinita, impressive- ly. "She offers to bet me, any odds I name, that $he will prove it to me inside of thirty days." "Take the bet!" exclaimed Kirk Maitland, auda- ciously. "Will you pay if I lose?" "If you let me name the terms." "De you agree, Lil ?" Lil looked Kirk Maitland straight in the eye. She felt herself then bfyond his ability to harm. She was to be the wife of Philip Sumner, and she felt that she could defy all the world. "Yes, I agree!" she answered, unflinchingly. He went up to her and stood there before har in presence of all the peopk in the room. He was laughing as if it were the veriest joke in which he was indulging, but there was something in his ex- pression that Lil read as a dare just as h^ intend- ed that she should. "Then my terms are these/' he said, slowly, irn IO4 'Llti, THE DANCTNG-GIRE pressively, while yet the lightness ami Jocularity ol his manner remained: "If, at the end of the pre- scribed thirty days, you have not convinced us of the sincerity of your words by the announcement of a bethrothal, you will be my wife." i There was a gasp from every one present. A silence fell upon the group where a burst of laughter, might have been expected. Every one was looking expect- antly at L51. Once she half shrunk back as if she .were about to decline the foolish terms, then some- thing in his face, something of mockery which she could not bear, angered her beyond all reason. She flung up her head haughtily, and forced a laugh she was far from feeling. It was not that she had any idea he would ever win the wager oh, far from it! Her confidence in Philip Sumner was ab^ solute, and as a vision of his dear face came before her, she answered, calmly: i "I accept the terms/' There was a noisy hand-clapping, a great deal of laughter, and others entering the room at the time had to have the bet explained. "Do you mean to say that you will actually keep; your word?" asked Felix, going up to Lil. "If he wins, I will keep it. But there is no reverse side to the bet. If I win, what am I to receive ?" "My life insurance policy," answered Maitland, lightly, and at the same looking at her with curious intent. She turned away with a slightly deprecating wave p-f the hand, and once again the portiere was lifted I It was Philip Sumner. Lil went toward him. He took her hand with aa LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL IOJ ive tenderness that attracted the attention of every one in the rooms. The sweet color deepened in her cheeks. She turned to % present him to some of those of her friends whom he had not met before. I heard great merriment before I came," he said, n the introductions were over. "May I not know was about?" i e were making bets on certain engagements v.L-icn are to be announced within thirty days!'' ex- clainvl Kirk Maitland, speaking rather loudly, hi:; ;\nent showing itself in a heightened color* "AnJ, by the way, that reminds me. I must con* ratula*e you. I heard the announcement of your engagement just as I was leaving the club. I hope I am net premature, but Slater told me that he had just seeiv you, and you told him you were to be mar- ried to Iwiss Olive Langford on the twenty-fifth o September. Is it true, old man?" CHAPTER XVII. Philip Sumner stood for a moment as if confront- ing a deadly enemy, half stunned from surprise and consternation at the suddeness of the attack. . He cast about him for something to say, some way of evading the question that had been so directly put. 'He glanced hastily at LSI. She had grown ghastly in her pallor, and yet there \vas an unsteady smile upon her contenance as if she were listening for his denial of a stor> that must be absurb. And yet he knew that he dared not deny IO6 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRX- it. Already representatives of the press were coming to him for comfirmation of the story of his engage- ment to one of the season's belles and one of the great- est heiresses in the country. He knew that it would-' be a matter of only a week at best that he could hopej to keep the fact quiet. Therefore, what was the good of a lie that he knew would so quickly find Tiim out? He could have throttled Maitland for his question, and yet he knew that he must quickly find an answer for it, and laughed shortly as he exclaimed : "Slater is a fool ! A fellow should at least be al- lowed the privilege of announcing his own engage- ment/' He loathed himself for the evasiou, hated h'imself for the duplicity that he had practiced, as he had never hated his father for becoming the thief he Relieved him; and yet he could not retire from the position in which he had placed himself. But he had counted too much upon Maitiand's generosity. There was more at stake for the latter than Phil had reckoned, and with the dancing, glit- tering light deepening in his eyes. Kirk Maitland exclaimed, even more loudly than he had before spoken : "Gome off! That is no answer. You lovers are such wary chaps; but you must not expect to escape us this time. We are old friends, and deserve tg> know before the announcement is made to the rest of the world. Let us have it, old man. Is it true, or isn't it? A plain 'yes* or 'no' now." Philip did not speak. He glanced half appeal- ingly toward Lil, but she took a step forward and threw up her head. She had obtained full -mastery Lit, THE DANCING-GIRL I(>7 herself. She laughed slightly, though the glitter in her eye did not exactly blend with the sound of merriment. "Mr. Maitland is quite correct!" she cried, her voice a trifle harder than usual. '"We whom you have called your friends have a right to know that which concerns you so nearly. Is it true ?" There was nothing for it but truth. It is not often that a man tells it with such a note of shame in his .voice; but when Philip Sumner spoke a breath of surprise went through the room. He tried to fol- low the example of the others and laugh, but it was a sorry effort. He strove to infuse his voice with lightness, but it was husky as from a heavy cold. "I am run to earth!' 1 he cried, in a terrible at- tempt at playfulness. "Won't any one come to my rescue? Is all my fun to be eternally spoiled be- cause the little matter of matrimony is hanging over my head like that old 'sword of Damocles'?" "Then it is true?" asked Mag, watching Lil half breathlessly. "Yes," he cried, his voice taking a defiant ring, "it is true! But I hope I shall not lose my place among you because of that." There was a hum of congratulation which he but half heard. His eyes were fixed upon Lil, blood- shot, heavy, anxious. But she had herself so com- pletely in hand that she did not even change color, It surprised, distressed, chagrined him. He dared not approach her then, and stood there beside Mag, trying to listen to the chaff in which; she was indulging for his benefit, but not able $1 IJ08 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL || hear it for the din occasioned by the beating of \l .1 own heart. \i ! He saw Lil leave the room, and was about to makl some excuse for following her, when he observed that Maitland had forestalled him. She had gone to the dining-room to escape them, but almost before she had reached it Maitland was at her side. "You see!" he cried, eagerly. "I told you so! 1 knew some months ago that they were to be married, and I warned you, but you would not believe me [You are convinced now, are you not?" She turned and looked at him coldly. "You are speaking with absolute incoherence,* she said, quietly. "Why should you think that Mr, Sumner's engagement should be of such interest to Hie?" He -looked at her in surprise. He was not deceived and admired her more than he had ever done before for the brave fight that she was making against hei emotions. He made a gesture of deprecation. "Let us be frank with each other!" he exclaimed .with brutal candor. "Of course I know to whon it was that you expected to be engaged within thirt] clays. You must remember what I saw at the coun try dance, Lil. I am not saying this to anger you but simply because so much depends upon it, fo: me. Do you mean to keep to the terms of your bet Lil?" He was looking at her eagerly. She was haughty singularly uplifted in her icy coldness. "If you win the bet, I shall pay it," she answered LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL; logf frigidly. "But there are thirty days yet to expire before you can demand payment on a debt of honor. You have no right to speculate upon my private af- fairs, and I forbid it !" She swept out of the room and he followed her, hating her, perhaps, more than he loved her at that moment. He joined Mag upon his re-entrance to the salon. * "Well/* she whispered, "what news? Are you going to win or lose your bet? I rather fancied you were playing a trump card when you announced that bethrothal." He smiled enigmatically. "The man who betrays his hand has small chance | of winning/' "Look! She has gone into her boudoir, and he has followed her. I am quite convinced that oun little iceberg is an iceberg no longer, and that she \ loves him." Maitland's eyes were in the direction of Lil's ( "boudoir. When he could make an excuse for leav- ing Miss Vinita he did so. He did not enter the "boudoir, but he knew the flat thoroughly, and ha knew from what, point he could overhear their con- yersation perfectly. . Lil turned when she observed that she had been followed into the sacred precincts of her own bou~ 'doir, and yet she was not surprised when she saw \vho it was that had come after her. Her first in- clination was to send him from her, but she pulled herself together and smiled. If he had been less excited he must have seen the glassy expression of her eyes, the , LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL revenge that sat there; but Philip Sumner was a j thoroughly in love as it is possible for man to bt. -He was maddened by what he had done, by the thought of losing her, and he could think of noth- ing else. He went tip to her passionately. . "Lil, Lil, my darling, forgive me!" he cried, 're- morsefully. "I would not have had this happen for .a thousand worlds ! You can not believe me so cruel^ -so utterly without manhood. Oh, Lil, listen to me! I worship you !" She gazed into his eyes with a bitter smile. "Pouf!" she exclaimed, lightly. "You are con- verting a mole-hill into at mountain with a venge- ance. I hope you don't imagine for one moment that I am the broken-hearted heroine of a romantic -novel, do you? Why, my dear fellow, when you en- tered the room to-night, and asked about the merri- ment that preceded you, I had just been telling 'my friends that within a month I should announce ^the iact of my own betrothal/' , "Lil!" ' "You look surprised. Can you not believe in the *ffeet>r "For God's sake, tell me that is not true!" he cried, hoarsely. "I could not bear it! To see you the wife 'of another man would be madness! Oh, Lil, can't you understand how impossible it would be to me?" She stood back and looked up at him for a mo- ment, indignation fighting with her grief. "My dear Mr. Sumner," she said, slowly, "do you realize that what you are saying is an insult to- me? Do you realize that in offering me your love you -degrade me, ia&ult the woman who is to be your LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL I If: "wife, and put an end to my respect for you? Mjr heart is not so nearly broken, I do assure you, that I need the avowal of a passion which disgraces itself, 1 grant you that I am a dancing-girl, a woman sup- posed by the general public to be acceptable to men because she pleases the depravity in them; but the general public is not always right in its assentations. Concerning us. If you have shared in that opinion,. it is quite time that you were learning your mistake/*' "I have never thought anything of you that was not good and true," he answered, humbly. "I swear *to you that, if I were free to follow the emotion, that is bursting in my heart at this moment, I would ou, and only you, to be my wife. But I am not free Lil, I can not explain the matter to you, because; ; the secret is not mine, but that of another to whom I am bound by all the ties of nature as well as those of heaven. I am as surely fettered as the veriest slave.. I mean no insult to your purity when I tell you that 1 adore you, that the only happiness of my soul is in. your presence. If I were dying, you would let me speak and you would listen. Well, I am worse than dying. My whole soul is starving for wont of you, and. yet I must accept this marriage that has been thrust, upon me for the sake of others who have a right to 'demand of me what they will, even to the giving up of my life. I can't make you understand this,' Lil? but it k true I swear it to you. If I had been al- lowed to tell you of this hateful engagement in my own way, you would have seen it differently. OhV you can't hate me worse than I do myself for the duplicity that I have practiced ; but if you knew what I have sufferrd, you /nig-fit pity me. I was like tHe 112 LIL, THE DANCING-GK white face that was turned sud^j denly to Chetwynd when the door had closed upon the last guest. His expression was one of bewilder- j ment, consternation, as she put out her hands tea him helplessly. "Chef." she murmured, miserably "diet, foe 114 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL God's sake, help me! Thank Heaven I can be my;* self to you. There is no reason why I should laugli and chatter while my heart is breaking, and it is break* ing, diet. I am the most miserable being in all ths world P He sat down suddenly and she flung herself upbttj her knees beside him, her arms falling across his la>, her head upon them. She could not see the whitened anguish of his tenance. CHAPTER XVIII. "I heard of your engagement only last evening, Miss Langford, and I wanted to congratulate you before your return to Burton. I hope you appreci- ate my generosity fully. It isn't every fellow that can pocket his pride and humiliation in this fashion, and come boldly to the front with a smile on his lips/* Kirk Maitland was standing before Olive Lang- ford, holding her hand in his. She had just entered \ the room where he awaited her, and as he greeted I her, a playful smile curved his rather handsome j mouth. She laughed as she withdrew her hand and ; motioned him to a seat. I "Nonsense P she exclaimed, meeting and an- swering his badinage. "I had waited for you to come * to the point until patience ceased to interest. You are looking remarkably well for a man who is pocket- ing pride and humiliation. Usually when a man is LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL carrying such things about with him, he looks rather like one who is concealing dynamite. But who told you of the great event of perspective ?" "The happy man himself. But I predicted it ages ago." jj "Really?" 'Bless me, yes! There was only one time when J had even a shadowy doubt of it." I "When was that?" "You would be offended if I were to tell you." "Not I." "You mean that you are too happy to take offense at anything? It must be tremendously pleasant to be in love. Tell me, isn't it?" She laughed slightly. "I think that sort of thing has been relegated to the kitchen of late years!" she answered, indolent- "I really don't believe that Philip and I spoke of that phase of the case at all." "You don't mean it ?" "I think I should have sent him right about face if he had expected that absurdity of me!" she ex- claimed, with quiet indifference, leaning back in her chair and fanning herself slowly. "Of course it is all right enough for a man and his wife to be in love with each other, but to talk of it Pouf ! The cook and laundress usurped that privilege long ago. But come back. When was the only time you ever doubted that your prediction would be fulfilled. I promise that I shall not be in the very least offended." He looked at her intently for a moment. She had ot deceived him in the slightest particular. He Il6 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL knew better than if she had told him that she loved Philip Sumner with a passion that would hesitate at .nothing to acquire its ends, but he only smiled quiet- ly as he answered: "I was inclined to think that the little school-teacher in Burton was running you rather close last month* .Now, you are indignant ?" He leaned toward her with the smile deepening about the mouth. He observed her redden, but there was no change in her voice as she replied : /'Not in the least. Why should I be? On the contrary, I think it something to have gained the su- premacy when my rival was* so beautiful a girl as Miss Esmonde. By the way, if I mistake not you were a trifle hard hit in that quarter yourself/' "I ? By Jove ! no, I knew her too well." "Knew her too well! Why, what do you mean? Wasn't she what she appeared?" i 'There! I beg that you won't ask me any further questions, 1 shouldn't have said that." "But you interest me. I intended to ask her where . she could be found on my return to New York, but forgot it the night of the dance, and did not see hes afterward. Can you tell me ?" "Why do you wish to know?" "I liked her. I want to call upon her." \ Kirk Maitland knew that she had lied, and yet he replied, as if he fully believed in the words that . she had spoken : , "Oh, I say! You can't do that, you know!" "Why not?" "WelSr er the truth is, it won't do; that's all!'". LIL, THE DANCING-U ^ II? "But I insist upon knowing. If yo\ uJ'l til me where she lives, I shall discover for my^tlf." "By Jove! you make it hard for me," laughing, nevertheless. "The truth is, that, like the line in 'Pinafore/ Miss Esmonde is not what she seems, iihe is not a school-teacher at all." Miss Langford suddenly sat up very straight. The color flashed into her cheeks. She gazed intently; at Maitland. "Then what is she?" she demanded. "I wish you wouldn't compel me to tell you/' at> swcred Maitland, ruefully. "The fact is, I am half Vraid." "Please go on." / "Well, then, since you will have it, she is a premier*) danseuset" "Mr. Maitland! And knowing that, you allowed me to receive that young woman in my house?" Miss Langford had risen. Her cheeks were scorch- ing in their heat. "My dear Olive, what else was' I to do?" cried Maitland, in well-simulated distress. "The first tirm; I saw her down there at Burton, she made a very pretty plea to me to not tell the truth about her, 'and I gave her my word of honor that I wDuld not betray her. She was afraid to have that straight-laced old father of hers know anything about it, because she knew that he would separate her from her mother and that little deformed sister whom she worships, and who is here with her now at the New York Hos- pital. If you could have heard the plea she made td me, you would not have blamed me for yielding. And after I had pledged my word, what could I do? Be- THE DANCING-GIRL side that. Lil is not a bad sort at all, I assure y "Lil! Then she is the person known as Lil ths dancing-girl?" "Yes?" Miss Langford sat down again. The color had I all faded from her cheeks ; her lips were white and! compressed, but there was a glitter in the gray eye^ that did not escape Maitland. "Did Philip Sumner know this?" she asked, slow*' ly, when she had again controlled her voice. 'No, frankly, he did -notthen" "But he knows now?" "Oh, yes. He found her out the first evening of his return entered the room while she was dancing lor some friends, I believe, and surprised her. Her friends were laughing over it heartily." "Then she lives here in town ?" "Oh, yes; she has a flat fit for a princess in tlie Belleami. You would scarcely recognize in beauti- ful, gracious, dazzling Lil the demure little school- teacher who was present at your country dance. I was at her house last night to as gorgeous a feast as Vanderbilt could spread." I "Really? And do men of reputation actually go I to such places ?" i "Well, rather. There was some of the best men } in town there last night. Why, Phil was there. Of course, he doesn't mind having you know, or he .wouldn't have gone so soon after your engagement." } "Oh, of course not." "I am afraid, just the same/' with an assumption of an easy laugh, "that I was inconsiderate in speak- ing of it. You women are such peculiar creatures. LIL, THE DANCING-GIRCJ I.. 1 9 lYoit won't let a fellow make love to you,, but you are indignant if he makes love to another girl. Rather dog-in-the-mangerish, isn't it?" "You surely don't mean that Mr. Sumner was making love to this woman ?" "Oh, no, no ! Don't you understand me to say such a thing, for the world. By Jove! I had no idea it was so late. Is that clock I heard strike right?" "Yes." "Then I owe you an apology for having detained you so long. By the way, I hope it won't be neces- sary to ask you not to speak of the identity of pretty Li! in Burton?' 