 Part 2 Chapters 19 and 20 of Bessie's Fortune by Mary Jane Holmes. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 19. What Gray and Jack did. They did everything that it was possible for two men to do under the circumstances. They failed the old house with flowers until it seemed like one great garden of bloom, and the coffin they ordered would hardly have shamed a duke while the undertaker had orders to send Bessie only a very small part of the real cost of the funeral. The rest they were to pay between them, though Jack at first insisted upon paying the whole. But in this Gray overruled him and they agreed to share the expense equally. Nothing could be kinder or more deferential than their demeanor toward Bessie, who wholly overcome with grief and fatigue lay perfectly quiet in her room, and let them do what they liked she was so weary and worn, and it was so good to be cared for. But on the day of the funeral she roused herself and insisted upon going to the grave and seeing her father buried. So, with Gray and Jack on either side, she walked through the U-shaded garden to the small enclosure, which was the family-bearing place, and was so full of the McPherson's that after Archie's grave there was only room for one more between him and the wall, and both Gray and Jack noticed this as they stood there and wondered if it would be Bessie or Daisy who someday would be brought here and laid in her last bed. Not Bessie, Gray thought, and there arose before him a beautiful spot far over the sea, where the headstones gleamed white in the sunlight, and the grass was like velvet to the touch, and flowers were blooming in gay parterres and the birds were singing all day long over Mount Auburn's dead. And not Bessie, Jack thought, as he too remembered a quiet spot away to the north of England, where the tall monuments bore the name of Trevelyan and where his race were buried. The services over at the grave they went back to the house, and in the evening Gray said good-bye, for on the morrow he was due at Liverpool to meet his Aunt Lucy who was coming abroad to spend a year with him and travel. I shall see you again before I go to America, and if possible will bring my Aunt Lucy with me, he said to her, when at parting he stood a few moments with her small, thin hand in his, while he spoke a few words to her of him who can heal all pain and cure the soreest heart sorrow, because he has felt it all. Gray's piety, which was genuine, did not so often manifest itself in words as indeeds, but he felt constrained to speak to Bessie, whose tears fell like rain as she listened to him, and who felt when he was gone a greater sense of loneliness than before, even though Jack was left to her. Jack, who tried so hard to soothe her and who was tender and thoughtful as a brother, and gave no sign to her of the volcano raging within him when he thought of the Honourable John and Neil, neither of whom sent a word to the stricken girl waiting so anxiously for news from them. But he wrote to them both. To the Honourable John, he said, Dear Sir, Mr. Gray Gerald and myself saw your nephew buried decently as you suggested, but there is no bill to send you, as Miss Bessie would not allow it. I am sorry you did not find it convenient to come to the funeral. The presence of someone of her family would have been such a comfort to Miss Bessie, who in that respect was quite alone, though I may say that hundreds of people attended the funeral, and had the deceased been the eldest son of an Earl instead of your nephew, more respect could not have been paid to him. I must leave here tomorrow for Trevelyan Castle, and then Miss Bessie will be quite alone, but I daresay you and Lady Jane will soon arrive to take charge of her. Respectfully, Jack Trevelyan. That will settle him, Jack thought, and taking a fresh sheet he commenced a letter to Neil which Rannis follows. Stonely, July, blank. Old boy, were in the name of wonder are you that you neither come nor write nor answer telegrams, nor pay any more attention to your cousin Bessie than if she were not your cousin, and you had never been pretty far gone in regard to her and afraid a chap like me would look at her? Don't you know her mother is on the sea going to America, sick as a horse, I hope, as she ought to be, and that her father is dead and buried and not a soul of her kin here to comfort her? But she was not deserted, I assure you, and I call it a dispensation of providence which sent Grey Gerald here the night before Mr. MacPherson died, and a second dispensation which sent me here the day after. I never pitied anyone in my life as I did the little, tired-out girl who stood between Gerald and myself at the grave. And now, the day after the funeral, she is white as a piece of paper and seems as limp and exhausted as if all the muscle were gone from her. Poor little Bessie. Foolish Bessie, too, to make the moan she does for some of her relatives to be here. For you, old chap, for I heard her say, O if Neil were here. By Jove, if I'd had you by the nape of the neck, I'd have shaken you into shoestrings, for I know well what you are at, saying soft speeches to Blanche as if that were not settled long ago. But no matter, Bessie will not need attention from her relatives much longer if I can have my way. I do not mind telling you that I intend to make her Lady Trebellion if she will be that. But meantime your mother ought to take her in charge and not leave her here alone. The thing is impossible, and I have no idea that Butterfly of a Daisy will come back at once. I shall not ask Bessie now to be my wife, but in a week or two I shall do so, and will then report success. I think Gerald is hard hit, too, but I mean to get the start of him. I need not tell you that notwithstanding I am so disgusted with you, I shall be glad to see you at Trebellion Castle whenever you choose to come. I cannot get accustomed to my change of fortune, and I am so sorry poor Hal is dead. Yours truly, Jack. The next day Jack laughed stonely as it was necessary for him to be at the castle, he said, alluding for the first time to his new home. Yes, Bessie replied, looking up at him with the first smile he had seen upon her face since her father died. You are Sir Jack now. I had scarcely thought of it before or remembered to give you your title. Don't remember it now, he said, with the look of deep pain in his eyes and a tremor in his voice. Believe me, I'd give worlds to bring poor Hal back to life again, and you do not know what anguish I endured during the few months I held him in my arms and knew that he was dying. Just an instant before and he had bandied some light just with me, and I had thought how handsome he was with that bright-winning smile which death throws so soon upon his lips. It was awful, and the castle seems to be so gloomy without him. Is that young girl there still? Bessie asked, and he replied, Yes, Flossie Meredith, the sweetest, prettiest little wild Irish girl you ever saw, but she cannot stay, you know. Why not? Bessie asked, and he replied, Mrs. Grundy will not let her live there alone with me. Hal was her cousin, but I am no kin to her, and so she must go back to Ireland, which she hates, unless—Bessie, he cried, impulsively, then checked himself as he saw the startled look in her eyes and added quite calmly, You and Flossie would be the best of friends and would suit each other exactly. You are so quiet, she's so wild and frolicsome. Let me bring her to see you this summer. I am sure I should be so glad if you would, Bessie said, and then Jack went away, promising to write her from London with her he was first going. And in a few days his letter came, saying he had learned that Neil had gone to Moscow with the party and so his silence and absence were explained. I wrote him a savage letter, he said, and shall have to apologise for it when I see him. I dare say you will hear from him ere long. Remember, I am coming again to Stonely very soon. Always your friend, Jack Trevelyan. Bessie's heart beat rapidly as she read this letter and comprehended its meaning, but she was true to Neil and waited patiently for the letter she knew was sure to come as soon as he heard of her trouble. Two weeks went by, and then one lovely July day Jack came again, and, sitting with her on the bench in the garden where her father once sat and made love to