1 "Not at all. I am rather disappointed in what you have told me. I was hoping that I might have been of some advantage to her. Good-evening, Mr. Mait- land. Remember, if you can get a few days from business, that it would be a positive charity to have you run up to Burton whenever you can." "Thanks. You may be sure I shall not forget. Good-bye, and every happiness in the new life." CHAPTER XIX. Kirk Maitland was gone. Without a word, Olive Langford mounted the great, broad stair- way of her ieiegant. home and entered her own room; but there v/as a whiteness and compression about the lips that would have been a warning to one accustomed to her moods. She walked deliberately over to the win- dow, and stood there .staring, out into the warm sun* 'I2O LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL light, down into the hot, dusty street, and watched him out of sight. Then she turned about, seeming to face herself rather than vacancy. | ' "And so," she said, aloud, slowly, "this is the mean- ing of it is it? It is that he is actually paying atten* tions to worse than an actress a premiere danseusei H'm ! Disgracing himself ; bringing pity actual pitjr ifrom my friends upon me and giving to her that [which is mine by every right. Last night two day* 'betrothed, and I am left alone with his mother, while he seeks his pleasure in the society of a premiere dan- ] seitse! Verily it is a poetic beginning to a love-life! But it is her fault, curse her! He had never thought of wandering from me until she came with her loathsome beauty to tempt him from me. I see it all as clearly as if Kirk Maitland had told me all he knows. She came to Burton with those precious stor- ies of her wonderful bravery and purity of life. She [won his heart then from me; and now, when he has 'discovered her to be what she it, it is too late for him to take back his love it is hers. He knows that he cannot make her his wife, and so he put me between him and that temptation, like the coward that hides behind the wall in battle. But he continues to give her his love, an,d she accepts it, feeling, knowing that she is robbing me of the best part of him and glorying in tier ability to do it her cursed triumph over me ! But I will not give him up to her. Great heavens ! I can not. There are a thousand reasons which make that an impossibility; but I would not, if the power were Inine. .We shall see, my pretty dancer, who shall in!" She sat down calmly, deliberately in an armchair LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 121 near the window, and went methodically to work to re- call every word of the interview that had just passed between her and Kirk Maitland. She weighed the points with a care that would have done credit t<5 a general in time of war. Her lips were set and white ; but there was no wild impulse of passion in her man- ner to excuse her act, no torturing anguish to palliate her offence nothing but premeditated revenge. She arose deliberately and went to the writing-table at the corner of the room. She sat down quietly, and first wrote a note to her father. "DEAR OLD DAD/' it began "I find that it will be impossible for me to get back to Burton on the day ex- pected. You will know how to make excuses that will cover my absence, which is imperative at present. It is in connection with that precious matter of which I have already written you. I am not wasting my time in Elysian Fields, I assure you, but will explain everything' when I see you. Your ever-loving and dutiful daughter, OLIVE/' The "dutiful" she underscored, while a grim smile shadowed her tightly drawn lips. - She sealed and addressed the letter, and then began another with equal deliberation, though the handwrit- ing was not in the very least the same. The most gifted expert in chirography would have found it d cult to have traced a point of resemblance, and yet she wrote the second letter wth almost as much ease and rapidity as she had done the first. "If Jonathan Esmonde wishes to know the real character of the life that his daughter Lillian is lead- $22 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL ing that daughter to whcm he has confided the care of his little, deformed child he may learn it by com- ing at once to New York. If he will come on the train leaving Burton at 9 a. m., Wednesday, he will foe met at the depot in New York by one who will give him all the information he seeks." That was all; but she folded the cruel thing with as much care as she had bestowed upon the other, ad- 'dressed it, then took both to the letter-box, and posted them with her own hands. '\\ There was not the slightest expression of regret lipon her countenance when the letter fell into the box, and she knew that it was gone beyond recall. She Sid not even look back as she left it there to go upon its Hateful mission. She walked away as quietly and erectly as she had come, only that there was a sub- idued light of triumph in her hard gray eyes. j Since Arny had been in New York, Jonathan Es- mond had visited thr little country post-office more often than he had ever done before, for there were two daughters to hear from now. i He had not said much in encouragement of Lillian's plan with regard to Amy, but there was great hope in his silent soul of the good results that might be ac- complished. .And so it was with eagerness that he tore open his letters, anxious for the latest news. It was seldom that. -he- .received a communication through the mails except from either Amy or Lillian, and therefore lie 'did not stop to look at the handwriting upon the en- velope when the post-master threw out a letter on -the Kay after 'the mailing of that epistle in New York. 'JL, THE DANCING-GIRL I2j Jut when Jonathan Esmonde had read it, he stopped md grew as white as the cotton shirt he had put on : fesh in which to go to town. He did not understand it in the least, and read igain artd again before he could bring himself to any :omprehension of its contents. He lifted his hand < nis head in a dazed sort of way and repeated aloud : "If Jonathan Esmonde wishes to know the real char- acter of the life that his daughter Lillian is leading! If Jonathan Esmonde wishes to know What can il mean? Don't I know what sort of life my girl leading? Don't I know she is teachin' Good God! it couldn't be my LillHn has- Oh, sho'l You old fool ain't you never learned no better sense than pay attention to people as ain't got nerve enough sign their name to a letter? You grow a greater f every day you live, Jonathan Esmonde !" But for all his philosophy he was more silent than ever as he made the few purchases his wife had quested, and ever before his eyes those words seeme, to dance wildly, like the writing upon the wall at feast of Belshazzar: "If Jonathan Esmonde wish to know the real character of the life that his daught Lillian is leading!" t His back was bent more than ever as he chad into the spring-wagon and turned the old horses ! toward home. ., . I He took the letter out of his pocket and read again as he rode sloag, and then he tried bravely J philosophize as he had done before, but it didnt con* readily to his mind or his lips. "Any letters?" his wife asked, cheerily, as into the yard. LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL "No!" he answered, grimly. ' There was nothing he had always detested more than a lie, and he hated himself for the utterance of that one, but he quieted his conscience by saying to himself : "There ain't no use a-worryin' her over it." He sat down to his supper in grim silence. Once or twice Mrs. Esmonde tried to make conversation, but it was a flat failure, and she gave it up in despair; at last. "It seems lonesomer than ever sence Lily took !Amy with her, don't it father?" she said, when they, had mounted the stairs to their little room. i He answered only with a grunt, and one that she- Could not translate, then they went to bed in silence. But Jonathan Esmonde did not sleep. His wife lay; j there breathing peacefully, but the sting of suspicion had entered his soul. In whichever way he turned he saw those cruel words, blood-red, glaring before tis eyes. i! He arose the following morning with a dull pain across his eyes, and a haggard whiteness upon his brow that was most unaccustomed. "Why, Jonathan, what in the name o' sense air you a-doin' with your Sunday clothes on and this only;" [Wednesday, and that hay-field to cut?" asked his wife, iwhen he had descended to the breakfast-room a littla ] later than usual, dressed in his best blue jeans. He turned his eyes from her guiltily. "I ain't a-goin' to cut the hay-field to-day Miranda.* "Why? And it all burned up now with the sun." j "It kin wait another day/' air you gom'J* LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL I2j There was a sullen determination upon his counten- ance when he replied, an expression that indicated something of the shame that he felt at the resolution he had taken. He did not look at her, and her breath! almost left her body in her surprise as he replied : "I a:n a-goin' to New York on the nine-o'clock! i!" CHAPTER XX. Lil and Chetwynd breakfasted together the follow- ing morning. It was late, after twelve o'clock, but in the white face of each, one could read the lack of sleep. They were very silent, in fact scarcely a word had been spoken during the entire meal, and it was not until after his cigar had been lighted, upon their re- turn to Lil's boudoir, that Chetwynd began to show; the nervousness that was oppressing him. f He got up and walked about, his movements remind- ing one of those of a panther in a cage, circumscribed I as he was by the small, dainty well-filled room. Lil Lwas seated beside the window, looking out in a listless half-unconscious way, and did not know that he was moving until he struck against a table littered with silver toilet knick-knacks a thing most unusual for the lithe, graceful dancing-masterthen she lifted her head and looked t him. "You. are nervous, Chet," she said, as if she had but just discovered the fact. "Come and sit down, won't LIL, THE DANGING-GtRL - voice was not in the least like LiFs. It was , and dull, and hollow, like that of a person served a long apprenticeship in the school o{ , and yet has never learned resignation. Chet-< ;wynd stopped in his walk and looked at her sorrowful- ly then he went and drew up a chair near her. "Lil," he said, gently, "I want to talk to you, dear, and I scarcely know how to begin. It seems to me as if you were on the verge of some great calamity, and that my hand alone could save you, and yet I half fear to stretch it forth. Lil, you know that I love you, dear ?" > There was something in the tone, a low tremulous earnestness, that would have told a listening woman all the painful, pitiful truth, but Lil was not listening that way. She heard the words, but nothing more. "Yes/' she answered, gratefully. "I know you lovef me, Chet, as my father ought to, and perhaps does in his own way." He winced. She had hurt him more than a dagger thrust could have done: but with his old patience and generosity he hid his pain, gulped down his anguish' and continued, softly: "I said nothing to you last night, little one, because viwell, because your grief and my own surprise silenced me. I listened to you in sympathy, but without a ,word of advice, because I felt myself incapable of giv- ing it, but I did not sleep last night, Li!. AH night I was thinking of you, and your terrible sorrow, think- ing of the stand that you had taken, and and Oh, Lil, I wish I could make you understand how I suf- fered through it I" The wistfuf sorrow even then did not touch her, LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL yet she stretched out her hand to him- gratefully. "I do understand it, Chet." she said slowly. lien you will let me advise you? You will listen to nie?" "Yes. You know I will." "Then little one, give up Philip Sumner. A man capable of what he has done is not worthy of your slightest thought. Be true to yourself, dear. Th betrothed husband of another woman should be S3--- cred. l r orliid his entering your presence, Lil!" : snatched her hand from him and covered her face with it for a moment, then she arose slowly and stcod there, h mate face turned toward him. "I can't!" she cried hoarsely. "I can't! I tell you I love him better than I do my life! Do you think not fought with myself? Do you think I have not tried to conquer? Oh, Chet, what do you know of love? You stand there in your impregnable coldness and chatter of a thing of which you have never experienced one thought, even in dreams. You kno\v no more of it than a polar bear would, and yet Chet, for God's sake, what is the matter with you?" He had leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. A blue line had grown around his white lips. His face was ghastly, its muscles twitching convulsively. [There was an appearance of absolute physical pain in I his countenance, and Lil fell upon her knees at the r in her life." Thu woman laid her hand upon his arm. "Aro you going to make your trip to New York useless ?" she questioned in a hard tone. And cgain he listened to the voice of the devil. Reluctantly he allowed her to lead him inside the theater. The buzz of the fans, the hum of conversa- tion, the Leat of the atmosphere sickened him, but she ted him ovi relentlessly. Because of the lateness of the hour at which the announcement of Lil's appear- ance had been made, she had been unable to obtain as good j/eats as she desired, but she knew that the stage was well seen from any part of the auditorium* and therefore seated herself beside the old countryman with a feeling of relief. She observed the grayish color of his face as he looked around upon that assemblage, but there was nothing particularly objectionable in it so far as he could see. There were girls in beautiful gowns, sell* ing flowers and programmes. One even attempted to fasten a white carnation in his button-hole, but when she saw him shrink away she let him alone. But the very thought of being in a theater, that palace of the devil, was horrible to him. He was trembling in every; limb, and as he seated himself in the luxurious orches- tra chair, he tried to shrink as far back as possible, vainly imagining that he could hide himself from him- self. And then the overture was rung in. The clin of the orchestra, with the hum of the voices 138 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL and the heat of the atmosphere, made his head ache more than ever, and more than once he would have escaped, but that woman was sitting there beside him, bolt upright, and he shrunk back as if he were held by a force that he had no power on earth to combat. After what seemed to him an age, the curtain went tip and a woman with a disgustingly low corsage came upon the stage to sing. It was awful to the old Meth- odist, who had never seen anything beyond Burton in his life, and a groan left his lips. He would not look again, but sat there with his head bowed upon his hands, hating himself as he had never hated any living being before. Once or twice he lifted his head as some thunderous reception told him that a new favorite had come be fore the audience ; but each time it was dropped again, until at last when a girl made an appearance in tight* to do a contortion act, then he staggered to his feet. "I can't stand it!" he cried hoarsely, disgust and horror mingling in his vocie. "I can't stand it! It's a burnin' shame to let them undressed women come before decent people, and I shan't never look Miranda in the face again. I am a-goin' !" "Wait!" she whispered in his ear. "Wait. You? 'daughter is next upon the programme. You must not fail to see her?" And once more, but this time with his chin fallen, his eyes wide in awful horror, Jonathan Esmonde fell back in his chair and waited LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 139 CHAPTER XXII. The orchestra had completed a prelude that ended in a wild, fantastic melody, and the audience had burst into an enthusiastic applause that shook the play-house jfrom pit to dome. It seemed that it would never end, and there, standing before them, bowing and smiling in her flimsiest of gauze draperies, stood Lil Lil the dancfng-girl, Lil the favorite of all New York. The costume she wore of the Persian type, with pale gauze covering the fleshings upon her limbs, the part of her body over the stomach covered with flesh-col- ored silk drawn so tight as to resemble nature's mold, a spangled jacket relieving her of absolute immodesty, a jacket that revealed the exquisite neck and shoulders in all their dazzling bodily splendor. To the New Yorker, accustomed to the stage, there .was nothing in the attire beyond the ordinary undress of the premiere danseuse, but to old Jonathan Es- moncle it was something beyond all compare in the line of brazen shamelessness. He half staggered to his feet, but a hand was placed Upon his arm, which drew him back into his seat. He sat there, leaning forward breathlessly, watch- ing the changing smile upon her face that beautiful face which he had never seen before under the paint and powder that adorned it now never speaking, but white to the lips, white and haggard as death itself. He was like one under the influence of some hide- ous nightmare, a horror that holds one enthralled Under its ghastly spell, and from which one has not LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL' the power to free one's self, even though the soul iu choked and sickened by the influence. Stonily, dully, stupidly he gazed, only half conscious that she was dancing, only half conscious of the shouti of "bravo" that rent the air when some exceedingly difficult step was rendered with a facility that bespoke the consummate artiste, only half conscious of the thunders of applause and wild calls as the orchestra ceased ; but his breath came at last and he panted wild* ly, chokingly, when she had disappeared behind the .wings.' He arose suddenly, blindly, and put out his hand gropingly. "Let me out!" he cried, hoarsely. "For God's sake, let me out !" With a smile of gratified revenge. upon her heart- less face, the woman arose. She even put her hand upon the man's arm and led him from the building; steadying his tottering footsteps as he reached the wel- come street, and stood there staring helplessly about him. There was an expression upon the usually hard face like that of a lost child, a piteous, tremulous look about 1 the mouth, a frightened bewilderment in the eyes, a trembling of the lips and hands that would have ap- pealed to one less hard of heart, but not to that wo- man! She had never learned the meaning of pity. There, was one word that formed the nucleus of her heart ' and the central portion of every thought that took shape in her brain. It was "Self!" For self alone she cared, for self alone she waited and watched and worked. t-JL. THE DANCING-GIRC She smiled at him half bitterly, half sneeringly as .hey reached the corner of the street. It was her in- tention to abandon him then and there in the city, where he was as much a stranger and as much at sea as the veriest toddler would have been, but she could not refrain from asking one question first. "Are you convinced now? Does it require further evidence to make you understand the sort of life your daughter is leading ? Do you still doubt ?" He shrunk from her as he might have done from some poisonous reptile, and covered his poor old face .with his hands. She laughed outright. "It is a charming school that your beautiful Lillian teaches, is it not ?" she sneered. But there was more loyalty in the old farmer than she had counted upon. He threw down his hands and turned upon her, his lips quivering between an un- controllable shame and a defiance that was even more piteous. His eyes were blood-shot, his face ghastly and twitching, as if with physical anguish. "It ain't true!' 1 he cried, hoarsely. "That wa'n't my girl! I won't believe it! That couldVt never be my Lily, my sweet little modest flower! You've trick- ed me fur some evil purpose uv yer own, an' it's a lie! I tell you, it's a lie ! It wus only some ? un that looked like her, and you brung me kere an' made me believe this foul lie fur seme reason uv yer own. God knows 1 don't know what! I'm a-past knowin' the motives uv mean, selfish women, but that's what you air! IWhat's my daughter Lily to you., that you should try to disgrace her with her own old father?" The fierce defiance of the tone seemed for a moment 143 LI L, THE DANCING-GIRL to stun the creature who bore the name ot woman She stood there sullenly staring at him, then the old sneer returned to her mouth. "Oh, you still doubt?" she said, with emotion "I thought the evidence of your own eyes would con- vince you; but as it seems you do not wish to be con- vinced, I will show you further." She had suddenly recalled what Maitland had said F the beautiful flat in the Belleami, and, v bohcal intent, again laid her hand upon the man 1 , arm and directed his steps toward the cab, which in waiting. Already great numbers of people were hurrvin- rom the theater-people who had gone merelv f Df th* I-il dance, and who immc . y aftcr-so that the confusion upon the street r than it had been in the the. In spue of his horror of the woman, i; to J nal! : e that there was s- out that ,mr, , to do her Nvi] , ]k . f ., her meekly and entered the cab again. ng, the im sionthatheh; ^ 111 that Shajw 'hat multitude of people passed from him as if it had be. ,.ff ec * of a passing. The night breeze cooled his hot cheeks. The woman sat back m her own corner of the cab in silence. He looked around, after a time, to see if she were reallv re, and shuddered as he saw her, under the street- light LtL, THE DANCI.VG-GIRL' 143 en then it was a dream to him. The woman upon the stage had ceased to bear any resemblance whatever to Lillian. She, the dancer, was one of those painted creatures of the people whom he had heani great cities one of those depraved, wanton things whose name no man speaks without a blu^h not 1 ' aloud a hoar? lant laugh, it is true, and one that he hushed because it frightened him; then he cried alond: ;ht to make me believe that creature to be n i'-.it I ain't sich a fool as that I ain't a foe :ft no more like my Lily than Beelze- bub is like a pure white angel! An* you almost made e looked like my girl! you almost made me ' The woman did not reply to him. She had not tions to drive at once to the 'ed to give Lillian time to arrive there leforc her father's entrance to the flat, and it lie time of their : the theater r. s to the man then, .iftcr Jonathan Ksmorulc had exclaimed: "Lemmc out o' this thing! I tell you I won't go no I think you air nt o' the devil, an* I am a-gittin' my deserts fur a-comin' down here on this unlil-gorue chase. Lemme out, I sa '" she had exclaimed, authoritatively. 