Daisy, he told her first of his home with its wide-spreading pastures, its lovely views, its terraces and banks of flowers and of Irish Flossie, who cried so hard because she must give up this home and go back to her old house by the wild Irish Sea with only a cross-grandmother for company. And so, Bessie, he said, I have come to ask you to be my wife and make both Flossie and myself the happiest people in England. It is too soon after your father's death to speak of love and marriage, perhaps, but under the circumstances I trust you will forgive me and believe it is no hasty step with me. I think I have loved you since the day I first saw you in the park and looked into your bright face, the fairest and truest I ever saw. Flossie is beautiful and sweet and good and makes one think of a playful kitten, which you wished to capture and caress a while, and then release before you get a spit and scratch, but you, Bessie, are my ideal of a woman and I could make you so happy. Think what it would be to have no care or thought for the moral, to do nothing but rest, and you need it so much. You are so tired and worn and up there among the hills you would grow strong, and I would surround you with every comfort and make you a very queen. Will you come, Bessie? Will you be my wife? And when I ask you to share my home I do not mean to exclude your mother. She shall be welcomed there for your sake, and we will try to make her so happy that she will stay with us or live here if she chooses and give up her wandering life. Dear Bessie, answer me. Can you not like me a little? As he talked Bessie had covered her face with her hands and he could see the great tears dropping through her fingers. Don't cry, darling, he said, winding his arm around her and trying to draw her to him. Don't cry, but answer me. Don't you like me a little? Yes, a great deal, but not that way. I thank you one of the noblest best of men had always have thought so since I first knew you, and you were so kind to father and me, but I cannot be your wife. Oh, Bessie, don't say that. Jack cried with such bitter pain in his voice that Bessie looked quickly up at him and asked wonderingly, Do you then care so much for me? Care for you, he exclaimed. Never man cared for or loved another better than I love and care for you. I have staked my all upon you. I cannot give you up. Travelling Castle will have no charm for me if you are not its mistress. I want you there. We need you there, Flossie and I. Ah, I had forgotten this. And taking a letter from his pocket, he handed it to Bessie, saying, It's from Flossie. She knew of my errand here and wished to send a message. I do not know what she has written, but read it, please. She may be more successful than I have been. Opening the letter which was written in a bold, dashing schoolgirl hand, Bessie read as follows. Travelling Castle, July, Blank Dear darling Bessie, I must call you that, though I have never seen you, but I have heard so much of you from Sir Jack that I feel as if I knew you, and very soon I hope to see you face to face, for you are coming here as Lady Jack, and so save me from that horrid, pokey place on the Irish coast where I can never be happy, never. I do so want to stay at the castle, but Madame Propriety says it would not be proper. I hate proper things, don't you? And I do love the castle. Such a grand old place with lovely views from every window. Acres of green sward, smooth as satin, with shade trees here and there and banks and borders and beds of flowers, and from the room I have selected as your sitting room you can see a broad, grassy avenue nearly a mile long, with the branches of the trees which skirt it meeting overhead. Every day I gallop down that avenue which they call by my name, on midnight my black horse, and I always clear the gate at a bound. I like such things and there is not a fence or a ditch in the neighborhood which I cannot take. Hoidinesh, do you call me? Well, perhaps I am, but I am a pretty nice girl, too, and I love you and want you to come here at once and be happy. Sir Jack has told me how different your life has been from mine and how tired and mourn you are, but here you shall never know weariness again. Your life shall be one long rest in the loveliest place you ever saw, and we will all care for you so tenderly, and bring the roses back to the dear face Sir Jack says is now so pale. I am seventeen, and not a mere child, though I am not much larger than your thumb, and I can be your companion and friend if you will only come. You must love Sir Jack. You cannot help loving him when you know how good he is. Why, if I tried real hard I could love him myself, but he looks upon me as a child, though he does not play with and tease me as Cousin Harry did. Poor Hal! There is such a pain in my heart when I think of him so strong and full of fun in the morning, and then dead before noon. Oh, Hal, Hal! My tears are falling fast for him, and I am so lonely without him. Come to me, Bessie, and you shall never have a more devoted friend than little Florence Meredith. There were tears in Bessie's eyes when she finished this letter which told her something of the warm, loving nature of the impulsive Irish flossy whom she knew she could love so much, while the perfect rest promised her a travailion castle looked so very pleasant to her and she was so tired. Oh, so tired in mind and body that it seemed to her she could gladly lie down in some quiet spot and die if only thus she could rest. And Jack had offered her rest and happiness and luxury with him, but she must not take it, must not consider it for a moment. She was promised to kneel. She would be true to kneel, even though he neither wrote nor came. She had loved him always and tired as she was, she was ready to take up life's work again and battle and toil for him, if need be. And when Jack said to her, You will be my wife, Bessie, she answered him sadly. No, I cannot. I might learn to love you in time if I could forget the past, forget that I love another and promise to another. Love another, promise to another, not great Gerald, Jack exclaimed, and Bessie answered him. No, not Mr. Gerald. He never thought of me that way. It surely cannot be wrong to tell you now, though I am pledged a secrecy for a while. I told Father just before he died, I am plighted to my cousin, Neil, and we are only waiting for him to find something to do or his mother to be reconciled to me to be married. Plighted to Neil, to Neil McPherson, You, Jack exclaimed, and for a moment his cheek grew pale and then flushed with resentment as he thought of this fair young girl, being thus sacrificed, to one who he knew was not worthy of her. Jack was fond of Neil in a certain way, but he knew him thoroughly and knew that supreme selfishness was his ruling principle and that Bessie's life with him would be quite as hard as it had been with her father. Besides this, he could not reconcile this engagement with the fact that he knew Neil to be very attentive to Blanche Trevelyan, to whom current rumour said he was certainly engaged. Hence his astonishment which Bessie was quick to detect for she answered him a little proudly. Yes, I. Do you think it's so very strange that Neil should have chosen me? No, Bessie, he replied, but strange that you should have chosen him. I cannot help it, Bessie, and I do not mean to be disloyal to Neil when I say that he will not make you happy and further that you will never marry him. I am sure of it, and knowing that he only stands in my way I can still hope for the future, and when you are free remember I shall come again. Good-bye, Bessie, and forgive me if I have wounded you. In my bitter disappointment I spoke out what I thought. I must go now, and with a heavy heart, Flossie will be so disappointed, too. He had risen as he spoke and offered her his hand which she took, and lifting her eyes full of tears to his face, she said. I have faith in Neil. If I had not I believe I should die. He cannot help his mother's pride and opposition to our marriage. He is true to me through all, and he will come to me as soon as he knows of my trouble. I am sorry for you, Mr. Trevelyon, if you really care for me, but you will get over that feeling and be again my friend. I do not wish to lose you. I have so few friends. Oh, so few. I am sorry, too, for Flossie and interested in her. Mr. Trevelyon, why don't you marry Flossie yourself and so keep her at the castle? I, Mary Flossie, that child, Jack exclaimed, staring blankly at Bessie who smiled faintly and said, She is seventeen. I am eighteen and yet you sought me. Yes, I know, Jack rejoined, but there is a vast difference between you and Flossie. She is so small and she seems so young. I did not suppose she was seventeen. I have always looked upon her as a mere child to pet and not as a woman to marry. Then look upon her in that light now, Bessie said, but Jack only shook his head as he replied, I have loved you, Bessie. I shall never love another. Farewell, and God bless you. Stooping over her he kissed her forehead and then walked rapidly away with her question occasionally ringing in his ears and stirring new and strange thoughts in his heart where the pain was still so heavy. Why don't you marry Flossie? 20. What the McPherson's did They did just as little as they could at least that portion of the family which was at Bessie when the news of Archie's death was received there. This portion comprised the honorable John and Lady Jane for Neal had already started from Moscow with Blanche and a few other young people. How very inconvenient that he should die just now when we are so far from Wales. It is quite impossible for you to undertake the long journey in this hot weather and what good could you do if you were there? You could not pretend to be sorry and we are not able to do much for the girl. Neal's trip will take all our spare cash, Lady Jane said as she read the telegram received from Jack and that decided her better half at once. If Lady Jane said he could not go he could not, but something of his better nature prompted him to say that he would pay for the funeral expenses. This, however, he kept from his wife who dismissing Stonely from her mind resumed her daily routine of duties, baths at seven, music in the park at eight, breakfast at ten, gossip till one, sleeping till three, driving at four, dressing for dinner, dining at six, and going to the casino in the evening. This was her life while the honorable John bathed and smoked and read the newspapers and called it all a confounded bore and wished himself at home and thought not unfrequently of Stonely and what was to become of Bessie. Meantime Neal was enjoying himself immensely. His mother had given him plenty of money and his companions and surroundings were most agreeable to him. And still he never for a moment swerved in his heart from Bessie, that is he never harbored the thought that she should not one day be his wife and he still hugged the delusion that he preferred poverty with her to riches with any other woman in all the world. But until the time arrived when he must take her and poverty he surely might enjoy himself and he was doing so to the best of his ability when Jack's letter came informing him of Archie's death and of his intention to make Bessie his wife if she would have him. Then Neal roused himself and telling his party what had happened said he must start for Stonely at once. Mr. MacPherson was dead and his cousin Bessie was alone and it was his duty to go to her and in spite of blanches and treaties and his friend's protestations against it he started immediately and traveling day and night reached Stonely on the afternoon of the day of Jack's departure. With a cry of glad surprise Bessie threw herself into his arms and wept as she had not done since her father died. Oh, Neal! she sobbed. I am so glad. I have wanted you so much and been so wretched because you neither wrote nor came. But I did write you, darling, before I left Vichy and the letter must have gone astray, he said. And then the moment I got Jack's letter I started and came to you. Don't cry, Bessie. It hurts me to see you feel so badly. Try and be quiet and tell me all about it and what Grey Gerald and Jack did and said. They were both here I understand and both in love with you. Neal spoke a little sharply now and Bessie looked inquiringly at him as drawing her to a seat he sat down beside her and with his arm around her and her head upon his breast he went on. Jack wrote me all about it, that he believed Grey pretty far gone but that he should get the start and ask you to be Lady Trevelyon and I believe he will do it too and if he does I hope he will put him down effectually but don't for heaven's sake tell him of our engagement. That must be our secret a while longer. I cannot meet Mother's disapproval just yet. Do you believe that horrid old aunt in America wrote asking me to come out there and oversee the hands in a cotton mill? Niggers I dare say as I believe there are mostly that in Massachusetts are they not? Bessie did not reply to this but said to him quietly. Mr. Trevelyon asked me to be his wife here this morning and I told him no and that I was plaited to you. Oh Bessie how could you have been so indiscreet. Now the news must reach Mother and my life will be a burden to me. Neal exclaimed with so much severity in his tone that Bessie shrank a little from him as she replied. I had to tell him Neal. There was no other way to make him believe I meant it he was so much in earnest. He will not repeat it. He has too much honor in his nature for that. He is one of the best and noblest men I ever knew. Bessie was very in earnest in her defense of Jack and Neal grew angry at once. Maybe you prefer him to me. He said. By Jove I do not blame you if it is so. You'd better be Lady Trevelyon with plenty of money than plain Mrs. Neal McPherson not knowing where the next meal is to come from. Say the word and I will set you free though it breaks my heart to do it. No wonder if Bessie felt that Neal's presence was productive of more pain than pleasure or if for a moment she felt keenly the contrast between his manner and Jack's. But Neal's mood soon changed and winding his arm around her and kissing her fondly he called himself a brute and a savage to wound her so and talked of their future when he could always be with her and worked himself up to the point of proposing marriage at once. A private marriage of course which must be kept secret for an indefinite length of time during which she would live at Stonely and he would visit her often. But Bessie shrank from this proposal and when Neal asked what she was to do there alone she answered that she could do very well until her mother came and then they would manage somehow on the little there was left and if nothing better offered she could go out as a governess to small children. But this plan Neal repudiated with scorn. His wife must never be a governess, never earn her own bread. The idea was preposterous and then he talked of the bright future before them if they waited patiently and how happy he would make her and in the morning he left her and went back to London and she was alone again and looking anxiously forward to news from her mother and the day after Neal left a letter came from Daisy with the blackest and deepest of borders and Bessie opened it eagerly to learn where she was and when she was coming home. End of chapters 19 and 20. Part 2 Chapter 21 of Bessie's Fortune by Mary Jane Holmes. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 21. What Daisy did. She flirted with every man on the ship who would flirt with her. Even Alan Brown was not insensible to her charms. During the last few months he had developed amazingly and had put on all the errors of a first class dandy. He parted his hair in the middle, carried an eyeglass and a cane, wore a long overcoat and pants so tight that it was a matter of speculation with his friends how he ever got into them or being in how he ever got out. His last purchase in London had been a pair of pointed shoes which were just coming into vogue as was the species of the male gender called dudes. A dude would like all of them and think of him too shallow for anything, was Mrs. Rossiter Brown's comment, and she looked a little a-scance at her son wondering how he would impress the rich villains at home and especially what Miss Bowton would think of him. I wouldn't make a tarnel fool of myself if it was the fashion, she said to him when the pointed toes appeared. But Alan had his own ideas and encouraged by Daisy who though wonderfully amused at his appearance told him he was to tafe parisier, he followed his own inclinations and arrayed in all his finery made himself the laughing stock of the passengers. But he did not care so long as Daisy smiled upon him and allowed him to attend her. He walked with her on deck and brought her chair for her and her shawl and rug and wrapped her feet carefully and held the umbrella over her head to screen her from the wind and hovered over her constantly, leaving his mother to stagger or rather crawl up the stairs as best she could with her rug and shawl and waterproof and saw her umbrella turned inside out and carried out to see without offering her any assistance even when as she expressed it she was sick enough to die. Augusta did not need his attentions for Lord Hardy devoted himself to her and nothing which Daisy could do avail to lure him from her side. Once when Alan said to her that Hardy seemed pretty hard hit with Gus her lip curled scornfully but she dared not express her real feelings and say how little the Irish Lord cared for the girl herself. She must not offend the Rosseter Browns and she smiled sweetly upon her rival and called her Gussie dear and flattered Mrs. Brown and made eyes at Mr. Brown and asked him to bet for her in the smoking room where he spent most of his time with a set of men who are always there smoking, drinking, joking and betting upon the daily speed of the ship or any other trivial thing to pass away the time. So while his son flirted with the fair lady on deck, Mr. Brown bet for her in the smoking room was so good success that when the losses and gains were footed up she found herself richer by one hundred and fifty dollars than when she left Liverpool. Mrs. Brown did not believe in betting. It was as bad as gambling she said and Daisy admitted it but said with tears in her eyes that it would do so much good to Betsy and her sick husband to whom she should send every farthing as soon as she reached New York. The voyage had been unusually long but this was their last day out. New York was in sight and in her most becoming attire Daisy stood upon the deck looking eagerly at the, to her, New World and wholly unconscious of the shock awaiting her on the shore which they were slowly nearing. At last the ship reached the dock, the plaque was thrown out and a throng of passengers crowded the gangway. Is Mrs. Archibald McPherson on board? Was shouted through the ship and in a flutter of expectation Daisy went forward announcing herself as the lady in question. A telegram has been waiting for you more than a week. Was the response as the officer placed in her hand the yellow missive whose purport he knew? A message for me? Where could it have come from, I wonder? Daisy said as without a suspicion of the truth she broke the seal and read. Stonely June, blank. Your husband died this morning quietly and peacefully. Betsy well but very tired. Gray Gerald. Oh Archie my husband! Daisy cried bitterly as she sank down into a chair and covered her face with her hands while over her for a moment there swept a great wave of regret for the man she had loved in the days when she was innocent and young and not the hard selfish woman of the world that she was now. Archie is dead. Dead. She moaned as the rosseter Browns gathered around her together with Lord Hardy who took the telegram from her and read it aloud while he too experienced a throb of pain for the man he had known so long and esteemed so highly even while he despised him for his weakness in suffering his wife to lead the life she had. How vividly it all came back to him the day when he first saw Archibald MacPherson the fair English boy for he was scarcely more than that with his young girl wife so innocent and lovely then. And she was lovely still and he pitied her for he believed her grief genuine mingled as it must be with remorse for the past and laying his hand on her bowed head he said to her kindly, I am very sorry for you and if I can do anything for you do not hesitate to command me. Alas for poor weak human nature when perverted from its better side the sound of Teddy's voice so different from what it had been during the voyage awoke a throb in Daisy's heart which she would not like to have confessed to those around her. She was free now and who knew that she might not one day be mistress of the handsome place in Ireland Lord Hardy's home if only she played her cards well. Surely that low born Yankee girl Augusta Brown could never be her rival even if she had money. Such was the thought that flashed like lightning through Daisy's mind as she felt the touch of Lord Hardy's hand and heard his sympathetic voice. Her first impulse when she read the telegram had been that she must go back to Bessie in the first ship which sailed but now her decision was reversed. Archie was dead and buried. She could do no good to him and she might as well stay a little while especially as she knew Lord Hardy had accepted Mrs. Brown's invitation to spend a few days with them at the rich house. It would never do to abandon the field to Augusta she reflected but her tears flowed just as fast and to do her justice there was a sense of bitter pain in her heart as she sat with her head bowed down while the Browns and Lord Hardy stood around trying to comfort her. Mrs. Brown offered her her salvolately and called her my poor dear. Augusta put her arms around her neck. Alan fantered gently and Lord Hardy asked what he could do while Mr. Brown said it was plaguey hard on her but somebody must go and see to them confounded custom house chaps or they would have every dud out of the ten trunks and there'd be a pretty how do you do. Thus reminded of what had been a terror to her all the voyage Mrs. Brown suggested that Daisy should leave the ship and sit on the wharf with gusty to attend to her while she helped her husband pull through. It was in vain that Mr. Brown protested against any help telling his better half to mind her business and saying that she'd only upset everything with her fussiness and red face. But Mrs. Brown would not listen. She was not going to let him lie. She had given him numerous lectures on that point during the voyage and had always ended them with the assertion that she wouldn't pay duty either. Just what she meant to do she did not know but she went with her husband to the field of combat and was soon hotly engaged with three officers who seeing her nervousness and hearing her excited voice sent a mischief of course and not was standing that she declared she was Mrs. Rossiter Brown of Ridgeville a church member in good standing and asked if they thought she would do a thing she believed was wrong. They answered her that her idea of wrong and theirs might not agree and they went to the bottom of her largest trunk and found the silk dress she had bought for her friend Mrs. Bolton who had told her to get one worth four dollars a yard but not to give over to and on no account pay duty. I trust your Yankee wit to get it through. Mrs. Bolton had written citing several instances where similar things had been done and no lies told either. And it was this particular dress at the very bottom of her trunk for which Mrs. Brown felt the most anxiety. But the remorseless officers found it and found a plush table spread she had bought in Paris and a cushion to match and as they held them up they facetiously asked her to what church she belonged. She told them none of their business and as her principles and patients were both at a low ebb by this time and the meaning of rendering to Caesar the things which were Caesars did not seem at all clear to her. She whispered fiercely to her husband. Ike, you fool, why don't you fiam? I can't have them riddle and gnaw them to their trunks with my seal-skin and Gusty's fur-lined cloak and Alan's new overcoat and that clock and mosaic table. Fiam, hide too and do it quick. There's that wretch now lifting out a tray. To those who have witnessed similar scenes it is needless to say that by some magic the search was stopped and neither Mrs. Brown's seal-skin nor Augusta's fur-lined cloak nor Alan's overcoat were molested and the ten trunks were chopped and deposited in the express wagons and the Rosseter Browns with Lord Hardy and Daisy were driven to the Windsor. Meantime Daisy had cried a good deal and leaned her head against Augusta and once against Lord Hardy's arm and sobbed, Oh, Teddy, you knew my Archie and know just how good and patient he was and