1 then she had given the cab-driver instructions to go at once to the Belleami. She placed her hand again upon the arm of the old countryman, and almost forced him to the door of the She spoke for a moment aside (o the elevator (144 LIL > THE DANCENG-GIRt; boy who had charge of the door ; then, with the gritty smile still upon her lips, she motioned Jonathan Es- monde to follow her. All unconscious of what he was doing, the boy took them to the floor upon which Lil's flat was situated and pointed out the door. j ; With a hand that trembled somewhat from expec- tancy, the woman rang the bell. Almost instantly the door was thrown open. There were never any ques- tions asked at these informal Bohemian gatherings. s The woman pushed Jonathan Esmonde inside, and 'followed him. Intuitively she lifted the portiere lead* inig to the salon, in which she heard the merry hum of laughing voices. ! I In the center of the room stood Li!, her superb throat 'wound with a string of magnificent diamonds, her arms and decollete corsage ablaze with precious gems, her eyes brighter than any that shone upon her. ; Jonathan Esmonde's companion ground her teeth for one moment, then she took the old man by the shoulders and pushed him into the room. | He stood there for one moment, dazed, then Lil's eyes were directed toward him. i The color vanished from her lovely cheeks, a light ( - of horror took the place of the pleasure in her eyes, and one word left her lips : I "Father!" There was a ghastly cry from Jonathan Esmonds He flung up his hands, as if to shut out the awfu! sight, and stood there for one moment in stony silence then, lifting up bis voice, he cried out: "Good God ! what have I done that such" a disgrace LIU THE DANCING-GIRL' 145 should be reserved fur me? What have I done that I should be the father uv a thing like that?" i CHAPTER XXIII. The silence that fell upon what had been but a mo* ment before a merry party, seemed almost tangible in its terrible tensity. Lil stood there like a statue, the horror frozen into her face. The wild blood-shot eyes of her father were fixed upon her in shrinking loathing. And then a sense of cringing shame came upon her. She would have covered herself from that awful gaze if that had been possible, but as she glanced swiftly about her she saw nothing at hand with which she could conceal the indecency of fashionable undress. fcfc She crossed her hands upon her bosom, her chin fcwed upon them, and took a dramatic step in his direction, but he waved her back with a dignity that was tragic. "You do well to cover yer shameless nakedness!" he cried out, bitterly; "but it does not lessen the dis- grace upon that poor old trusting woman who bore you, nor the man who gave you life. I went there to-night, to that den of infamy, but I could not believe the evidence of my old eyes when I saw you there in your wanton shame. I called the woman a liar that told me it was my girl, the one uv whom her father wus so proud. I never could a-dreamed that it was you who lied that it wus you who had posed as ths brave saint while she lived a life of crime!*' . ' [144 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRC boy who had charge of the door ; then, with the gritty smile still upon her lips, she motioned Jonathan Es- jnonde to follow her. All unconscious of what he was doing, the boy toolc them to the floor upon which Lil's flat was situated, and pointed out the door. i ; With a hand that trembled somewhat from expec- tancy, the woman rang the bell. Almost instantly the door was thrown open. There were never any ques- tions asked at these informal Bohemian gatherings. * The woman pushed Jonathan Esmonde inside, and 'followed him. Intuitively she lifted the portiere lead- inig to the salon, in which she heard the merry hum of laughing voices. ; In the center of the room stood Li!, her superb throat wound with a string of magnificent diamonds, her arms and decollete corsage ablaze with precious gems, her eyes brighter than any that shone upon her. f Jonathan Esmonde's companion ground her teeth lor one moment, then she took the old man by the shoulders and pushed him into the room. He stood there for one moment, dazed, then Lil's eyes were directed toward him. The color vanished from her lovely cheeks, a light; of horror took the place of the pleasure in her eyes, ' and one word left her lips : "Father!" There was a ghastly cry from Jonathan Esmonde He flung up his hands, as if to shut out the awfu! sight, and stood there for one moment in stony silence ;, then, lifting up Ins voice, he cried out: "Good God! what have I done that such a disgrace LIL. THE DANCING-GIRL' 145 should be reserved fur me? What have I done that I should be the father uv a thing like that?" CHAPTER XXIII. The silence that fell upon what had been but a mo- ment before a merry party, seemed almost tangible in its terrible tensity. Lil stood there like a statue, the horror frozen into her face. The wild blood-shot eyes of her father were fixed upon her in shrinking loathing. And then a sense of cringing shame came upon her. She would have covered herself from that awful gaze if that had been possible, but as she glanced swiftly about her she saw nothing at hand with which she could conceal the indecency of fashionable undress. & She crossed her hands upon her bosom, her chin fcrvved upon them, and took a dramatic step in his direction, but he waved her back with a dignity that .roas tragic. ''You do well to cover yer shameless nakedness!*' he cried out, bitterly; "but it does not lessen the dis- grace upon that poor old trusting woman who bore you, nor the man who gave you life. I went there to-night, to that den of infamy, but I could not believe the evidence of my old eyes when I saw you there in tour wanton shame. I called the woman a liar that told me it was my girl, the one uv whom her father wus so proud. I never could a-dreamed that it wits you who lied that it wus yon who had posed as ths brave saint while she lived a. life of crime!'' LIE, THE DANCING-GIRL "Father!" "Never ag'inP he cried, hoarsely, throwing up hfa to ward her from him. "Never ag'in ! I own n<* daughter but the little deformed thing that you stolf f rum me with yer treachery and lies. Never dare to breathe the word. You have no father, no sister, na mother. You stand alone in the world side by side wSth the fallen things of earth that possess no being, 330 soul. Ye stand accursed among women, too de- praved to touch the skirt even uv yer own mother, the woman who bore you. You wa'n't satisfied wi 7 yer life o' shame an' infamy, but you must bring it beneath my reef; and disgrace me in the eyes of the people !WJK> have known an ? respected me all the days uv; my life. You've separated yourself frum the sister that worshiped ye, fur the sake o j them diamonds that cover you, and that air the brand o' shame upon yoa. lYotrve shet yourself out from that mother that cradled ye in the very holler uv her soul, an' you've broke yer ole father's heart !" His voice trembled, but as Li! would have ap- proadied him, he again waved her back, "No!" he cried, his voice rolling like thunder under his excitement. "Not a step- not a step! I've got nothin' but curses fur ye. Nothin 7 but curses fur the child that has been bought with gold ! Nothin' but curses fur the creature that deserts a life uv upright honesty an* godliness for the pollution that surrounds you now the golden hell in which you live!" And then for the first time a crimson streak of in- dignation flashed across LiPs beautiful face. She fining out her arms with a magnificent breadth of ges- ture. LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 147} ' "It is false i" she cried, in a tone that matched his own. "You are insulting your own flesh and blood with a lie that should scorch your lips with flame!'' He pointed his finger at her relentlessly, quivering iwith scorn and disgust. "Cover yourself ag'in !" he thundered, passionate^ "If it is only with a hand that can not conceal your shame. Don't stand there, forgetful that your father as beneath your sin-stained roof. Hide yourself from the eyes of decency. And the curses uv yer own father be upon you. The curses uv the man that gave you life. The curses uv the God you wus brought up to fear an' love, You'll face the shame you've brung upon yourself an' the family that loved you, May your life wither an' perish, and drop frum ye, leaf by leaf, leaving ye to realize the thing you air, leaving ye to see the terrible sin you have committed, eaten to the heart with bitter repentance that can bring no expiation. May they all desert ye, these creatures that you've sold yer soul fur, and may poverty an' beggary end the life that you colored black wi' iniquity, May; ye craw! frum door to door scourged with the shame you've brung upon yourself and a God-fearing family, finding no relief frum God nor man, afflicted, homeless, alone. A father's curse upon ye furever an' furever!" For some time those gathered there had listened m a sort of horrified silence, but as the old man con- tinued, a low hum had begun that gradually increased, until, as he had finished, there was a loud exclamation of terror from the women and bitter indignation from the men. More than one took a threatening step in the direc- tion of the almost crazed man ; but before they could , THE DANCING-GIRL reach him, he had turned, with his hand uplifted, and tiad almost run from the room. The woman who had brought him there disappeared, Jjut he seemed to have forgotten her. Swiftly, totter- ftigly, blindly, he rushed toward the stairs, forgetful oi the elevator in which he had come up, and scarcely knowing what he did, he fled down the stairs and out Into the night. Meantime, the greatest confusion prevailed in the room that he had deserted. As the last word of his curse left his lips, Lil had isunk into a heavy swoon, from which it seemed they could never arouse her. A different suggestion was made by every one present ; voices of women and men jblended in calling down imprecations upon the head iof the cruel father. Had that scene occurred in the halls of fashion in the Knickerbocker world, there would have been a stampede of horrified women. They would have turn* bled over each other in their efforts to reach the street, anxious that no one should know of their pres^ ,ence beneath that roof, and would have told you on the following day that they had never known the per- son to whom it had occurred, But not so in the homes of Bohemia. There was no one present who was not more than anxious to do all that lay in their power for the un- happy girl, and Chetwynd was finally forced to wave them back from their kindly interference. "I am sure she would be better if you would only go!" he exclaimed in an inhospitable way that nobody misunderstood. "If you will remain, Mag, and get f-JL, THE DANCING-GIRL I4QJ the others out of the house as quickly as possible, she come around all right." Aim then the men rallied to Chetwynd's assistance, getting the women from the house as quickly as was possible. Philip Sumner knelt for a moment beside the un- conscious form, and with ghastly lips and haggard face said in an undertone to Chetwynd : "At least you will let me remain!" , Chetwynd placed a hand upon his shoulder not un- kindly. "Better not," he said, quietly. 'Tut " "I know ! I know !" the dancing-master interrupted. "But it is neither just to yourself nor to her." "There is no justice in the world," answered Phil, sullenly, rising to his feet. "Her life, her happiness is more than all the world to me." "You do not want to make those cruel words her father spoke true. You are the betrothed husband of another woman. And the whole world knows it." Phil's head was bowed. There was crimson shame in his countenance. He did not reply directly, but said huskily as he reached the door : "I shall send a doctor. For God's sake, let me know if anything should should happen, will you, Chetwynd ?" "Yes," answered the elder man. "You will remain with Mag?" . "Yes." "Then if I send a messenger, you will let me know; how she is?" '152 ML, THE DANCING-GIRL had been compelled to hire a conveyance and drire to another town. And now to know that his daught- er his Lillian was like that girl ! God J He was wandering about the streets, regardless of direction, suffering blindly, determining that he would close his heart, as well as his life, to her who had proven herself so unworthy, when he was ac* ! costed by a man in uniform. ' | "Look here, pardner, do you know where you're | goin'?" Jonathan Esmonde looked up in a dazed sort of way. For a moment he did not reply ; then he stam- mered, half incoherently: "I ain't a a-goin 5 nowhere." ''Well, this is about the sixth time you've walked around this block, and it don't look right." "Who be you ?" inquired the old countryman, trem- ulously. "I'm an officer of the police," answered the man< pompously. "The first thing you know a crook will scent you out as a hayseed, and you'll be a long time finding out anything else." "I I don't think I -understand yon." "Ever been in New York before ?" "No." "Got any friends here?" "No." "Then you'd better attend to whatever business brought you, and git home by the fastest lightning, express. The me-tropolus ain't no hay-mow, an' you ain't safe. Take my advice an* go to whatever hotel you're a-stopping at, or I'll have to rim you in, ^n* LIL, TH\2 DANCING-GIRL 153 it wouldn't sound well to the folks where you live to bear you'd slept in jail all night." Old Jonathan started. "In jail !" lie moaned. " Yes, siree ; in the lock-up. A less kind-hearted Officer than I am would a-done it before arrested you as a vagabond ; but you looked kinder knocked up,, somehow. Do you know where you air a-stoppin' ?" "I ain't a-stoppin 1 nowhere," stammered the old man. "I corne to this awful place after my daughter." "Your daughter? Where is she?" Old Jonathan hesitated a moment; then fixing his eyes on the officer half pleadingly, he said : "In the New York Hospital. Can you tell me where it is?" "The New York Hospital? Why, you can't go there to-night. It's too late, or, rather, too early. I'll tell you what; you come with me. I'll take you to a place where you can stay all night, and you git a cab and drive there in the morning." The kind-hearted officer linked his arm in that of the old man and led him away to a small but respectable hotel. "Give the old duffer a room," he said to the clerk. "He's kinder off in the upper register, I reckon. I found him wandernY about the streets, and brought him here instead of runnin' him in." But Jonathan Esmonde did not sleep that night. All night he sat by the window of his little room, thinking vaguely. It seemed to him that his life lay along the idge of a precipice down which he dared not look. A grim memory of his wife came to him, and of Amy. When he got out of his chair. Ion? after the warm 154 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL morning sun was streaming into the window, he Ye* membered the policeman's words, and going down- stairs, he paid his bill and ordered a cab. He had not eaten. It seemed to him that a morsel of food would have choked him, and yet he was so faint from his long fast that he could scarcely stand, He drove at once to the New York Hospital. He asked for Amy Esmonde, and was taken to he? room when he gave the information that he was her father. She looked up in almost irrepressible surprise as he stood before her. There was no smile upon his grim, cold, gray face; but he went up to her quietly, and laid his hand upon her head. "What is it?" she gasped. "Is mother ill ?" "No," he answered, hoarsely. "1 have come to take you home that is all." "Home !" she cried, starting up and looking at him out of wide, frightened eyes. "Why, what do you mean?" "There ain't nothin* hard to understand about that," he returned, grimly. "I have come to take you home." "You can't mean it !" she cried, heavily. "You can't mean it ! Why, the doctors tell me there is a chance for my recovery ! They tell me that I may walk again, [Why should I go home? Where is Lillian?" The old man's face darkened. "Never mention that name to me again!" he ex- claimed, hoarsely. "I have no daughter now but you. I trusted her, an' she has deceived me. She has dis- graced the old mother that worked and slaved all her life that your sister might be spared. Never speak LH, THE DANCING-GIRL that name to me again? It was all this hatefui city that done it. She was a good girl until she came here/' :id she is a good girl now!" cried Amy passion- ately. ''She has never disgraced any one, and I would not believe an angel from heaven that spoke ill of her! What has she do: Fcr a moment Jonathan Esmonde hesitated; then, seeing something of the womanhood that would not be denied in the small, uplifted face, he bent toward A.my, and his voice was nothing more than a whisper as he said: "I saw her last night covered with the diamonds that wus bought with shame. She don't teach school, as she made us poor fools believe, but lives in a golden 3 that the devil finch fur them that serve him. She ain't fit to speak the name uv a decent person, anJ hers must never leave your lips ag 4 'I won't believe it!" exclaimed the girl, desperately. - Jonathan Esmonds raised himself and crossed Ir.j hands upon his bosom. "Your father has never spoken a lie In his lire/' he answered, stonily. "I tell you that I saw! I sav/ her surrounded with her infamy, I saw her clothed as :t would become only the lowest of the low to be dressed There must be no question between you an' me. I And spoke to her fur the last time in- this life. An* now you must come wi' me." id leave the only hope of my life behind"" 'Amy, passionately. "Go when those who know hat I may be cured? Go back to the old, hateful life of suffering and toil and humiliation? Go back to the hopelessness of hell? I can't! I can't! 1 never demand it of me!" 1-1L, THE DANCING-GIRL The old man leaned forward once more. This tim* he placed his hand upon her shoulder with a heaviness that hurt her. 41 You will come!" he exclaimed, hoarsely. "You aiT my child ; you air not uv my age. Do ye think I'll abandon ye to these wolves that have eaten all the purity from her soul? Do ye think I'll leave ye to be- come the thing she is? Shall I go back to the poor old mother a childless man? You'll go, if I must take ye in my arms an* carry ye every step uv the way! .You'll go, if I have to take you dead !" Ke looked down into the white, despairing face ; but even after he had looked, and understood, too, in his own way, there was no relenting in his own. He v, mumbling a> he <1M so: ,' rather have ye as ye are, the poor, lame, halt- i)g thing, than the beauty I wus proud uv in her! It ncnt uv my pride, I reckon the punish- : fur my pride!" riot speak. The stony despair never ,:ed when she heard the doctors of the hospital :.g her father to allow her to remain, because she v what his answer would be. And they looked into her face as she left the hospital with the cold, grim man, with the expression of death upon her, feel- ing that he a!one would be answerable for her life. "The hard, cruel old fool will regret it," one of the doctors said, as the cab drove away. "She will either die or go mad. I never saw such a look in any eyes in my life. Poor child poor little child! And there was a chance for her, too ! There would always have been a deformity, but nothing to what it is now. Upon ;IRL 157 v soul, there should be a law compelling fathers 1 that to give up their childrc CHAPTER XXV. e opening for August t\\ had Deen oned because of the illness .T attra, for Li! by for weeks at the very door of death, \ 'during which she was as tenderly watched and guarded by Chctwynd as if he had been her mother instead of simply a well-liked There was a m:r>c for the night and a nurse for the but there never seemed an hour of either time that Chetwynd was not conscious of all that was oc- .e sick-room. He slept, if he slept at all, upon h drawn up before the door that led from her boudoir to t ig-room, and tht -.ever a moment when he was not the sound or :e. He listened to 1 gs of mother and home until he could bear it no longer ; and one day, in dcspera- : he rat doxvn and wrote her father of her da: begging :ne of Chr ty to come to the suffering one ; or, if he could not do so himself, to send the mother of the unfortu- nate girl. But the letter was returned to him, with a line at the bottom in Jonathan :e's cold, chirography, stating: liave no \vi=h to hear again from the ' longer my daughter, uii her iI-58 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL And Chetwynd had burned that, lest at some time, upon her recovery, Lil might discover the cruel thing. But there was another besides Chetwynd who haunt- ed the premises of the Belleami apartments. It was Philip Sumner. And between the two men a friend- ship had sprung up that was really remarkable between men who love the same woman. In spite of the fact that Chetwynd knew of LiFs preference, there war. never a twinge of jealousy in his feeling toward Philip, On the contrary, it seemed to draw the young man closer to him; and the old dancing-master's devotion to Lil won a regard from Philip such as he had felt toward few men in the course of his life. Tacitly he had professed his love for Lil to Chet- wynd in a thousand ways ; but not one word had been uttered upon the subject that would be an insult to Lil or to his betrothed wife. For this illness of Lil had made a different man of Phil. He was again the pure-hearted, honest man that he had been in those first days of their acquaint- ance, and from which he had never wandered but once. It had saved him ; for while he could not con- trol his heart, while he could not force himself to lave where love was unwilling, he had resolved to do his duty. He told himself that as soon as Lil was beyond danger of death, he would return to the side of the woman to whom duty bound him, and that he would never voluntarily see Lil again. He had learned to know her as she really was in those days, from Chetwynd, her constant companion, who believed that not an angel in heaven was purer than she ; ad Phil, knowing her love for him, deter- LIL, THE DANCING-GIRt. 159 mined that he would attempt to place no temptation in her way. l.f loved to think of her as pure. He wanted her main a sweet and tender memory to him, sur- led with the halo of chastity. He blushed as he remembered the thoughts that had disgraced his man- boo!, upon the evening that his mother had told him of the error of his father, and what had followed it* He would see Lil but once after her recovery, he told himself, and then only to most humbly beg her ,n for the wrong that he had done her in .i;"ht. That was the plan that he had laid out for himself; but courage is so much stronger when temptation is in the dim perspective. Lil was convalescing. From the first moment of the return of reason she had never spoken her mother's name, never made a reference to those old days that she had loved to talk of to Chetwynd. She seemed so changed that his tender heart ached as he looked at her. She was so te, so silent, so listless. She would sit in the chair beside the window where the nurse placed her and look out into the street, apparently without the move- ment of a muscle, her great dark eyes larger and darker than ever, her lovely color all vanished, and yet more beautiful, more spiriUielle, than she had ever been before, with the short, clustering curls of auburn hair lying in fascinating disorder about her white brow. When a message came, or fruit or flowers, from any admirer, she would turn her head and smile faintly; but there was no other recognition of the efforts mat il6o LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL Were made in her behalf, not a word of the future, not an inquiry concerning any friend, not a syllable con- cerning the past nothing but silence. After a time Chetwynd grew alarmed. He spoke to the doctor on the subject, and the medical man looked concerned. t "She needs something to arouse her," he said witfi decision. "It is only to her superb constitution that we owe her life. It does not seem to me that she is trying to get well. I really think she is disappointed that she has pulled through. If we could only invent something to drag her out of this lethargy, it might save her." j It was that same evening, when Philip Suniner tailed, that Chetwynd repeated the conversation to him. ( "Do you know, Sumner," he said, earnestly, when he had finished the doctor's words, "I have thought of everything possible, and there seems but one way/' , "What is that?"' **You must go to her." "I ?" "Yes. Pardon me, but this is no time for conceal- ments, old fellow. I know your secret as well as you probably know mine. There is no need that we should speak to each other upon a subject that can only bring pain and embarrassment to both of us; but I believe that it would do her good if you were to see her. She would refuse if you were to ask permission to call, but you must go in without permission. I will ar- range it if you agree." "Agree? I would give my life for her if it would save her suffering! But I am bound by something 1 LIL, THE EANCING-GIKL l6l stronger than a mere promise, stronger than a mere betrothal. I can trust you. Chetwynd. You have guessed right in supposing that I love her. I have [been a scoundrel in the past, but it was misery that (made me so, and I see it all clearly enough now. to [want to be a man again. I tell you that I am bound i>y a secret that I cannot betray, but that is stronger than life or death. Now I will leave it to you to de- side; is it for the better or wor-e that I should see her?" He was white to the lips. Chetwynd saw readily enough in which direction inclination lay. He 1 that Philip Sumner was breathless with suspense, with hope of seeing her; but it was not of the man that Chetwynd thought ; it was of Lil. He hesitated for a long time, but turned and put out his hand to Phil at last. "We must trust to God for the future," he said, hoarsely, "and take advantage of the only opportunity that the present offers. Go to her. I trust to your discretion to do what is best ; but remember that her life or reason depends upon you. When strength is restored, then will be t".me to think of the future." | And so poor Philip's resolutions were set at naught. I She was sitting beside the window, in the old list- i less \vay. upon the first occasion that Philip saw her after the terrible illness. No one had announced him, jnd he had time to observe her before he went for- ward. He noted the little folded hands, almost trans- parent^ with the pretty blue veins marking their v surface; the colorless face shadowed by great, dark- orcled eyes; the lovely short, curling hair, so different the heavy masses of the old days, She was like 162 LIL, 1HE DAJICING-GIRL a small, suffering child now, and his heart ached as he observed iu 3 pathetic droop of the mouth, the utter weariness and silent dejection of the attitude. A" sigh that was almost a sob escaped him, and she heard it in the dense stillness of the room. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. *The faintest shadow of a ghastly smile played about her lips, "Poor old Chet!" she said, faintly. "I wonder if ever a father was so devoted to his sick baby as you are to me ?" Philip Sumner could have cried out. The voice was even more changed than her personal appearance. It was so tired, so utterly tired! It seemed to him almost as if he were in the pres- ence of the dead. He walked lightly toward her, so lightly that even in that stillness she did not hear him nor know of his approach, until she felt an arm steal about her waist, and heard a voice whisper in her ear : "Lil! my pure white lily! my darling!" There were suppressed tears in the voicethat voice which she loved so well. j She opened her eyes and looked down upon him, ' not startled, but happy. Then she let her hand, light as a snow-flake, rest upon his head. "I believe if I were dead, And you upon my lifeless heart should tread, Not knowing what the poor clod chanced to be, It would find sudden thrill beneath the touch Of him it ever loved in life so much, And throb again, warm, tender, true to theel" She did not repeat the words, but some such thougfft LIL, THE DANCING-GIRt gently rippled through her soul and reached him in the smile upon her lips. Under the light of God ? s eye, called love, he lifted himself and kissed her upon the lips he, the betrothed husband of another ; and yet it was as stainless as an altar-cloth, as pure as a child's dream of heaven. It was the benediction of love, th* triumph of chas- tity, and yet turned to pollution in fcfce hands of the arch-fiend, the incarnate devil. For Kirk Maitland saw ! CHAPTER XXVI. 'A handsome man with shadowed blue eyes and silvery hair leaned against the casement of the win- dow, looking from the Manhattan Club into Fifth Avenue. He seemed to be unconscious of either sur- roundings or occupation, but gnawed his mustache in deep thought, starting violently as a hand was laid upon his shoulder. "I've spoken your name three distinct times, Mr. Sumner!" a laughing voice exclaimed. "Is the at- traction upon the avenue unusual to-day?" "I beg your pardon, Maitland; I didn't hear you. Is it anything special ?" "Only that the boys want you for a fourth at whist if you feel inclined/' "Excuse me to-day, won't you ? I don't feel up to the mental exertion. Between the humidity and heat J am completely knocked out." It's rather a relief to 'me, .to tell you tiie truth," LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL said Maitland, languidly. "I only consented at tlie earnest solicitation of some of the fellows, and am glad we can't find a fourth. Beastly weather, isn't it ?" "Yes, and no promise of a change." "I wonder you stay in the city," exclaimed Mait- land, sympathetically. "Cool weather can always be found if a man will only go around the world in seared Of it." | "But what will his business be when he return^ 'iwhen times are in their present state? I tell you these are times that rack men's souls as well as intellectual capabilities. Everybody is failing. The amount oi" gold being shipped out of the country is ruinous*. If the Silver lav/ is not repealed within a fortnight, God help the country ; and I haven't much faith myself that even that will bring any very material change, fThese are days when a fellow must brace up and fac$ the thermometer as well as the financial crisis." i "I hope your house is in no danger." ""No more than the rest; but the whole country is in clanger. Who would have thought of the Mitchell iBank of Milwaukee going under ? The Baring Broth- er's was no greater surprise. But it isn't the banks alone ; it is everything. All the mercantile businesses are in the balance and nothing promises to hold its < own. Men have got into a panic and are locking up ; their money in safe-deposit vaults instead of comitig* to the rescue of their country. There is no class that tt'ill escape." M **Ahl you are a pessimist. I grant you it is bad; but as soon as the Silver law is repealed we shall bave good times again. You have devoted yourself loo much to business this sumoa^ m& need change. LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL l$ iWhy don't you go down and bear the market for a time as an excitement; or, better still, get out of it altogether for a while? I am going to advise Phil 4o take you out of town for a month." Halford Stimners eyes darkened. He glanced away; .from Maitland toward the street again before replying. I "1 have scarcely seen Phil for a month past. Fact ^s, I have not had an opportunity to congratulate him since the announcement of his engagement. He break- iasts in his room, either before or after I go in the morning, and is never at home to dinner." "Then you have not seen him?" "Only at the office in presence of the clerks, and not even of that." "Ah ! then you hare seen him." "Why ? Is there anything special ?" "No ; only it seems to me that Phil is not looking as as usual. He is pale, rather distrait, and while siaying a word for you in my advice about going abroad I was also saying one for Phil. I really think lie needs change of air." "He will undoubtedly take it on his honey-moon?" "I had forgotten that ; one necessarily does in think- ing of Phil." Halford Sumner looked at him sharply. "I don't see the connection!" he exclaimed rather curtly. "Why should not Phil marry?" "He should. I really think it will be the best thing that could happen to him." "I don't think I quite follow you." For a moment there was silence between tHe two> men. Maitland stood there staring out of the window as if he were thinking deeply, pulling at his mustacha 166 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL almost fiercely, then turned again to Mr. Stunner sud- denly. "I wish/' he said in a husky-sort of tone, "that I dared say something to you without fear of miscon- struction, Mr. Simmer." The banker looked at him sharply. "You may," he said, laconically. Again Maitland hesitated, but only momentarily, then continued, swiftly: "I don't pledge you to any secrecy in what I shall tell you ; but I wish, before speaking my name in con- nection with it, that you would remember that Phil and I have been friends since our boyhood, and that it would be most painful to me to have anything inter- rupt that friendship. I know that he would resent my telling you as the most unwarranted interference on my part; but, upon my soul, it is the only hope I see of saving him/' "Go on. I confess you alarm me ; but you may trust me." "A man's own family, you know, Mr. Sumner, is the last on earth to hear detrimental rumors concern- ing him." "And there are such concerning Phil ?" "In one way. His marriage has been announced, yet his attentions to well, to another lady are causing the most unpleasant rumors rumors which I am sure would be most distasteful to Miss Langford should they come to her ears, as they most certainly will if something is not done to check Phil." "I can scarcely credit what you tell me. Is there any foundation for these rumors? 51 "I regret to say there is." UL, THE DANCING-GIRL l6/ "May I ask who the young lady is to whom he is devoting himself?" "I had rather not answer, if you will excuse me." 'But I must entreat of you to do so. If you refuse, 1 shall only be forced to seek my information else- where, a thing which in itself might cause increased comment." 'Then, sir, I beg that you will understand that I do it only for Phil's own sake. The young woman is a yery beautiful girl whose name is upon the tongue of half the men in New York a charming girl to whom many are devoted ; but one does not expect such open adulation paid to another girl from a man so recently, betrothed." "You have still not told me her name." "She is a Miss Lillian Esmonde." ''Lillian Esmonde Lillian Esmonde? Have I aot- heard the name before? Is she an actress?" "You very likely saw an article in the papers not long ago, a sensational affair about an old countryman who came to New York in search of his daughter, and found her dancing for her living. He went to litr feouse, cursed her for the life she was leading, forb*d her ever seeing her mother or sister again, and left her in a most dramatic way, fainting. She was takes* with brain fever, and is only just recovering," "And she is" "Lillian Esmonde Lil, the dancing-girl." " And Phil is attentive to that girl ?" "Not only attentive, devoted. He alone of all frer admirers has been admitted to her chamber during her convalescence; and I assure you, sir, that I do not exaggerate when I tell you that he has haunted the .'il68' LIL, THE DANCLNG-GIRL house during her illness, so much that several com* rnents have been made in the papers without the men* tion of nanics." "I can scarcely credit it." "And yet It is true, I give you my word that I saw him myself yesterday with his arms about the young Woman's waist, kissing her." , "You ? Then she is a friend of yours ?" "Pourquoi pas?" asked Maitland, shrugging his Shoulders indifferently. "An unengaged bachelor's friends are not always those that a married man should choose. Lil is a nice girl, a charming girl, and I should be the last one to find fault if Phil were free. On the contrary, I should think he could find no more beautiful wife than Lil " f "A dancing-girl!" interrupted Halford Sumner, "Even though she is a 'dancing-girl," asserted Mait- land, positively. "But Phil is not free, His betrothal ss announced, and his attentions to Lil are not only; compromising his honor but her reputation. It is just: neither to one nor to the other/* "I see* I appreciate what you have said, Maitland f pom my soul I do, Don't think that I shall betray- * you in any way to Phil. On the contrary, if, as you! f\iy, these rumors are public gossip, then there is no -1 reason why he should not think that I have heard them from more than one. I appreciate the friendship that has made you risk so much in telling me those things, as it might have been most unpleasant if such chatter had reached Miss Langford. Phil must be made to see the folly of his course at once/' "I hope you may succeed/' LIL, THE DAXCING-GIRL l6g "I must succeed." "It is a strong attachment and will require care-* ful handling." "I shall take good care of that. Thank you again, and good-night." "Goo THE DANCING-GIRL I ' crimson with indignation. "The lady to whom you refer is as pure as a saint, and I shall allow no man, not even my father, to speak lightly of her in my; presence !" "And yet you set the tongues of ail New York gos- siping by your attentions to her, you the betrothed hus- band of another woman, You deny the right of your father to question your conduct, and yet you are set- ting yourself up as a target, inviting the darts of every scandal-monger in the city. Are you lost to all sense of honor that you can speak like that?" "The word 'honor* comes with a bad grace from your lips," sneered Phil, forgetting himself under the lash of his anger. Mr. Sumner looked at him for a moment in silence,, then: "What do you mean?" he demanded, very quietly. "I mean that I have yielded the sacrifice you de- manded of me, and that I shall marry the woman whom you chose, not I. But I cannot compel my heart to follow the dictates of your will, even to save you from the position into which your lack of that honor of which you prat has thrown you." For a moment the man stood dazed and dumb under his son's words, then with a calm deliberation he took out his match-safe, struck a match and lighted the gas. Then he turned and looked Phil full in the face. "I wanted to see what manner of man you have become that you dare utter such words to nie," he said, with well-fitting dignity. "I confess