how lonely I shall be without him. Oh, what shall I do? Teddy did not suggest anything she could do, though he naturally thought she would go home at once and Mrs. Brown thought so too when she had recovered from her encounter with the Custom House officers and could think of anything. But she would not be the first to suggest it outright. She merely said it was a pity that Mrs. McPherson could not see anything of America except New York, which was much like any great city. Yes, Daisy sobbed, such a pity and I had anticipated so much. Oh, Mrs. Brown, I do want to do right and you must advise me. Now that I am here and poor dear Archie is dead and buried and I can do him no good by going back at once, do you think it would look very bad and heartless in me if I stay a little while? Just long enough to see your lovely country home and rest. I am so tired and as Alan happened to be nearest to her, she leaned her head against him and cried aloud. Before Mrs. Brown could reply, Augusta asked, What of Bessie? Will she not be very lonely without you? Nasty cat! She is as jealous as she can be and I will stay to spite her, Daisy thought, but she said, Oh yes, I ought to go home to Bessie, though she would bid me stay now that I am here. She is so unselfish and I shall never come again. Her cousin's family in London will take her directly home, so she will not be alone. Poor Bessie! Daisy knew that the London family would not take Bessie to their home, but it answered her purpose to say so and seemed some excuse for her remaining as she finally decided to do, greatly to Alan's delight and somewhat to Mrs. Brown's surprise. Yet the glamour of Daisy's beauty and style and position was over her still, and she was not sorry to show her off to the people in the hotel had anticipated in no small degree what would be said by her friends at home when she showed them a live Lord and an English lady like Daisy. She was going to Ridgevale in a day or two, but Daisy's mourning must first be bought and in the excitement of shopping and trying on dresses and bonnets and deciding which shape was the most becoming, Daisy came near forgetting poor, dear, dead Archie, of whom she talked so pathetically when she spoke of him at all. Don't I beg of you, think that I ever for a moment forget my loss, she said to Mrs. Brown when she had with a hand glass studied the hang of her crepe veil for at least fifteen minutes. It hurts me to speak of him, but there is a moan in my heart for him all the time. And Mrs. Brown believed her and thought she was bearing it bravely and paid all the bills and thought her the most beautiful creature in her weeds that she had ever seen. And truly she was a lovely little widow with just enough pallor in her face to be interesting and show that her sorrow had robbed her of some of her roses or, as Lord Hardy suspected, that she had purposely omitted the roses when making her toilet for the sake of effect. Lord Hardy knew the lady perfectly and knew there was not a real thing about her except indeed her hair, which was wavy and abundant still and of which she was very proud, often allowing it to fall on her neck and always arranging it in the most negligent and girlish manner. Once her complexion had been her own but the life she had led was not conducive to bloom and much of her bright color and the pearly tint of her skin was now the work of art so skillfully done, however, that few could detect it. Mrs. Brown did not. She never suspected anything and took Daisy for what she seemed and was glad Allen was so fond of her as in her society he was safe, she said, and could not help getting kind of refined and cultivated up. Daisy wrote to Bessie, telling her how prostrated with grief she was and that she would have taken the first ship home if the Rosseter Browns had not insisted that she should stay and see a little of America. But it will not be for long, she wrote, I shall soon return and I send you thirty pounds absolutely my own. This will last till I am with you and then we will contrive together how to live respectively and happily. The day after the letter was sent the Brown Party started for Ridgeville, reaching the Allington Station about three in the afternoon of a lovely July day. The news of their coming had preceded them and the Ridge House, which was a large imposing mansion, had for days been the scene of much bustle and excitement, for it was known that an Irish Lord was to accompany the family and an English lady, who if not titled was connected with some of the best families in England. There was a great deal of talk and gossip among the neighbors who had known the Rosseter Browns without an E or a hyphen, when he was simply Ike and she was Angeline, Miss Lucy Gray's hired girl. But they were rich people now. They owned the finest house in Ridgeville, and every room was covered with what Mrs. Brown called a mocha carpet, and they kept negroes instead of white servants, and the barn was full of boxes of all sizes which had arrived from time to time, bearing foreign marks upon them, thus impressing the lower class with the species of all as they thought how far they had come and how much they had probably cost. Then the family had traveled and consorted with nobility and seen the Queen and the Pope, and in consequence of all this there was quite a crowd of people at the station when the New York Express stopped then and deposited upon the platform twelve trunks, three hat boxes, an English terrier, a dong-a-la cat with innumerable satchels and portmantos and seven people, Mr. and Mrs. Rosseter Brown, Augusta Brown, Alan Brown, Daisy MacPherson, a French maid, and Lord Hardy. He plainly dressed in a gray suit which did not fit him at all but with a decidedly aristocratic look upon his face as he glanced curiously at the crowd gathering around the Browns and greeting them with noisy demonstrations. Daisy in deep black with her veil thrown back from her lovely face and a gleam of ridicule and contempt in her blue eyes as they flashed upon Lord Hardy as if for sympathy. The French maid in white apron and cap, tired, homesick and bewildered with Mrs. Brown's repeated costs to know if she was sure she had all the bags and shawls and fans and umbrellas and the shrill voice of a little boy who shouted to her as the train moved off. I say, ain't you left your bunnet in the cars? Taint on your head. Alan, stunning in his long light overcoat, tight pants, pointed shoes, cane, and eyeglasses, which he found very necessary as he pointed out his luggage and in reply to the baggage master's hearty. How are you, my boy? Drawled out. Quite well, thanks, but awful tired, you know. Augusta in a jersey jacket with gloves buttoned to her elbows and an immense hat with two feathers on the back. Mr. Brown in a long, ulster and soft hat with gloves which his wife made him wear and Mrs. Brown in a pair as dress, fearfully and wonderfully made and a poke bonnet so long and so pokey that to see her face was like looking down a narrow lane. No wonder the plain people of Ridgeville to whom poke bonnets and jersey jackets and along gloves and pointed toes were then you were startled and a little abashed at so much foreign style, especially as it was accompanied by nobility in the person of Lord Hardy. At him the people stared curiously deciding that he was not much to look at if he was a Lord and wondering if he was after Augusta. Her mother will bust if he is. She has about as much as she can do to keep herself together now. I wonder if she has forgot that she was once a hired girl and worked like the rest of us. Was whispered by some of the envious ones. But this was before they had received Mrs. Brown's greeting, which was just as cordial as of old and her voice was just as loud and hearty. She didn't mean to be stuck up because she'd been abroad. She was a Democrat to her backbone. She had frequently asserted and she carried out her principles and shook hands with everybody and kissed a great many and thanked them for coming to meet her and then with her husband Augusta and Lord Hardy entered her handsome carriage and was driven toward home. The French maid went in the omnibus while Alan drove Daisy himself in the pony faton, not a little proud of the honor, and the attention he was attracting as he took his seat beside the beautiful woman whose face had never looked fair or