that I did demand that you ask Miss Langford to become your wife, and the relief I felt when I knew that she had consented. I was even sorry for you when you gave me no op* LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 173 to speak to you upon the subject, and did orce it upon you, respecting your embarrassment, after hearing the stories that are afloat concern- ing your attentions to this dancing-girl, I would have spared you, but you put it beyond my power. I called you in here hoping to find you repentant, determining that I \vculd help you in the future, regretting, as I have regretted ever since its occurrence, that I re- fused the demand for money that you made upon me to pay your gambling debts, and determining that I would make yoa an allowance in future that would place you beyond temptation. And you receive my advice, reward my C9d intentions by insult. You "Stop!" cried Phil, throwing up his head and com- pelling silence by the commanding tone of his voice, "What are those falsehoods that you are uttering? My gambling debts! To what are you referring?" "To the ten thousand dollars for which you asked me in your letter telling me of yo:ir folly, and promis- ing to reform in the event of my never mentioning the subject in your hearing. Well, I did let you have the money, because I thought it would be a lesson to you for the future, as I told you in my letter, but I have never mentioned the subject to you because you have avoided me, never entering my presence except when your mother was by, or some one was in the office. And then " ait ! Let us understand this much before you go on. I never sent you any such letter in my life. I never played a game of cards at which I lost more than a hundred at a sitting in my life, and certainly never more than five hundred altogether in my life. There % ax> man who is a more moderate card-player than I, ,174 kIL, THE DANCING-GIRL JIG man who cares less for the game ; and I have never -asked you for a cent over the allowance made me. On the contrary, I have been most successful in Wall .Street, and had about concluded to ask for the dis- ^ontinuance of the allowance altogether." The two men stood there staring at each other, the one in haughty, insulted pride, the other half in unbe- lief, for some moments before either spoke ; then Mr. Sunnier, Sr., passed his hand across his forehea.d ia ''bewilderment. "I wish that what you say were true," he said at last ; "but I have the letter in your own writing in my, private safe at the office." For the first time a puzzled expression crossed Phil's jfface. "If that 5s true, I denounce it as a forgery!" he ex- claimed, hotly. Mr. Sumner started, then made a gesture of depre- cation as he turned away. "I half believed you for a moment until I rernem- "bered what followed," he said, wearily. "There is nqi use to add a lie to your sin, Phil." He would have walked away, but the young man caught him by the arm almost fiercely. "I demand to know what you mean!" he cried, "'You have not the right to refuse to speak! I swear that I never asked you for such a loan, such a gift in tny life. Even if I had needed it, my mother's fortune has been at my disposal any time that I might require it." Again Mr. Sumner faced him, this time looking eagerly into the handsome, manly face of his son* There was not a shadow of falsehood in the frank, LIL ? THE DANC1NG-GIKX open eyes, and a breathless sort of hope seemed to steal over the elder man. "Then answer this by your mother's love -did you, or did you not, forge the name of Arnold Lang- : ford to a check for ten thousand dollars ?" "Good God,, no!" The voice was one of thunder. The old man reeled. He put out his hand and caught his son's arm for* support. His face was ghastly in its pallor, and yet his eyes were blazing with the light of hope. "Swear it!" he cried, hoarsely. "Swear it!" "I swear by almighty Heaven 1 by my hope of sal- vation!" cried Phil, with thrilling earnestness. "Who* hfa's accused me of so foul a crime? There seems to have been some sort of treachery at work here, and you and I have been too long silent. It is now time- that both should speak, and that we understand each other at last !" CHAPTER XXVIII. "It seems so good to be permitted to see you once more, Lil! Are you feeling quite yourself again?" Kirk Maitland had gone direct from the club and his interview with Halford Summer to the residence of the woman whom he had tried to injure, and to his surprise was admitted to her presence. He had been as devoted, during her illness and convalescence, in his inquiries as had Philip himself; but while he had witnessed the tableau of the evening before, seeing Phi! wit^ tv-s a-rm ^bont the *ur~-^ whom THE DANCING-GIRL loved, their lips meeting, he had not been permitted to enter. But Lil was looking more like a return to health than she had yet done when he was shown in, and there was even something of the old coquetry in the smile that greeted his words. "Not so good as that," she answered, extending her hand cordially in lieu of rising, a formality not de- manded of convalescents; "but infinitely better than I have been doing. I shall be out of this in another .week." I "Thank Heaven for that; It has been an anxious lime, I can tell you, for all of us. What a pleasure it must be to a woman to feel her power, as you must! [Why, half the fellows in New York have looked as if they were in mourning. Great Scott ! what a rousing reception you will get when you go back to the stage !" An expression of shame and shrinking darkened the beautiful face. She did not reply at once to Maitland, but when she did she said, slowly: "I doubt if I shall ever go back> "Why?" he asked, curiously. "Oh," with a gesture of deprecation, "I loathe it ] feo!" "Ah! you think you do; but life would be no life to you now without it. I have heard stage folk make such resolutions before, but they always break them. You'll go back, and you'll find yourself a greater fav- orite than ever before," > "I don't think so. It seems to me now that the sight x of a theater would sicken me. 1 shall never return to the old ways again." She was looking out feJU> tbe brilliantly lighted LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL street, her perfect profile turned toward him. He wondered if Philip Sumner and the tableau he remem- bered of the evening before had anything to do with that resolution, and a flush of anger came to hi a cheeks. He controlled it well, however, and said, lightly : "Don't talk like that. You make me feel positively lachrymose. When you are well and strong again you will think differently. Do you know what I think would be the greatest possible benefit to you?" "What?" "A year abroad. It would take you away from un- ; pleasant memories, get the morbidness out of you, and' do you more good than all the doctors' stuffs in the country. Why don't you try it, Lil?" There was weariness, almost despair in the eyes ! that were lifted to his. "I can't/' she answered, pathetically. "There is the living to earn. It won't be so easy now that I mean ; to abandon the past." "Fiddlesticks ! My dear girl you were never cut out for that sort of thing, and there isn't a fellow in the city that would allow it. Fancy your doing anything- except dancing! Fancy your being anything except the goddess we all adore! You've been a queen too long to ever be a slave. The first thing a fellow asks when he enters the club now is, 'Has anybody heard how Lil is to-day?' and a score of voices cry, 'Yes. 1 They've all been to inquire, you know. They talked of putting up regular bulletins." Lil laughed slightly, then said, restlessly: "Talk to me of something besides myself. I am sick to death of the subject. I want a breath of fresh 178 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL air from the outside. Tell me all the latest gossip* Who* is dead? Who is married. What man has run away '-with- 'his friend's wife? And what woman has been selling her birthright for a mess of pottage? Tell me something." Maitland threw himself back in his chair and laugh- eci softly. "There, that is like you," he said, nodding his head gently. "By Jove, Lil, you are prettier than ever! There I go again! I beg your pardon; but you are really the only subject that is interesting to me. Let me see. Did you hear about Dick Neville? Go^\ thrown out of his carriage the other day and was cat' ried home unconscious. His wife went through h?s pockets, by design or accident. Any way you fix it, it was unlucky for poor Dick. She found a letter f rorii a woman with whom he was going to keep an appoint- ment. It has caused no end of a row and a threatened divorce suit." "Served him right! Married men have no business having engagements with other women. I hope she'M win the suit !" "Bloodthirsty little savage! Then there was Sam Ewirig. He was driving up the boulevard the other day with Nathalie, Vinita, and who should he meet face to face but his own wife driving down the boule- \^ard with Edward Ferrando. There promises to be something interesting grow out of that too. Have you seen Phil lately?" "Philip Sumner?" "Yes." "He was here last night." l,IL, THE DANCING-GIRL Iffy "Oh! Then of course he told you about his enam- orita." Co, I don't think so. What about her?" . He saw her eagerness but too clearly; but there was only the utmost nonchalance in his voice and man- ner as he continued : 4; Oh ; only about the grand blow that is being- made .about the wedding. It is to be at Grace Church, you know, with no end of swelldom present. It promises to be the greatest spread that New York has se^n in many moons. There are to be twelve attendants for the bride, full choral service and all that. Phil's present to her is to be a tiara that is said to have cost close to two hundred thousand. You know the wed- ding is barely three weeks oft" now. I met him ia front of a jeweler's to-day, and he asked me to go in and help him select some scarf-pins for the ushers. They are really stunning. I tell you, in spite of his coolness about it, the young man feels his luck keenly, and is about as proud of having won one of the great^ cst heiresses in New York as any fellow you ever saw. They are to go abroad for a year." He had watched the sweet face grow whiter and whiter as he talked, watched the lovely eyes drpop, watched the cinching of the small, thin hands, the valiant struggle she was making to maintain her self- control, but it did not stop the flow of the heartless Words. He went on relentlessly until he had finished, then paused to see the full effect of the blow he had delivered. She felt that she must make some remark, ami /while her heart was quivering under the agonizing of his lash, she forced her stiff lips to say : LIL. THE DANCING-GIRL "A" year. It is a long time." "It doesn't seen long to lovers," he answered* quietly. "Are they lovers, or is it merely a family arrange- ment?" "You'd think they were lovers if you could see Phil at the florist's the first thing every morning, selecting flowers for her, and sending her a note with them. The fellows at the club call him 'Romeo/ and guy the life out of him. But he takes it good naturedly, enough. He's a nice fellow, Phil is, if he would only; drop that silly desire for 'mashing/ It's the only, weak thing I've ever seen in him. He can never see a pretty face without an insatiable longing to make its owner fall in love with him, and the fact of her being a married woman does not daunt him at all. He just keeps up the siege until she unconditionally, surrenders." "And they go abroad the twenty-fifth of this month, you say?" A crimson splash had crossed her white cheek like a blood-streak that follows a wound. "Yes," he answered, indifferently. "And that's just I what you ought to do, and pull yourself out of thif j illness. You ought to go now, by %ne of the firsfj steamers. Paris would do you a world of good. I Say Lil, why not marry me and let me take you?'*' She started. She was so weak from her illness,, from the terrible mental strain to which she had been- subjected, and then he had worked her up to a pitch of excitement that bordered in hysteria. He had done it deliberately, watching his own progress step st$ step. He saw that she was quivering i LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL Itf ck as she leaned a trifle forward. He continued just as quietly as if his heart were not throbbing untH he feared she might hear it : "Do you remember that bluff of yours I called, just before'you were taken ill? Don't you remember? The bet you made with Nathalia Vinita ? You said you would consent to become my wife at the end of a month if your engagement to another had not been announced. Dear little one, redeem your premise. Let me take care of you. Let me take you out of this where you will forget the past that has distressed you!" " Forget! She felt at that moment that she would gladly die to bring forget fulness. Phil had deceived her again. She had lived through his former decep- tion, and she would live through this, but she felt that her heart was broken. She felt sure that every one present the evening" when she had made her foolish bet had understood to whom she referred, and the humiliation stung her to the quick. After all, w r hat difference could anything make in her life? She was abandoned by those who should have protected her> deserted by the man whom she loved with all the strength of her nature, disgraced by the outside show of the life she had led, not by any sinful act of hers. What hope was there ? An hysterical sound, between a laugh and a heart- breaking cry, arose to her lips. "You won the bet all right enough, Kirk, and you deserve the payment. They call it a debt or honor, don't they ?" r Y^s," he answered, leaning- forward eagerly* [82 LIL/ THE DANCING-GIRL *Does that mean that you will be my wife, IJ1?" "Yes, I will "be your wife!" she answered, the hys- ;eria growing upon her. "At once?" he cried, scarcely able to force his 70ice above a whisper. "At once? Let our wedding ake place before that of Philip Sumner and Miss ^angford. I ask it only to spare you, dear, to save ,'ou the gossip. You understand me, do you not?" "Yes," she exclaimed, loudly. "Let it take place n two weeks from to-day. Chet Chet ! Where ire you, old man? I want you to come here and con- gratulate me. I am going to be married in two weeks :rom to-day to Kirk Maitland, and we are going ibfoad for a year, perhaps for two. Do you hear, >ld friend? Come and tell me how glad you are!" CHAPTER XXIX. Halford Sumner looked into the eyes of his soft vith a sort of breathless hope that was bewildering, rle did not Speak at once ; but stood there staring*, fielding to the convincing influence of the truthful faze, hoping, dreading, doubting. Phil's hand still lay upon his arm detainingly, the >cho of Phil's earnest voice still lingered in his ears, Fhe fascination of conflicting emotions held him si- ent for a time, then he hoarsely exclaimed : "Where did you get that check for ten thousand lollars which you cashed at the bank and which bore :he signature of Arnold Langford?" LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL ' "I never cashed such a check; I never had such .a check in my possession. Are you mad?" The bewilderment upon Halford Sumner's counte- nance deepened. He sat down in a chair suddenly r and looked up at his son as if his vision had become cloud- ed. His hands lay limp upon the arms of the chair, and there were heavy drops of perspiration about his mouth and brow. "What are the circumstances to which you refer?" questioned Phil, seeing the earnestness of his father's manner. "Detail the situation to me and the crime of which I am accused. Why is this the first time ihat I have heard of it? I entreat of you, sir, to be as explicit as possible." There was another momentary hesitation ; then, in a voice that trembled with emotion, Halford Sum- ner continued : "It was while you were at Newport, you remem- ber, about three months ago, that I received the let- ter bearing your name, in your handwriting, .detail- ing to me an account of your heavy losses at. .poker and other games of chance. I had received an anony- mous communication before that, telling rne ,of your -wild life; but I paid no attention to it, as I never, do, to an unsigned letter. Your letter, however, folioyring i*, convinced me of the truth of the statements con- fined in it, and I determined that the best way to teach a young man of your age a lesson was to, make him do without the money to satify such desires,, feel- ing that if those debts were left unpaid it would, .pre- vent your playing again. I wrote to you to thateffect, giving you advice which I thought you needed- and "184 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL adding a few harsh words which I thought you de- served.** "I never, received that letter I" exclaimed Phil, grimly. : Mr. Sumner started. It was only another link, and after a moment of thought he continued : \ "A little while after that I don't know just how long ; two weeks, perhaps, or three Arnold Langford examined his balance and found it ten thousand short. He sent for the checks and examined them in my pres- ence, pronouncing one for ten thousand a forgery. [We were both naturally very much excited, and at my suggestion the paying teller was summoned. Lang- ford asked him if he remembered the check, and after examining it Murphy said he did quite well. He was ithen asked if he knew w T ho presented it, and with a promptness that took my breath away he said that Mr, Philip Sumrier had done so and that he had paid the money to him." "The infernal liar!" "Then you did not present it?" "I tell you I never saw it !" "Good God! It can't be possible that Murphy; could have done it, and then attempted to fix his crime upon you!" , "It certainly looks that way. But go on. Why was y I not summoned and told of this? Why was I not j given an opportunity to defend myself?" Mr. Sumner hung his head before replying. "Your letter convinced me of your guilt!" exclaimed the old man, hoarsely. "There was scarcely a doubt left in my mind. Remember, the amounts were iden- tical The circumstantial evidence was complete. LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL -185 Langford himself had seen you draw a check that day a check which you did not present in the usual way t and had observed your agitation. Well I don't know that I ought to tell you what followed." ''In justice to me I demand it." "I suppose you are right. I confess to you that I was utterly prostrated by the blow that had been de- livered to me, and it was Langford himself who came to my relief. Of course I expected nothing but that publicity, disgrace, perhaps even Sing Sing, would follow, and it seemed to me that the evidence was as complete as it could be made. Langford called me into his private office, where I offered to make the amount good to him; but this he most emphatically, declined. Then he told me he had a proposition to make to me. You have never heard the story, Phil, and I hesitate to tell it to you now, though it seems that common justice demands that I should withhold nothing. Well, my son, Olive was born before the laws of the Church and the land had united Arnold Langford and the woman who afterward became his wife." , "Good heavens !" "It is a secret which He has been enabled to pre- serve to the present time; but the wild fear haunts Arnold Langford every hour of his life that the dis^ grace to her will become known to the world. It has been his haunting desire to secure a good marriag'e for her, so that if the blow should fall, it would come with' less deadly effect. The proposition that he made to me was that he would conceal your crime from the world if you would consent to make that daughter your wife. I agreed to do what I could to bring about 1 86 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL an adjustment of the affair, but one of the conditions he imposed upon me was that no mention should be made to you of the forgery. Not one syllable was to be uttered concerning it. He felt that it would lower his daughter in your estimation, and there would be less chance for her future happiness if it were known to you that your freedom was bought with this mar- ] siage. He argued that if it were supposed by you that your crime had not been discovered, your honor .would keep you faithful to the daughter of the man you had wronged, and might make an honest man of you in future. It seemed a marvelous thing to me that he would wish his daughter to wed with a forger ; but he argued that the temptation had been acted upon under impulse, and that he did not believe the crime would ever be repeated. He urged that -the social position you occupy would save Olive in the event of the shame upon her birth becoming known ; and it is needless to say that I yielded readily to the plan he proposed. But you had never been particu- larly demonstrative in your attentions to the young lady, and apparently you were growing colder. At > last Arnold Langford insisted that something must be f done. In a quiet way he made at known to me that unless the terms of our agreement were carried out, he would prosecute you as the law allowed/' "And then you went to my mother?" questioned Phil, eagerly. "Then I went to your mother/ 1 assented Mr, Sum- ner. "But you did not tell her of this suspicion against me?" LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 187 "Good heavens, no! Do you think I would will- fully have broken her heart?" "But what was it you told her, sir?" "I told her that circumstances at the bank made Vt absolutely necessary that you should marry Olive Langford. That an unhappy condition of affairs sur- rounded me, from which I could not extricate myself without the assistance of Arnold Langford, and that he gave that assistance conditional only upon your agreement to marry his daughter. She would not yield at first, would agree to make no attempt to force your inclination, until I told her that the most serious consequences would be involved if she refused. I told her that it was the matter of our family honor that was at stake, and that refusal would involve utter ruin!" "And you let her think that ruin would come to you and not to me ? "Yes. I know that my wife could not be made to doubt my honor any more than I could be made to doubt hers." There was pride, confidence, devotion, in the tone, and Phil flushed crimson under memory of what had ^ been said. | "And yet you doubted me, sir !" he exclaimed, half V reproachfully, half humbly. "You gave me no op- " portunity for self-defense, and yet to my knowledge, I never in all my life have done that which could cause you pain. But, sir, we have each something for which to ask the other's pardon. You have looked upon me as a forger and I looked upon you as an embezzler!" "Phil!" 188 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL "It is quite true, sir. When I asked Olive Lang- ford to be my wife, I did it under the impression that I was saving you from Sing Sing." "Good God!" "You see what it is to be condemned without a ; chance to refute the charges of crime brought against you : but I had the word of my mother !" "And she believed" Hal ford Sumner could not complete his sentence. He fell back in his chair ghastly, suffering intensely, and at the same moment a light footstep crossed the hall and entered the room. "Halford ! Phil, are you here ? I heard your voices AS I came in. .What has happened ? Why did you not come to bring me home, Halford? I had to ask Fulda's maid to come with me. You are always so prompt that I became alarmed/' An embarrassed silence fell upon the two men, but Phil went forward almost at once and placed his arm about, the dainty little creature whom he called mother. He observed how thin and white she had became in those weeks, and the strained, haggard expression about the sightless eyes. He bent down and kissed her tenderly. "You will forgive him for not coming, dearest, when you know what detained him, I am afraid we both forgot the time. We have been accusing each other of grave offense in our own minds, little one my father and I and have but just discovered that both are in- nocent of the charges. What my father told you of the trouble at the bank, dear, he told to cover from YOU a crime whicfi he thought I had committed. He was as innocent of wrong as yourself, thank God ! You LIL, THE DANCING-GIRT; :iSgj ifDfeunderstoocl the words he spoke to you. He was excited, perhaps, and said more than he meant to, but I wish you would tell us both where you got hold of that awful word embezzler!" . The blind eyes were fixed upon Phil in wild entreaty, and hope. The white lips were parted. She seemed for the moment not to have heard the latter part of his sentence. "Innocent !" she whispered. "Innocent ! Oh, God, Phil! Innocent, and I his wife accused him! Hal- ford, where are you? Oh, Halford, can you ever " He did not give her an opportunity to speak the word "forgive." lie took her in his arms and kissed her with the 'devotion that had characterized every act of his life toward her. It was a protecting worship that was now as it had always been, beautiful in its transcend- ent tenderness. "But we have all doubted, 7 ' he said, with deep con- trition. "But, thank heaven, it is removed at last!" There was a moment of emotional silence, then Phil Spoke again. "But tell me, dear/' he cried, "has any one besides my father spoken to you on this subject?" "No," she answered, as she nestled closely to her nusband's side. "No one except Arnold Langford. He called one afternoon to see your father, but as he was not at home he made me a little visit." "What was it he said to you ?" asked Mr. Sumner. She hesitated, seeing which he added : "It is necessary that you should .tell us exactly, my .darling. There are the most imperative reasons that there should be no further concealments. Some one iI9O LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL' ( has committea a crime, and both Phil and I, it seem% have been accused of it. I told Arnold Langford my-* self that I had told you that matters at the bank made'., a marriage between Phil and Olive a necessity." "He said that you had. He told me that matters I looked bad for you; that the world would call your > crime embezzlement, though it was his own belief that you were innocent so far as intentions were con- cerned. He said that he was proving his belief in you by desiring this marriage between Phil and Olive. He asked me not to speak to you of our in- terview, as he should not care to have you know tha< he had spoken upon the subject." Phil and his father exchanged significant glances. "Can you remember the day that this call waf made ?" asked Halford Sumner. "Yes; it was the afternoon that you went to Len- nox." "And Arnold Langford asked for me upon the occasion of the visit ?" "Yes." "Yet he knew that I had gone to Lennox and the business that took me." Again the eyes of Phil and his father met, and after a moment of silence Halford Sumner remarked quietly : "It looks singularly as if Murphy were not alone the culprit, but merely an accomplice. I think this if a case for a skilled detective." LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL CHAPTER XXX. Upon the morning that followed her betrothal to Kirk Maitland, Lil was not so well. She ke>t her bed until noon, and then was almost ghastly in her pallor when the nurse took her to the dancing-room, where she found Chetwynd. He had not slept and there were dark circles about his eyes, but he summoned a smile to his lips and assisted her to her chair beside the window. Upon a stand near the window was a superb vase of orchids, and as she sat down she leaned forward and touched them caressingly. "How lovely!" she exclaimed faintly. "You are so good to me, Chet !'' "They are not my gift," he said in a tone that was dull and hoarse and passionless. "They came from Maitland I think/' She drew back as if an adder had been concealed among them, and shivered slightly. She was tempt- ed for a .noment to order the nurse to take them away, then she leaned back in her chair wearily and closed her eyes. Chetwynd's heart ached. It was no new sensation, but he seemed even more alive to it than usual. Still it was not self that he considered ; it was only of her that he thought. He took the stand and set it aside, then drew up a chair in its place and sat down. "Are you feeling worse, little one ?" he asked tend- erly. "Only tired, Chet; that is afll. I can't get a return fcf the old energy, try as I will." LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL "But are you trying, Lil? It seems to me that that is what the trouble is. Yesterday you were almost like yourself again, and to-day What happened to you last night, dear, to make you do what you did to make you false to your own heart ?" She shuddered and drew a scarf more closely about her. "Don't talk to me now of that, old man; I have not the strength to listen. The past is all passed, diet, and I haven't got the nerve to look into the future." ''But you must do it, child. If there were time, God knows I would willingly spare you; but you promised that in two weeks you would be that man's wife." , The voice was harsh, bleak, unlike ChetwyncTs usually musical tone, but Lil did not open her eyes. < "I know," she answered, humbly. "But you don't love him. You know you don't love him !" \ "I never said that I did." "Yet you would be his wife. You would make of your life a legal crime? Y'ou would profanate a holy yow? Will you turn your pure life, your chaste self into a wanton that the law will recognize, but that .will be denied through all ages in the holiness oJr heaven?" "Pouf, Chet! You speak like a preacher. Give us a rest, will you ? What difference does it make what becomes of me? Why should I care? Am I to pose '^5ore the world as the dupe of Philip Sunnier 2 Am T* to say that he deserted me to marry a richer, if not a handsomer woman than I, and that I am breaking my heart because of his perfidy? Rubbish! There LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 193 Js nothing on God's earth that could make me more miserable than I am. It is the curse of my father that is upon me, and that will follow me to the day of my death. Perhaps when I am a wife he may re- tent." There was a world of pathos in the last sentence, a dry, choking sob that went to the man's heart, but he cried out violently: "But why in heaven's name have you chosen that man? Was it on account of that silly bet?" "Yes no I don't know. That had something to do with it, of course; but \vell, you see, old man, I need change of air and scene. I must get away. I am restless, feverish. I must get away! The inact- ion will kill me !" "And you took him for that? You consented to foe the wife of a man whom all men despise for that? Good God! You might as well have been my wife. At least you could have trusted me. At least you knew that I should have cherished you to the last day of your life as die most sacred thing with which Heaven could have intrusted me. I should have wor- shipped you and have expected nothing in return nothing nothing! Your body would have been as sacred to me as your soul is pure. You would have been safe in the care of my love, as safe as if Heaven surrounded you!" At the beginning of his speech she had opened her *yes a;:d looked at him. But as he continued a tre- mendous, almost overpowering surprise grew in her expression. Gradually she sat up, clasping the arms of the chair tighter and tighter, her eyes growing larg- er. It was a revelation that he was making to her, 194 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL and when he had finished she could scarcely control her trembling voice to make reply. "Chet," she whispered, "is it possible that / an* the woman whom you have loved ?" * He started as if he had unintentionally betrayed a secret. A crimson glow burned for awhile in his pale cheeks, then he hung his head and answered doggedly : "Yes, you are the, woman. I never meant that you should know. I should not have spoken now only, ^my emotion betrayed me. I love you sacredly. I love you as the saints are loved. I love you without thought or hope of return." She sunk back in her chair. The tears were roll- ing over her face and down upon the lace front o$ fkr pretty negligt. "Oh, Chet," she whispered, "why did you not speak sooner?" He turned to her almost fiercely. "Would there have been a chance for me?" he asked, hoarsely. "Is it possible that you ever could have consented?" "Yes!" she answered, passionately. "I should have done you that great and irreparable wrong. I should have cursed your life in that wise. I should not have taken you into consideration at all, but I should have married you to escape from myself. I am glad you did not allow me to do it. I am glad I did not know. You have been so true, too staunch a friend for rne to harm like that. I did not love you 1 do not love you. My words may sound hard and cruel, but they are true. Now you will go away and \ rget xe. but then you should have been always by* LIL, TKE DANCING-GIRL Iy5 would have seen that my heart is dead, anu iov- ing me it would have broken yours." "Lil Lil, it would be no wrong. It is not toe late yet, dear. Tell him that you have reconsidered, and that you can not keep the promise you gave him, because your whole better self cries cut against the sacrifice. Be my wife, darling. Let me save you. I swear to you that I shall demand no word, no act of obedience to my will. You shall be as sacred to me as an angel confided to my care by Heaven itself. Have mercy upon yourself, Lil, and upon me. Be iny wife, dear one." "I can't!" she grasped. "It is too late eternally too late. I thank Heaven that I am denied the ability to do you that wrong, Chet. I can't love one man one day, promise to be the wife of another man the next, throw him over and marry a third on the day that follow?. But as I am that is beyond me, I must accept the curse that my father put upon me. I must see myself wither and peri?h as he said. There is no hope for me, Chet, and you only make it worse by your words. For God's sake let me go, and if you love me say no more !" She had already arisen, and as she spoke the lat words she staggered blindly from the room. CHAPTER XXXI. Crushed, broken, too utterly wretched to be even capable ol thought, Lil lay in her own room, not even venturing near the dancing-room lest she encounter 195 LIL, THE DANCING-GiSL jQi'etwynd. It seemed to her that there wab but one escape from the position into which her folly had placed her, and that lay in death. And for the first time in her life she contemplated death calmly. It was the only thing that seemed to bring her peace. Not that she had thought out this solution of the situation deiberately. It was simply a means of escape that had suggested itself as un- formed purpose, and yet it was fixed in her mind with a tenacity that would have surprised her had she retained the power of reasoning. Twice the nurse entered the room and saw her lying with hands folded across her bosom and closed eyes, her face waxen and rigid, and twice she retired without the courage to speak. Then thinking that she might arouse her, the really kind woman went to her with a package of letters. "Will you examine your mail, Miss Esmonde?" she asked, gently. "There are half a dozen boxes of flowers that have just arrived, and a basket that would test even my strength to lift." L51 opened her eyes quietly. There was none of that awful struggle against fate expressed in her face. Her eyes were as cairn as those of a child. She took the letters and opened one or two in- (differently. The nurse left her, and as soon as the door had closed the others were thrown aside and the old apathy returned. It was not long, however, until the nurse returned. "Mr. Maitlarid is here/' she announced, softly. "I told him that you were not so well, but he requeste^. that you should see him if only for a moment." A crimson flush stole into the ghastly face. It LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 197 seemed for one instant that she was about to break out in some wild refusal, then she checked herself. "Admit him/' she said, quietly. "Here?" inquired the nurse. ; "Here!" answered Lil, dully. Her eyes were closed again and she did not hear Maitland's entrance, did not know that he was near, until he touched her gently. She shrunk back and a cry of alarm arose to her lips, but she strangled it before it had reached the air. "You startled me," she said dully. "I think I must have fallen asleep." "I am so sorry," he said, tenderly. "They tell me you are not so well to-day, my darling. Ah! if love could cure you, how strong and well you would become! I am so proud and so happy, sweetheart, that it seems as if I must impart seme of my own vitality to you. The day is charming; don't you think that if you were to make an effort and let me take you out for a little drive it would do you good?" There was so much real earnestness in the tone that it touched her. There was a glimmer of tears in her eyes as she lifted them. "Xot to-day," she answered faint! v. vow perhaps." "How good of you to give me tb ; the day will be as fine as this one. be a world of benefit to you. Do t I did this morning, darling?" She shook her head, and he laiie^< boy before replying. "! engaged passage on the 'Campan: '198 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL &nd Mrs. Kirk Maitland. You don't know how proud I was to write that down ! The booking-clerk! whom I know, looked at me in great surprise, and I told him my joyful secret. It isn't much of a secret now, though, as every fellow at the club has been made my individual confidant. They are all having a laugh at my expense, but I can afford to let them laugh whoi s I have all the happiness." She \va3 trying with all her might to keep him from seeing the anguish of her countenance; but the whitening mis-t^y spread from throat to brow and she shrunk badr as if every word were a sword thrust. But he continued, with that oblivion of everything except s^f which had always character- ized him : "I went to the jewe?ci's this morning. There was nothing there that half pleased me as a ring to bind our betrothal, and so I ordered one. In the mean- time I got this, simply to sevve the purpose until the other could be ready." He drew a little case from his pocket, and as he opened it a magnificent diamond flashed up at him.. He took the ring out and slipped it upon her finger. In the old days such a bauble would have delighted her as much as the scintillations would have pleased a child, but she shrunk back then as if it were a band of searing iron about her finger. She took it off and laid it upon the table. "It is very beautiful," she stammered "'too beauti- ful ; but I can not wear rings when I don ? t feel well. They seem to suffocate me. You must not think me unappreciative." "I could never think anything of you that is not LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 199 lovely. I wish I could make you understand how I adore you, darling." "1 know." she said, unable to repress a little shiver. "I am loved so so much more than I deserve! 