sweeter than it did under the widow's bonnet. What a lovely pony! Is he gentle? And do you think I might venture to drive him? Daisy asked with a pretty affectation of girlishness as they left the station and Alan instantly put the reins in her hands and leaning languidly back watched her admiringly with a strange thrill of something undefinable in his heart. Do we pass Miss MacPherson's house? Daisy asked and he replied, Yes, at a little distance and we can go very near to it by taking the road across the common and he indicated the direction. That is the place with all those cherry trees. He continued, pointing toward the unpretentious house where Miss Betsy MacPherson had lived for so many years and where she now sat upon the piazza with Anna Gerald at her side. Miss Betsy had been in Boston for two weeks and had only returned home that morning, finding Betsy's letter of thanks written so long ago and not forwarded to her until one of the firm in London heard of Archie's death. This letter she had read with a great feeling of pity for and yearning toward the young girl who had written it. I wish I had sent her more and I will by and by, she thought, never dreaming that Archie was dead or that his wife was so near. She had not even heard of the arrival in New York of the Browns and was talking with Anna Gerald who had come over to see her when the carriage containing Mr. and Mrs. Brown, Augusta and Lord Hardy came into view across the common. Why, that's the Browns, she exclaimed. Are they home? And who is that tau-headed chap with them? Not Alan, surely? Anna explained that the Browns were expected that afternoon and that an Irish lord was coming with them and that half Ridgeville had gone to the station to meet them. Irish fatal sticks, after Augusta's money, of course, Miss Betsy returned with a snort, but whatever else she might have said was cut short by the appearance of the Phaeton with Alan and Daisy in it. I wonder who she is. I hope she stares well. Seems to me I have seen her before. Miss Betsy said adding as Daisy half inclined her head and smiled upon her. Who can she be? Somebody they have picked up to make a splurge with. A widow at any rate. Oh, yes. I remember now to have heard from the cook at Rich House that an English lady was to accompany the family home, and, yes, her name was MacPherson, too. Lady MacPherson, the cook called her. This is she, no doubt. Lady MacPherson, Miss Betsy repeated. There is no Lady MacPherson except my brother's wife, Lady Jane, and she is almost as dried up and yellow by this time as I am, while this lady is young, and, good gracious, it is she, the Jezebel, Lady MacPherson indeed, and Miss Betsy sprang to her feet so energetically as to startle her visitor who had no idea what she meant. The face seen on the terrace at Aberystwyth years ago had come back to Miss Betsy, and she felt sure that she had just seen it again, smiling upon Alan Brown as it had then smiled upon Lord Hardy. But why in widow's weeds? Was Archie dead? She asked herself as she resumed her seat and tried to seem natural. Hannah saw that something ailed her, but she was too well-bred to ask any questions and soon took her leave. Alone with her thoughts Miss Betsy felt a soliloquizing. That letter was written long ago. Archie may be dead, and this painted gambler has galled the Browns and come to America as their guest with the snipper snapper of a Hardy. I must find out if Archie is dead and what has become of the girl. After she had had her tea, Miss Betsy ordered her old white horse and old-fashioned buggy to be brought round and started for a drive, taking the Ridgevale Road and passing the House of the Browns, where the family were assembled upon the wide piazza enjoying the evening breeze. At a glance she singled out Daisy who was reclining gracefully in an armchair with a pond lily at her throat, relieving the blackness of her dress, and Alan Brown leaning over and evidently talking to her. As Miss MacPherson drove very slowly and looked earnestly toward the House, which was at a little distance from the road, Mrs. Brown, who was watching her, ventured down the walk, bowing half-hesitatingly, for she had never been on terms of intimacy with Miss Betsy of whom she stood a little in awe. Reigning up old whitey, the lady stopped and waited until Mrs. Brown came to her. Then, extending her hand, she said, You are welcome home again. I did not know you had come until I saw your carriage go by and the pheatons with Alan and a lady in it, and she glanced toward Daisy who, having heard from Alan that this stiff, queer-looking woman in the buggy was her aunt, had arisen to her feet for the purpose of getting a better view of her. Yes, Mrs. Brown began. We got home today and a more tackered-out lot you never saw. Home is home if it's ever so homely, I tell them. By the way, I'm glad you happened this way. I was going to send you word. I brought home with me one of your relations. Mrs. Archibald MacPherson, your nephew's wife, and I hope you'll call and see her. She is very nice and so pretty, too. That's her in black. Ah-huh. And Miss Betsy's thin lips were firmly compressed. Ah-huh. Yes, Mrs. Archibald MacPherson. Why is she in black? Then followed the story of the telegram received on the Celtic and the terrible shock it was to Daisy who was for a time wholly overcome. Seems pretty brisk now, Miss Betsy said, glancing sharply toward the airy figure now walking up and down the piazza with Alan at its side. Why didn't she go home at once to her daughter? She did talk of it, Mrs. Brown replied, uneasily, for she detected a saprobation of her guest in Miss MacPherson's tone. I think she would have went, but it seemed a pity not to see a little of America first. She will not stay long, and I hope you'll call soon. I believe you've never been in my new house. No, I have not. Who may I ask is that toe-headed man with his hair parted in the middle? Oh, excuse me! And Mrs. Brown brightened at once. That is Lord Hardy. We met him in Nice. He is going west, and we persuaded him to stop here first. He is very nice and not at all stuck up. Yes, an Irishman. I've seen him before. If he is poor, my advice is, look out for Augusta, and anyway, have a care for your boy. Good night. It's growing late. Get up, Whitey, and with a jerk at the reins the old lady drove on, while Mrs. Brown, rather crestfallen and disappointed, went slowly back to the house, wondering why she was to have a care for her boy, her Alan, still walking up and down at Daisy's side and talking eagerly to her. I suppose I am meaner than dirt, but I cannot help it. I will not notice that woman. No, not a woman but a gambler, an adventurous, a flirt, who if she cannot capture that Irishman will try her luck with Alan. I hate her, but I pity the girl, and I'll send her a hundred pounds at once, Miss Betsy soliloquized, and she went home through the gathering twilight. And before she slept, she wrote to her bankers in London, bidding them forward to Betsy's address another hundred pounds and charge it to her account. The next morning, Miss Betsy was sitting in her hop vine-covered porch, shelling peas for her early dinner, and thinking of Archie and the painted Jezebel as she designated Daisy, when a shadow fell upon the floor, and, looking up, she saw the subject of her thoughts standing before her, with her yellow hair arranged low in her neck and a round black hat set coquettishly upon her head. Miss Betsy did not manifest the least surprise, but adjusting her spectacles from her forehead to her eyes looked up inquiringly at her visitor, who, seating herself upon the threshold of the door, took off her hat, and in the silvery tone she could assume so well, said, You must excuse me, dear Auntie. I could not wait for you to call. I wanted to see you so badly. And as Alan Brown was going to the post office, I rode down with him. I am Daisy, Archie's wife or widow, for Archie is dead, you know. She said this very sadly and low, and there were great tears in the blue eyes lifted timidly and appealingly to the little sharp bead-like eyes confronting her so steadily through the spectacles. How very lovely and youthful looking she was as she sat there in the doorway, and Miss Betsy acknowledged the youth and the loveliness, but did not unbend one wit. She began, and the tone was not very reassuring. I