'But I am so tired now, Kirk. Will you leave me for a little whil< "May I come again to-night?" "Not to-night to-morrow/' "At what hour will you drive?" "Come at tn the evidences of her crime. S208 LIL, THE DANCING-GXEiti Noiselessly he slipped back into fne conservatory, glanced hastily about him, saw the door that led to a side entrance, and as Arnold Langford let himself out to the street by thb front door, Clarke, the de- tective, reached it by the side door. He kept himself well out of sight until Mr. Lang- < 'ford entered his luxurious coupe to be driven to his office, then rapidly the detective turned again in the ' direction of the Sumner residence. He scarcely sup- | posed that he would find -father and son still there, * but Phil was just descending the stoop slowly as the detective came up. "Is your father here?" he asked, rather hurriedly. "No," replied Phil ; "he has gone to the office, "is there anything special? You surely can not have anything to report so soon." "But I have. It was the greatest piece of luck that ever happened me. I have tracked the forger/' "Then it is really Arnold Langford?" asked Phil, breathlessly. "No." "Then who, in Heaven's name?" *"It is Arnold Langford's daughter. Olive Lang- ford is the forger." "Good God ! You can't mean it !" "But I do. Come with me and I will explain ; everything. There is not a moment to lose. Just ' hail that cab, will you? I haven't got breath enough? left to whistle/' LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 2CX| CHAPTER XXXIII. Phil was not long in obeying the request of tne 'detective. They sprung into the cab, gave the bank address to the driver, with the injunction to drive fast ; and as they bowled over the rough cobble-stone* Clarke told the son of his employer of the phenome* nal hick that had attended his visit to the home of Arnold Langford. Phil listened in breathless astonishment; then, when ^he recital had been completed, exclaimed i "What are your plans?" "Undoubtedly the girl will communicate with her father the moment she discovers the loss of the papers, which will be immediately upon her return to the library. My plan is that you go at once to his office and prevent her seeing him or his cashing the check until I can secure a warrant for his ar- rest. I want to complete the evidence by having the forged check found upon him." Phil sat there for a moment in silence, gnawing his mustache. When he spoke, both voice snd man- ner were singularly quiet. "I don't think the scheme is a good one/' "Why not?" "In the first place, the pubMcity that will be given to it is liable to make trouble for the bank. In times like these it is not desirable that there should be a run on the bank; and you know that anything is liable to create a panic. I have no wish to advertise this thing any more than justice demands. We don't know anything about their past crimes; we can pre- !2IO LIL, THE DANCINGS-GIRL tvent the one in present contemplation, so that itt reality my father and I are the only sufferers. My own opinion is that we had better make him ac- knowledge his rascality, resign quietly from the bank, and he and his family get out of he country as jquickly as possible." > The detective looked disappointed. "Perhaps you are right/' he said, dubiously, "but it always does us good to bring those fellows up with" a round turn of the law. If he were a poor devil XK> one would think of sparing him; but " "It is not he so much as the bank that I am think- ing of," interrupted Phil. "I understand, sir, and I know you are right, though I confess it goes against the grain to allow him to go (Unpunished." "He won't go unpunished, never fear. The dis* -grace will sting keenly enough." "I don't believe much in the consciences of crim- inals. And it's a narrow enough escape you've had, sir." "I am so grateful for that that I am afraid I am ready to allow more than I ought to the man," an- swered Phil, with a Httle grin of relief and pleasure. "I suppose so. But here we are! This driver has tnade better time than I thought he could." They sprung from the carriage, paid the driver, then entered the bank. There was an expression of natural excitement in the countenances of the two men, and as Phil passed the door of his father's office he opened -It and thrust his head inside. "Will you come with me for a moment, father?" fee asked. "Clarke and I shall need you, LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL Halford Sumner arose and followed them. There was an expression of interrogation upon his counte* nance; but the clerks were standing about, and he made neither comment nor asked questions ; but Phil whispered, as they stood at the door of Arnold Lang- ford's private office: "We've nailed our man quicker than any of uss hoped for. Clarke holds all the proofs." Before Mr. Sumner could do more than look his surprise and pleasure, the door opened. "Halloo, Phil!'' exclaimed Arnold Langford, lightly, throwing the door wide. "Come in, my boy! I say, I hope nothing serious has occurred that you file in in such solemn procession. " Halford Sumner did not speak. He was pale to the lips, and stood leaning against the wall rather than taking the seat which Mr. Langford pushed toward him. Clarke, the detective, also stood silent, waiting ifor Phil to take the initiative, and, after an expressive pause, the young man stepped forward with sparkling eyes, his cheeks crimson under his excitement. "Something serious has occurred, Mr. Langford,^ Ihe said, struggling to keep his voice quite calm. "Really!" exclaimed Langford, affably, the light- ness vanishing from his manner somewhat, though no! suspicion of the real truth had dawned in his mind. "You rather alarm me. Nothing concerning the bank, I hope? Clarke's presence " "The bank must always be more or less invoked (when the rascality of one of its members is discov- ered." "You alarm me. Pray go on. I hope it is none of our trusted employes?" LI L, THE DANCING-GIRL ''Murphy is interested in it," answered Phil, watch-- ing his father's partner narrowly, and noting the ex- pression of dismay that was growing in his eyes and .which he was striving powerfully to conceal. "You may be interested to know, Mr, Langford, that my father has told me the story of the forgery in which tny name was associated. He assures me that Murphy said in his presence that I had presented a check bear* ing your signature and my own indorsement for. col- lection. Mr. Langford, Murphy lied ! I neither pre- sented nor ever saw the check, and my name was a forgery to that precious paper as well as your own !" Langford had grown white now, while a vivid color faad leaped to the cheeks and lips of Halford Sumner. "I confess that you surprise me, Phil; but how great the pleasure is I need not tell you," stammered Langfora, uneasily. : "I've no doubt," sneered Phil. "But that is not all, sir. It is not alone Murphy who is implicated in the unfortunate affair. I believe him to be simply the tool of a more accomplished villiai?.." 1 "You don't say! And whom do you suspect?" ' "It is not suspicion, but certainty, Mr. Langford/' announced Phil, calmly. "We have the irrefutable proof in our possession." "You interest rne," stammered the man, his voice growing hoarse and dull, his eyes becoming blood-shot tinder the terrible mental strain. I "You will be more interested. Mr. Langford, I will trouble you for that check in your pocket bearing the name of Henry Hastings, which your daughter Olive forged this morning." -^It would be impossible to say which man appeared LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL the more startled at the sudden announcement, Arnold Langford or his old partner. But there was astonish- ment in the countenance of one ; guilt, cringing shamei in that of the other. . For a moment Arnold Langford stood there like the criminal at bay, then he flung up his head haught- "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "Is it the forger who is trying to play an even game ? I might find some pity in my heart if you had striven to fasten a crime upon me ; but my daughter " "This is utterly useless, sir!" exclaimed Phil. "I tell yen the proof is conclusive. Clarke was a witness of the entire scene that took place in your library this morning, and has in his possession at this moment all the paptrs that were used in the imitation of the sig- nature even to the discarded check to which you fonnd objections, stating that there was a mistake in the formation of some of the letters. You see- But before he could complete the sentence the door was opened hurriedly, and Olive Langford stood upon the threshold. She was pale almost to ghastliness. She stopped suddenly as she saw who it was the roorrr contained, but Phil stepped forward almost at once. "Will you not come in, Miss Langford?" he said, coldly. "You have come to deliver an important mes- sage to your father. Will you not permit me to do it for you ? It is that the papers which you left upon the library desk this morning while you went to speak to him for a moment in the hall have disappeared. Is rot that your message, Miss Langford?" Her face had turned from pale to a dull greenisK DANCING-GIRL blue. The lines had deepened about the mouth, and great circles had grown under her eyes. Clarke had closed the door behind her, and she stag- gered back against it, her gloved hand pressed con-* vulsively upon her bosom. No further evidence would have been required of her guilt. Her father strove to come to her rescue. "This is an infernal plot!" he cried, wildly. "It is a plot to cover your own crime, and " "We will drop all that !" commanded Phil, sternly. "'You are lying to cover your infamy; but it cavi do no good. For the sake of the bank, and also for that of a woman who demands our sympathy only because cf her sex, we are willing to spare you, provided you kave the country immediately after resigning your position here. You know our ultimatum. We will leave you to talk the matter over with your daughter; bv;t you must decide upon your future course before you leave this building. And you must deliver to me the check which is at present in your possession. If that check is destroyed, or you decline any of my terms, you shall be at once handed over to the police, and you will be forced to stand your trial as a com- rr/on criminal !" He bowed slightly and left the room by another door, followed by his father and Clarke. They went to the office of Mr. Sumner, Sr., to await the reply of Mr. Langford and to discuss the situation; but Phil could take little interest in the future of either Arnold Langford or his daughter. There was but one thought that seemed to occupy his entire mental capacity. That was : "I must see Lil. 1 vi!1 ane, intending to knock; but tl; denu he fell back, away from the :e down i the mud, the rain beating upon the back of her hea tin for It was rather later than usual that morning when nonde opened the door of 'ien, the room adjoining the one in which Amy lay. The child had been given a room on* the ground-floor at her own request, because the ere tco much for her to d in the night her mother had been sum- mono ^e of one 'of those "bad turns" that were frequent n It wa? a vcr red face, that which :t in the early mornin; j ' iere \nthckitchendoor. S pale, ca haggard, in the soft hair that LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL hacT not been there when Lillian was at home on her vacation visit. She stood for a moment, looking up at the still darkened sky, though the rain had ceased, then she glanced about her. Her eye rested, with a little start, upon the human form that lay there under the window, and with a cry; of alarm she went toward it quickly and lifted it up. " A cry of horror left her lips that rang through the little building, bringing Jonathan Esmonde to her side. "What is it, mother?" he demanded, as he saw her half kneeling there, supporting the body of a woman. "For God's sake, come quick ! Oh, it can't it can't be Lillian!" The hardness of old Jonathan Esmonde's counte- nance deepened. He strode forward has-tily and ga^ed down into the soiled face which his wife had lifted/ Even in that condition it required but one glance to tell him the truth, that it was really his daughter, his first-born, who lay there like a dead thing. "Is she dead?" he ejaculated, hoarsely. "No/ 5 answered the woman, with her hand upon the feebly pulsating heart. "Help me, father! Hdp roe to carry her in. Quick !" He lifted himself. Granite could not have been harder, colder, grayer than his face. "Not into my house!" he exclaimed in a tone that fnatcfied his appearance. "Not into my house! 1 hoped she was dead, but since the Lord has denied me that, she will lay there until the town authorities take her where she belongs." "Jonathan Esmonde, ye can't know what you air a- talkin' about!" cried the horrified woman, glancing LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 21$ tip at him. "Ye must be mad ! This is yer own child, yer own flesh an* blood!" * 4 Xot mine!" he exclaimed, wildly. "Never agin! She brung the first shadder o' disgrace that ever dim- med the name. She is a thing that no good woman id lech. I told ye before, an' I tell ye now, that girl is nothing to me." it you wouldn't turn out a dog like this!" cried nonde, passionately. *'Ye wouldn't turn out a sick an' helpless an' homeless! Ye can't have .eart, Jonathan Esmonde! God never intended ye should chose yer own offsprings. He give 'ye this one, an' ye ain't no right to disown her when she needs yer help. Help me t' carry her, Jonathan, -" "Never:" he interrupted, brutally. "I tell you she 1 darken no door of mine. She is a har " peak that word, an' the curse o' God be upon 'shrieked the woman, rising suddenly and fling- ing out her hand dramatically. "An' even ef it was true, Jonathan Esmonde, she is your child just the same. Would you be the first to throw a stone after your girl into the grave? Would you be the first to stop hfr entrance into heaven? Whatever siie is, she is your child an' mine ! What did we do to make home pleasant fur her? You drove her out with your hard- ness an* coldness, as you are drivin' our other one into her grave. I've been obedient t' yer will done as ve ordered, been like ye, maybe, jist as hard and hearted, but you're aroused the mother in me at Jonathan Esmonde ! What right have ye to call thrt fiouse youmf Ain't I toiled and worked the same *s you? Ain't I shared every hardship? Ain't I LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL saved and scrimped and slaved from dawn till dark? Do you git all an' I git nothin'?' That house is as much mine as it is yourn, Jonathan Esmonde, an' my daughter goes into the old room where she wus born. Ef you air ashamed to own her, / ain't! She's my child, an* ef she is denied the home that is hers by j , i right of birth, ef, by brute force you prevent her en- trance there, then I go too! I shall never darken that door again until she goes with me ! I am a mother ! a mother as has her rights, though God knows she has been silent too long. Stand aside, Jonathan Esmonde ! Ef you won't help me to carry the daughter that be- longs to us both into the house that belongs as much to me as to you, then I can do it myself." She lifted the frail burden in her arms, staggering under it, it is true, but never wavering in her deter- mination. There was a look in the eyes that had never met his before, save in subservience, that the old man dared not question, and for the first time in his life Jonathan Esmonde was daunted. He stood aside. He did not offer to touch the bur- den she bore. He watched her totter under it into the kitchen and disappear into Amy's room. He shivered when he heard, the cry that told him Amy had recog- snzed her sister. He stood there, sullen, with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets forgotten, while his wife got mustard and hastily prepared homely remedies for her eldest born; then she came into the kitchen again and took ier sun-bonnet from the peg upon the wall. "Where be ye goin'?" he asked, huskily, as she would have passed him. "Fur the doctor !" she answered, briefly. LIL, THE DANCIXG-GIRL 22 1 put out his hand suddenly and placed it upon iioukler. "Go back to her!" he exclaimed, dully. "She needs you. /'// go fur the doctor!" CHAPTER XXXV. From the tortures of a blind despair to the happi- ness of a bewildering hope is a tremendous leap, and when it comes upon one suddenly the excess is almost painful. It was so with Philip Sumner, and when he found himself at liberty to go to Lil, to tell her of the wild joy that lay before them in the futare, he could scarcely control himself, but with crimson cheeks and dancing eyes he left the bank and almost staggered into the street. He called a cab, and without the lass of a moment hurried away to the Belleamie to tell her of the joyous tidings. One would scarcely have recognized the debonair young clubman in the wildly excited boy that sprung into the elevator and bid the boy take him to the floor upon which Lil's flat was located, and it seemed to his impatience an age before his ring at the bell was Ted. He was too much excited even to observe the as- pect of confusion that hung over the apartment, but sprung quickly by the maid and entered the dancing- room, in the center of which he saw Paul Chetwynd standing. He took the hand of the dancing-master, pressing it LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL warmly, and endeavoring to conceal something of his own joy out of respect for the other man's sorrow. "1 have news for you, old man/' he said, striving to control his eagerness. "I know you will be glad for for her sake. It seems the most heartless thing tinder heaven to expect you of all men to congratulate me, and yet 1 know you will from the very unselfish- ness of your disposition/' He paused a moment from inability to continue, A brilliant color had leaped to Chetwynd's cheeks. He grasped the young man's arm with fingers that- clutched like a vice. His voice was so hoarse that Phil could scarcely understand the words that he spoke. "Then she is with you?" he gasped. "For God's sake, speak! The suspense is almost maddening/' "With me? What do you mean?" A wild fear had taken the place of eagerness to Phil's eyes, and he gazed at Chetwynd breathlessly. "She has gone!" "You can't mean Lil?" "Yes/' "But where? Why?" "Heaven alone knows ! She was in rid condition to have gone anywhere alone, being weaker and more thoroughly upset than at any time since her convales- cence. Had you heard of her betrothal to Kirk Malt- land?' 5 ' "Maitland? Good God, no!" "He came to her with some infernal lie, I think* At all events, he worked upon her weakness until he had obtained her consent to become his wife. She loathed him, and I am -afraid afraid " "LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL "Afraid of what?" whispered Phil, scarcely able to control his articulation. Chetwynd did not reply in words. He looked the younger man straight in the eye, and an awful silence followed. Phil was the first to shake off self. He stemed to be endeavoring to shake off some horrible influence, and cried out, hoarsely: "I won't believe it. I can't believe it. Have you seen Maitland? Perhaps he knows." "Xo, I have not seen him, but I am sure he knows nothing. She would never have gone to him without letting me know. There is but one hope that I can see, and that so forlorn as to be well-nigh impossible. She may have gone home. In her weakened condition it would have been next to useless for her to attempt the journey alone, and yet " "The clew is worth working upon!" cried Phil, hing at any hope however frail. "I will telegraph at once to Jonathan Esmonde. Then we must see Maitland. I do not trust him, curse him!" 