knew you were here. Mrs. Brown told me, and I saw you there with Alan yesterday. I saw you years ago on the terrace at Abertswith, and remembered you well. Was Archie very sick when you left him? Yes, no, Daisy said stammeringly. That is, he had been sick a long time, but I did not think him so bad or I should never have left him. Oh, auntie, it almost killed me when I heard he was dead, and there is a moan for him in my heart all the time. She adopted this form of speech because it had sounded prettily to herself when she said it to Mrs. Brown, who had believed in the moan, but Miss Betsy did not. She said, how much time have you spent with Archie the last ten years or so? Not as much as I wish I had now. I was obliged to be away from him, Daisy replied, and the spinster continued. Why? My health was poor, and I was so much better out of England, and so when people invited me I went with them. It saved expense at home, and we are so poor. Oh, you cannot know how poor. And Daisy clasped her hands together despairingly as she gazed up at the stern face above her, which did not relax in its sternness, but remained so hard and stony that Daisy burst out impetuously. Oh, Auntie, why are you so cold to me? Why do you hate me so? I have never harmed you. I want you for my friend, mine and Betsy's, and we need a friend so much in our loneliness and poverty. Betsy is the sweetest, truest girl you ever knew. For a moment Miss Betsy's hands moved rapidly among the Peapods, then removing her spectacles and wiping them with the corner of her apron she began. I mean to treat everybody civilly in my own house, but if I say anything I must tell the naked truth. I believe Betsy is a true girl, as you say, but I have my doubts of you. I have heard much of your career. Have talked with those who have seen you in that hell at Monte Carlo, bandying Jess with young proplegates and bleary-eyed old men, more dangerous than the younger ones because better skilled and evil. I saw you myself on the terrace at Abertswith, flirting as no married woman should flirt with that wiffet Lord Hardy who it seems is here with you and whom perhaps you think to capture now that you are free. But let me tell you that men seldom pick up and wear a soiled garment, particularly when they have helped to soil it. Lord Hardy will never marry you and my advice is that you go home as you ought to have done at once. Go back to your child and be a mother to her. But as you hope for heaven never try to drag her down where you are, you talk of poverty, you do not show it. Those diamonds in your ears never cost a small sum, nor that solitaire upon your finger. They were given to me. Daisy sobbed as she rose to her feet and put on her hat preparatory to leaving while Miss Betsy continued, given to you, the more shame for you to take them, better throw them away than wear them as a badge of degradation. Yes, throw them away or send them back once they came. Wash that paint off your face. Get rid of that made up smirk around your mouth. Remember that you are going on to word forty. Oh, Daisy groaned. I am not quite thirty-six. Well, thirty-six then, the spinster rejoined. There's a wide difference between thirty-six and sixteen. You are a widow. You have a grown-up daughter. You are no longer young, though you are good-looking enough. But good looks will not support you honestly. Go home and go to work if it is only to be a barmaid at the George Hotel. And when I see you have reformed, I do not say I will not do something for you, but just so long as you go around sponging your living and making eyes at men, and boys too for that matter, not a penny of my money shall you ever touch. I have said my say, and there comes the boy Alan for you. Good morning. She arose to take her peace to the kitchen. The conference was ended and with a flushed face and wet eyes Daisy went out to the Phaeton into which Alan handed her very carefully and then took his seat beside her. He noticed her agitation but did not guess its cause until she said, with a little gasping sob, I was never so insulted in my life as by that horrid old woman had I been the vilest creature in the world she could not have talked worse to me. She said I was living upon your people, sponging, she called it, that I was after Lord Hardy and, and, oh Alan, even you, the boy she called you, and she bade me go home and hire out as barmaid at the George Hotel in Bangor. The wretch, boy indeed, Alan said, bristling with indignation at this fling at his youth, but feeling a strange stir in his young blood at the thought of this fair creature being after him. Arrived at the rich house, Daisy went directly to her room and had the headache all day and gave Mrs. Brown a most exaggerated account of her interview with her aunt, but omitted the part pertaining to Lord Hardy and Alan, the latter of whom hovered disconsolently near the door of her room and sent her messages and a bouquet, and was radiant with delight when after tea time she was so far restored as to be able to join the family upon the piazza. It was Alan who brought a pillow for her and a footstool and asked if she was in a draft and when she said she was moved her chair at her request near to Lord Hardy who scarcely looked at her and did not manifest the slightest interest in her headache or in her. Nothing which Daisy could do was of any avail to attract him to her, and she tried every while and art upon him during the next few days but to no purpose. At last when she had been at the rich house a week and she had an opportunity of seeing him alone she said in a half playful, half complaining voice, What is it, Teddy? What has come between us that you are so cold to me? Has the fair gusty as her mother calls her driven from your mind all thoughts of your old friend? You used to care for me, Teddy, in the good old days when we were all so happy together. Don't you like me a little now and I so lonely and sad, and all the more so that I have to keep up and smile before these people who kind as they are bore me with their vulgarities? Say, Teddy, are you angry with me? As she talked Daisy had put her hand on that of Lord Hardy who once would have thrilled at its touch but who now shrank from it as something poisonous. He knew the woman so thoroughly that nothing she could do or say would in the least affect him now and when she asked if he were angry with her he replied, Not angry, no. But Mrs. MacPherson. Oh, Teddy, now I know you hate me when you call me Mrs. MacPherson. Daisy sobbed and he continued, Well, Daisy then, if that suits you better, I am not angry but you must know that we can never again be to each other what we were in the days when I was foolish enough to follow where you led even to my ruin. All that is past and I will not reproach you more. But, Daisy, I must speak one word of warning. I owe so much to these kind people whose vulgarities bore you but do not prevent you from accepting their hospitality. I am not blind to what you are doing. And what am I doing? Daisy asked and he replied, Making a fool of a boy for mercenary purposes of your own. I have seen it ever since we left Liverpool and I tell you I will not allow it. And if you persist in lowering Alan to your side on all occasions and throw over him the glamour of your charms, the family shall know all I know of your past life, even if it compromises me with you. They think you pure and good. What would they say if they knew you to be a professional gambler and adventurous about whom men jest and smile derisively even while they flatter and admire you in a certain way? Bad, in the common acceptation of the word you may not be, but your womanhood is certainly soiled and you are not a fit associate for a young susceptible man or for an innocent girl. If you were a true woman you would have gone home at once to your daughter who rumours says is as sweet and lovely as an angel. Go back now to her and by fulfilling the duties of a mother try to retrieve the past. It is not impossible. I do not mean to be harsh and hardly know why I have said all this to you except it were to save Alan Brown who is each day becoming more and more in love with you. In love with me? A woman old enough to be his mother? Absurd! Daisy exclaimed adding scornfully, thanks for your lecture which shall not be lost on me. I have no wish to prolong my stay in