'Trust him ?" cried Chetwynd. "I should as soon think of trusting the devil himself. There is not a moment to lose. Come !" They left the room together, and as they went to \ the telegraph-office, Phil briefly outlined to this new- i ! made friend what had taken place since he had last I seen him. Chetwynd placed his hand upon the younger man's arm with a warmth that was remarkable. "God knows I hope you may find her!" he ex- claimed with emotion. "Dearly as I love her, much o JDV life at he has become, I would rob neither of you 224 LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL of one moment of your happiness. Oh, if this hatf but happened yesterday I" They entered the telegraph office together and sen! their message to Jonathan Esmonde : "Has your daughter Lillian returned home? She has left New York suddenly and without explanation. Her friends are anxious for her safety. Please answer at once at my expense." "PAUL CHETWYND." The address followed, and that was all. It arrived in Burton late in the evening and was not delivered until very nearly noon of the next day. Jonathan Esmonde was standing moodily at the gate, his arms folded upon the top, his back bent more than ever, his face graver and more haggard, when he saw the man approaching \vitli a yellow envelope in his hand. An expression of subdued interest lighted his eyes, "A telegram fur ye, Jonathan !" the man exclaimed. "Ain't no pervision made down thar at Burton fur de- liver'n' 'em so fur, 'n ole Anthony axed me ef I wouldn't fetch it, as I wus comin' this away. Tain'fc nuthin' t' git skeered about. I axed "Anthony what wur in it, an* he 'lowed 'twus about your darter com in' home/' Jonathan Esmonde put out his hand and took the telegram uneasily. His face ha<^ darkened again, a cold, steely determination growing in his eyes even before he had read it, "Thankee," he said, sullenly. "They ain't got no right t' send 'em ef they can't deliver *em." He turned his back upon the man who had obliged LIL, THE DAXII^-GIRL 22$ him and walked in the direction ot the isolated, lonely; locking house. \Yith trembling hands he tore the mes- sage open and read it through twice, then crushed it remorselessly in his great bony hands. A curious exprc>^on 1 countenance. It was such a one as a hungry wolf might have when he sees prey before him. c-aks of blood in hi were white arid compressed. He looked hungrily through the window of the little house. Back a trifle from it ; daughter Lillian l;ic chair the house con- tain-, is thrown bad lie looked with a little, tremulous, ev ile into the face of the mother who bent over her. At he:- sat, holding the whit-? arrncst transparent hand tenderly. an Esmonde had no part in that scene. lie ;ne aloof from the only things upon earth' that were dear to him. He stood there and watched with a strange gnawing at his heart the gnawirigs of jeai* first he had ever felt in all his self-en- compassed life, and the strangest of all the emotions, for it humanizes ji-?t as often as it bru- tali. -i It would have been impossible to read the thoughts jthat traveled with wonderful rapidity through his j brain, but his hand clinched more tightly over the little yellow paper, and after those long moments of inac- tivity and indecision, he turned away and strode quickly toward the stable. "Paddle Black Jack, Reuben," he said, curtly. "I am a-goin' t' ride t* town." T -te man had lived too long in that family to ask 226 LIL ; THE DANCING-GIRL questions, but did as he was bidden without a murmur. Jonathan swung himself into the saddle with surpris- ing alacrity for one of his apparent age, and giving the horse a cut with a peach-tree switch that made little enough impression upon the thick hide, he rode out of the yard. "I wonder where father be a-goin'?" mused Mrs. Esmonde, aloud, as she saw him swinging down tha road at a gait that was remarkable for him. Lillian lifted her head, but allowed it to fall back again wearily. "I don't know,'* she said, faintly. "Oh, mother, do you suppose he will ever forgive me? Do you sup- pose he will ever forgive you for allowing me to come Mrs. Esmonde placed her hand gently upon the pretty hair, and kissed her daughter upon the cheek. "Father furgive us both, dearie, when he went aftefl the doctor/ 7 she said, tenderly. "It ain't easy fur him to say it, but it'll come in time, never fear. It wus the first time in his life that father ever furgive anybody fur anything, and he ain't learned yit to do- it very neatly." There \vere tears in Lillian's eyes which prevented a reply; but she would not have put much faith in her mother's words could she have seen the expression of her father's face as he rode rapidly in tlie direction of Burton. His lips were still set, his eyes glassy under his determination, his grip upon the bridle an evidence of the feeling that oppressed him. He alighted in front of the depot where the tele- graph-office was located, and entered. Then in a L1L, THE DANCING-GIRL 22'f hand wrote his message, addressing it according to the directions that had been given. "My daughter Lillian ain't here/' "JONATHAN ESMONDS." He looked at the lie which he had written grii a smile of satisfaction crossing his face. He amount that was demanded, and sent it upon its ion. CHAPTER XXXVI. But Phil had made no allowances for delays that might occur at Burton. lie tried at first to wait patiently, but as the h lengthened, a very agony of unrest oppressed hi-n. lie dragged through a turbulent night with Chetu neither of them endeavoring to sleep, and \\ day broke he could bear it no longer. Maitland appeared early in the morning for r.r but neither of them was in a mood to receive kindly, and he went about his own business, inventing means of his own for discovering the whereabouts of the woman he loved as well as his selfish nature could love any one, while Phil turned with impatient energy to Chetwynd. "This silence, this delay, is maddening!'' lie claimed. "To endure it longer is simply impossible. I am going to Burton." "I was just thinking of that." "Then you will come witk me?" LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL "No. One of us must remain here. Some one might be needed upon the spot at any moment. You go. 1 rather fancy there must be something of im- portance there, or even that old hog of a father of hers would send some sor,t of a. reply. I will have a telegram there for you upon your arrival, detailing th$ news from here if there should, be any, and you caff, send a message from there as soon as you know ally* thing/* "I feel as if I were deserting you/' "Nonsense! Your duty is to her, not to me.* "I wonder if there Is another man in the world so unselfish as you, Chetwynd?" "I am no different from any man who deserves the name, my boy. I love our little Lil, and her happiness is the dearest thing in all the world to me, as it would be to any man who really loved her. Do you think I would allow you to rob me of her if there were a ghost cf a show that I might ever win her heart? But I know there is not She loves you, and, thank God! I Relieve you are worthy of her. I know your faults perhaps as well as you do yourself, but they 2 re not so serious that I shall fear to trust her to you if if she is ever restored to us again." Phil wrung the dancing-master's hand without reply in words. There was that awful, silencing fear upon him again that perhaps she was beyond them forever, a thought which he dared not, could not voice. He took the morning train for Burton, hoping against hope, fearing, dreading, praying as he had not Brayed since he was a boy kneeling at his mother's side. He was not awkward before that Great Pres- as he would have been if less in earnest, but LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL; 223 prayed with a fervor that must have touched the ever* ..n Father. For cnce the train was on time when it reached Burton, and Phil's heart beat with a stifling sort of ftalt hope as he leaped to the platform and turned .bout him for some sort of conveyance that Id take him to the home of Jonathan Esmonde. , a man with a much worn buggy, and hast- :costed him. 'Take ye tu Jonathan Esmonde's!" exclaimed the eld fellow, drawing in his lips and closing one eye to :cle the too great glare of the afternoon sun. y, Jonathan wus m town 'bout half a hour ago." '"'Is he here now, do you think?" "o. Seed him a-goin' up the pike at er gallop that one credit t' a boss jockey. Think mebby he wus urter the doctor. Darter's sick, they say." "Which one? Miss Amy?" . "She's alters sick more er less. Lillian kim home t'uther night, an' they du say she kim mighty nigh hevm' neumonie. Walked home frum the station in . the pcurin* rain. I hearn 's morin' she's better. Won-* der ef Jonathan could 'a ' bin arter the doctor?" "Is there a telegraph-office near here ?" "Right thar in the station." "Wait for me a moment, will you?" Phil did not stay for a reply. He sprung toward the station and sent a telegram flying to Cbetwynd: "She is here, ill, but alive, thank God! "SUMNER/* Then hastily he rejoined the man in the dilapidate? brggy. 23O LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 'Til pay you double your price if you .will make all the speed possible!" he cried, sharply. "I- must get to Jonathan Esmonde's as quickly as it can be done." Greed was a characteristic of most of the inhabi- tants of Burton, and this man was no exception to the! general run. He whipped the poor old horse into an] r.nusual exertion, and even then reached only a paca : "which would have tortured Phil had not his 'anxiety been somewhat relieved by the loquacious driver. The sun was sinking in the west when the little! cabin was sighted, and it seemed to the impatient lover that a palace had never looked so lovely to him as did the outline of that little log-house. He controlled his!" excitement, however, until they were near the house; then, unable to wait until the horse could go around by the regular road, he sprung out and walked rapidly up the foot-path that he had learned to know so well a few weeks before, and up to the little front door. Jonathan Esmonde must have scented danger in the atmosphere, for before Phil had reached the cottage, the old man stood in the door, the expression of hid face resembling nothing so much as the sharpened fea* tures of a blood-hound. "What air you a-doin' here?" he snarled. "Ain'ii you done harm enough already? What air you a- comin' after now?" "I have come td see your daughter Lillian/ 3 an- swered Phil, boldly. Jonathan Esmonde stepped outside, closed the door behind him, and held the knob securely in his long. "bony fingers. His lips were white and quivering with passion. "You can't see her!" : he cried, hoarsely; "you can't LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 231" 0ee her nuther you ner any uv yer kind. Ye tuck (her away frum me; ye made her a thing that even 1-he neighbors, common, simple folk, points at scorn; an ? when ye had done wi' her ye turned out 1 She come back to her ole father, an' he is n to pertect her with all the life in his body! Ye've THE DANCING-GIRE now between us and our happiness, except the ,. of man ratifying the will of God." CHAPTER XXXVIL There was no delay in Lil's recovery after that; There is no restorer like that which happiness brings, and -she was happy. It seemed that there was nothing 1 mnder heaven that could add to her perfect joy and content. She had Phil! She knew that his love was wholly liers, and that his companionship was to be hers dur- ing all the years of her life. And then her father had forgiven her. He appeared to be changed^ too * softened, more pliable, almost gentle. He came in one day as she sat beside the window, and with an expression upon his face that was shy as that of a school -boy, placed a handful of flowers in her lap- that' he- had purchased from the village florist. The tears came to her eyes for very thanksgiving; 'She could not speak; but he saw, understood, and bending over, kissed her upon the brow. It was more to her than the wildest demonstration would have been from another man. And 1 then, too, that awful fear of discovery ha$ vanished that terrible nightmare that had haunted the ftionths of her later life. The horrible shadow of a lie was lifted from her life and she was free of soul again! She was no longer haunted by conscience, no longer tortured by concealments; for "concealments" are like the ghost of Banquo, that will not down. LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL, 235 il had obtained from her a not unwilling consent n earl}/- marriage a. marriage that was to take e in the village church, without any pomp and not a ceremony. He had gone back to New York, at iier request, to tell his parents himself of their engage- ment and to plead for their sanction. "If my own father has despised me because of the I lead, Phi!, how much more should I expect it of yours," she said to him, gently. "Make them un- derstand, if you can, that I am not quite so black a I have been painted, and come to me with their con- sent to our union. I could never bear to rob them of you, dear." And he had gone. There was not much difficulty in gaining their con- They felt that something was due him for the that they had unintentionally made him suffer, and an even greater amount of confidence in him had i established than ever before. "If you feel that your happiness depends upon this srtarriage, my son/* his mother said to him as he knelt by Her side, "I have no objection to urge. Your happiness is our consideration in life, our one desire, we trust you." Tie kissed her gently. "That is like my own little mother," he said, ten- derly. "And you will come to our wedding? You -\\-\\\ meet her before she becomes my wife?" "Yes, my darling. I will go to your wedding, and I will try to feel that I am gaining a daughter instead of losing my son." "That you never could do, dear little one! You have the right and title by deed of gift to your placfc LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL in. my heart, oi which not even death could rob you.* Then he arose to grasp his father's hand. "I" confess you have surprised me/' the elder min .said. "1 will not deny that I should have preferred another selection ; but, after all, you are the only one to be consulted. You are no longer a boy. But is there not a rumor at the club that Kirk Maitland is the betrothed husband of this lady?'* Phil's face flushed. '1 think there may be," he replied, a little sternly; '"but the rumor will be quickly corrected. The scoim* whisper a trifle husky. "Stunner told me." "Isn't he the most charming man!" continued Amy, scarcely able to repress her excitement. "We met him here in Burton, you know, when my sister was home for her vacation. I was simply crazy for her to marry him then, and now to think she is really going to do it r "He is a charming man/' "That doesn't half express it. He is he most lovely man in the whole world ! He is going to take Lily to Egypt and the Holy Land, and to Persia an:l Russia, and oh, everywhere in the whole world ! And I wonder if I may tell you a secret, Mr. Chctwynd?" He looked at her and smiled. There \vas a. world of sadness in it; but in spite of her sympathy for every human thing, Amy was too happy to see. "Do you think that I am worthy of trust ?" he asked quietly. "Indeed I do. Lillian has told me a great deal o$ you, and of how royally good you have always beett to her. Well, my secret is this: -while she is gone away abroad, you know I am to go back to the New York Hospital for treatment. The doctors told rne when I was there before you know, that they make oae almost as good as new. I don't wanfj LIL, THE DANCING-GIRL 233 Lillian to know a thing about it, but to find me well Avhen she returns. And what do you think? Father is going to send me !" "Is he?" "Yes. He is the most changed man you ever -saw, in all your life. They say it is an ill wind that blows no one good, but I think there was never an ill wind v)!h happiness." Mr. and Mrs. Philip Simmer were to return to iNew acrk by private car in time to catch the outgoing steamer for Liverpool. The station platform was filled with people, handkerchiefs were waving, good- byes being shouted, kisses thrown. Beside the vesti** luile Chetwynd stood, and it was his hand that Phil grasped the last. od-bye, old friend," he said, with a little tremu- tene fluttering through his voice ; "true as Da- i-l God bless you! There will always be a place cit rny fireside preserved for you I" "Be worthy of her," Chetwynd returned, below his breath. k Tt is the only request I have to make." Then he kissed Phil upon the cheek. : revoir, little one,*" he said, forcing his voice to/ . "Don't forget old Chet in all your happi- ness." ocked at him a trifle wistfully. "Forget you!" she answered, brokenly. "You have been loo much to me for that everything, almost. L >Y3fih I could tell you " jf She could not complete the sentence in words, but lie understood, and as the train rolled away he stood there staring after it, his eyeballs burning with the sgcny he was too loyal to acknowledge even to him- self. He turned to Amy with a smile and drew her hand closely through his arm to assist her back to the. carriage. RETURN TO the circulation desk of any University of California Library or to the NORTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY Bldg. 400, Richmond Field Station University of California Richmond, CA 94804-4698 ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS 2-month loans may be renewed by calling (510)642-6753 1-year loans may be recharged by bringing books to NRLF Renewals and recharges may be made 4 days prior to due date. DUE AS STAMPED BELOW JAN 2 1998 12,000(11/95) YB 7564 970409 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY THE HART SERIES * jtemn Libbey Miss Caroline Hart Mrs. E. Burke Collins Mrs. Ates. Me^'e -- M. Braeme Barbara Howard Lucy Randall Comfort Mary E. Bryan Mas! Cost Was there ever a galaxy of aames representing such authors offered to the public before? H of writing stories that arouse tue emotions, in sentiment, passion and love, tLeir books excel any th have ever been written. NOW READY .anapped at the Altar, 1 aura Jean Libbey. v^'adiola's Two 'Covers, Laura Jean Libbey. Lil, the Dancing GH, Caroline Hart. The Woman Y/b Car e Between, Caroline Hart, ^ Aleta's Terrible Seer _t, Laura Jean Libbey. For Love or Honor, Care line Hart. The Romance of Enola, Laura Jean Libbey. L A Handsome Engineer's Flirtation, Laura J. Libbey ^-A Little Princess, Caroline Hart. Was She Sweetheart or Wife, Laura Jean Libbey, Nameless Bess, Caroline Hart. Delia's Handsome Lover, Laura Jean Libbey. * That Awful Scar, Caroline Hart. Flora Garland's Courtbhip, Laura Jean Libbey^ Love's Rugged Path, Caroline Hart. My Sweetheart Idabell, Laura Jean Libbey o Married at Sight, Caroline Hart. Pretty Madcap Dorothy, Laura Jean Libbey Her Right to Love, Caroline Hart. The Loan of a Lover, Laura Jean Libbey The Game of Love, Caroline Hart. A Fatal Elopement, Laura Jean Libbey Vendetta, Marie Corelli. The Girl He Forsook, Laura Jean Libbey Redeemed by Love, Caroline Harts A Wasted Love, Caroline Hart. A Dangerous Flirtation, Laura Jean Libbey A Haunted Life, Caroline Hart. Garnetta, the Si ver King's Daughter, L. J. Libbey A R^stance of Two Worlds, Marie Corelli. Her Ransom, Charles Garvice. A Hidden Terror, Caroline Hart. Flora Temple, Laura Jean Libbey. Claribel's Love Story, Charlotte M. Braeme Pretty Rose Hall, Laura Jean Libbey. The Mystery of Suicide Place, Mrs. Alex. Miller. Cora, the Pet of the Regiment, Laura Jean Libbey. The Vengeance of Love, Caroline Hart. Jolly Sally Pendleton, Laura Jean Libbey. A Bitter Reckoning, Mrs. E. Burke Collins. Kathleen's Diamonds, Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller= Angela's Lover, Caroline Hart. Lancaster's Choice, Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. The Madness of Love, Caroline Hart. Little Sweetheart, Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Millere A Working Girl's Honor, Caroline Hart. The Mystery of Colde Fell, Charlotte M. Braeme The Rival Heiresses, Caroline Hart. -Little Nobody, Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. Her Husband's Ghost, Mary E. Bryan. --Sold for Gold, Mrs. E. Burke Collins. Her Husbaad's Secret, Lucy Randall Comfort =A Passionate Love, Barabara Howard. -From Want to Wealth, Caroline Hart. -Loved You Better Than You Knew, Mrs. A<= Miller Irene's Vow, Charlotte M. Braeme. She Loved Not Wisely, Carolbe Hart. Molly's Treachery, Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Millere Was It Wrong? Barbara Howard. The Midnight Marriage, Mrs. Sumner Haydea Ailsa, Wenona Gilman. Her Dark Inheritance, Mrs. E. Burke Collnu -Viola's Vanitv, Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller. The Ghost of the Hurricane Hills, Mary E. Bryan. 69 A Woman Wronged, Caroline Hart. 70 Was She His Lawful Wife? Barbara Howard 71 Val, the Tomboy, Wenona Gilman. 72 The Richmond Secret, Mrs. E. Burke CoMwr 73 Edna's Vow, Charlotte M. Stanley, 74 Heart's of Fire, Caroline Hart. 75 St. Elmo, Augusta J. Evans. 76 Nobody's Wife, Ca*-olin- Hart. 77 Ishmael, Mrs. E. D. E. N Southworth, 78 Self-Raised, Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southwort* 79 Pretty Little Rosebud, Barbara Howard 80 Inez, Augusta J. Evans, 81 The Girl Wife, Mrs. Sumner Hayden. 82 Dora Thorne, Charlotte VI. Braeme. 83 followed by Fate, Lucy Randall Comfort. 84 India, or the Pearl of P arl River, Southwortfe 85 Mad Kingsley's Heir, Rlrs. E. Burke Collins, 86 The Missing Bride, Mn E. D.E. No South wort 87 Wicked Sir Dare, Charl ; Garvice. 88 Daintie's Cruel Rival? v!r S . Alex. McV c 89 Lillian's Vow, Carolin 1. ,t. 90 Mis= Estcourt, Charles ^orviceo 91 Beulah, Augusta J. Evans. 92 Daphane's Fate, Mrs. E Burke Colfe 93 Wormwood, Marie Coreui. 94 Nellie, Charles Garvice. 95 His Legal Wife, Mary E Bryaa 96 Macaria, Augusta J. Evtns. 97 Lost and Found, Chariot re M. Stanley. 9.8 The Curse of Clifton, Mrs. Southworth. 99 That Strange Girl. Charles Garvice. 190 T'ic Lovers at Storm Cattle, Mrs. M. A. Colla 101 Ma!erie's Mistake, Luc; Randall Comfort 102 The Curse of Pocahontas, Wenona Gilms.T 103 My Love Kitty, Charles Garvice. 1.04 His Fairy Queen, Elizabeth Stiles. 105 From Worse than Death, Caroline Hart* 106 Audr;y Fane's Love, Mn,. E. Burke Collins 107 Viom* and Orange Blossoms, Charlotte P.-< 108 F/chel Dreeme, Frank Corey, 109 Thr'.e Girls, Mary E. Bryan. 110 A Strange Marriage, Caroline Hart II. .--Violet, Chafes Garvice. 112 The Ghost of the Power, Mrs. Sumner Haydec 113 Baptised v ith a Curse, Edith Stewart Drew T 1!4 A Tragic Blunder, Mrs. H. Lovett Camera- US Tl.e Secret of Her Life, Edward Jenkins 116 My Guardian, Ada Cambridge. 117 A Last Love, Georges Ohnet. lit His Angel, Henry Hermar. lit Pretty Miss Bcllew, The- . Gift 120 Blind Love, Wilkie Collins. 121 A Life's Vistake, Mrs. H. Lovett C 122 Won By Waiting, Edna LyaD 123 Passions Slave, King. 124 Under Currents, Duchess 125 False Vow, Braeme. 126 The Belle of Lynne, Braeme, 127 Lord Lynne's Choice, Braeme 128 Blossom and Fruit, Braeme. 129 Weaker Than a Woman, Braeme. 130 Tempest and Sunshine, Mary J. Holme* 131 Lady Muriel's Secret, Braeme. 132 A Mad Love, Braeme. fc Hast Series books are for sale everywhere, or they will be sent by mail, postage paid, for 80 seats * copy. by the publisher; 4 copies for $1.00. Postage stamp* takem the ami M un^aey. WESTBftOOK