this stupid place and only wish I had never come here and since my presence is so distasteful to you I will go at once and leave you to prosecute your suit with the fair Augusta wishing you joy with your Yankee bride and her refined family. Shall you invite them to your home in Ireland? If so, may I be there to see? Adio! And with a mocking curtsy she left the room and going to her chamber wrote to Bessie that she was coming home immediately. Daisy had lost her game and she knew it. She had nothing to expect from Miss MacPherson, nothing from Lord Hardy and as her deep mourning prevented Mrs. Brown from giving the party she had talked about so much she might be better in Europe she thought and accordingly she acquainted her hostess with her decision. There was a faint protest on the part of Mrs. Brown but only a faint one for she was beginning to be a little afraid of her fair visitor whom Augusta disliked thoroughly. Only Allen was sorry for the wily woman had stirred his boyish heart to its very depths and when at last he said goodbye to her and stood until the train which bore her away was out of sight he felt perhaps has keen a pang of regret as a young man of twenty-two ever felt for a woman many years his senior. Mr. Brown accompanied her to New York and saw her on board the ship and on his return home reported that he had left her in the cabin a smellen of and admiring a basket of flowers most as big as herself which she said a very dear friend had ordered sent to her with his love. She didn't say who it was, he continued, and I didn't ask her but I thought fool and his money soon parted for they'd smell awful in a day or two and be flung into the sea. She give me one of the posies for Allen. I guess it's pretty well jammed for I chucked it into my vest pocket. Here it is, and he handed a faded rosebud to Allen whose face was very red and whose eyes as they met those of Lord Hardy betrayed the fact that he was the very dear friend who had ordered the flowers as his farewell to Daisy. End of Chapter 21. End of Part 2. Part 3, Chapters 1 and 2 of Bessie's Fortune by Mary Jane Holmes. The carnival was raging through the streets of Rome and the Corso was thronged with masqueraders and lined with spectators, Italians, English and Americans, all eager for the sight. Upon the balcony of a private dwelling for which an enormous price had been paid because it commanded a fine view of the street below sat Miss Lucy Gray with Gray Gerald and a party of friends. Lucy had been in Rome three or four weeks staying at a pension in the Via Nazionale which she preferred to the fashionable and noisy hotels. Gray who had taken the trip to Egypt had only been in Rome a few days and as there was no room for him at the pension he was stopping at the Corinal nearby. He had seen the carnival twice before and cared but little for it. But it was new to his Aunt Lucy and for her sake he was there, standing at her side and apparently watching the gay pageants as it moved by, though in reality he was scarcely thinking about it all, for all his thoughts and interest were centered in the white-worn face he had seen that morning in a close dark room at the hotel where Bessie MacPherson lay dying he verily believed. On the night of his arrival at the hotel which was very full he had been given a room on the fourth floor looking into a court and his rest had been disturbed by the murmur of voices in the room adjoining his own. An Italian voice which he was sure was a doctor's, a clear decided youthful voice with a slight Irish brogue which he knew must belong to a young girl and an older softer voice often choked with tears and occasionally a moaning sound and wild snatches of song which affected him strangely for this voice broken and weak as it was had in it something familiar and he tried in vain to recall where he had heard it before and under what circumstances. Once he thought he heard his own name as if the sick girl, he felt intuitively that it was a girl, were calling for him and starting up he listened intently but caught only the tones of a tearful sobbing voice which said, Hush, darling, hush, we are all here, try to be quiet and sleep. At last worn out with wakefulness and the fatigue of his long journey from Naples, Gray fell into a deep sleep from which he did not waken until nearly ten the next morning. Dressing himself hastily he went at once to the office and asked who occupied the room adjoining his own. An English lady and her daughter was the reply and the clerk who was not noted for suavity of manner turned to a little bright-eyed black-haired girl who came up evidently with the intention of preferring some request. There was something in the toss of the curly head and the saucy look in the eyes and the slightly upward turn of the nose which always commanded attention from the rudest of porters and clerks, and this one of the Kirinal bowed respectfully to her and was about to ask what he could do for her when Gray interrupted him with another question or rather assertion and question both. The young lady is sick, what is the matter with her? A flush of annoyance passed over the clerk's face as he replied, a severe cold taken in Naples, what can I do for you, Miss Meredith? And he loftily bowed Gray aside to make room for the young girl whose black eyes flashed upon Gray with a half-comical expression and whose shoulders shrugged involuntarily as she heard the clerk's explanation. I will ask the names of the English lady and her daughter another time, Gray thought, as he moved away to make room for the young lady. He had finished his breakfast an hour later and was making his way from the winter garden into the parlor when he again encountered the young girl with the bright laughing black eyes. Excuse me, she said flashing upon him a bright B-wildering smile. I looked on the register and found that you are Mr. Gray Gerald of whom I have heard Sir Jack Trevelyan speak. Sir Hal, from whom Sir Jack inherited Trevelyan castle, was my cousin and I used to live there before poor Hal was killed. I am Flossie Meredith and live now with my grandmother at Port Rush in Ireland. Gray bowed low to the vivacious little lady who went on rapidly, gesticulating as she talked, and emphasizing what she said with most expressive shrugs and elevations of her eyelids and nose. I heard what that horrid clerk at the bureau told you ailed the young lady in number blank. A severe cold indeed. I should think it was. It is the typhoid fever of the very worst form and if you are afraid of it you had better change your room. There are awful big cracks over and under the door. I have stopped them up with papers as well as I can but the air can get through and you might take the fever. The gentleman who occupied the room before you came left it in a hurry when he heard of the fever but I don't know where he went to escape it for it's all over the hotel. There is an American girl on the same floor whom they think is dying this morning and a young man downstairs and two or three more somewhere else and yet the clerks will tell you there is not a single case of fever in the hotel. What liars they are to be sure? Grant-Maw is frightened almost to death and burns sugar and camphor and brimstone as disinfectants and keeps chloride of lime under her bed till her room smells worse if possible than the hotel itself but I am not afraid. My room adjoins Bessie's and I am with her half the time. What did you say? What did you call the young lady? Gray asked excitedly and flossy replied. Bessie, Bessie McPherson from Wales? I remember now you must know her for Sir Jack told me that he once spent Christmas at Stonely and you were there with him. Yes I know her. Gray said with a tremor in his voice and a pallor about his lips. Tell me how long she has been sick and who is with her? Then flossy told him that immediately on her return home from America Daisy had taken Bessie with her to Switzerland where they spent the remainder of the summer and a part of the autumn making their way to Paris in October and going on to Italy sometime in November. That she flossy had come abroad with her grandmother and had fallen in with the McPherson's at the Italian lakes and kept with them ever since. That Bessie had not seemed well or happy for some weeks and that almost immediately after her arrival in Rome she had taken to her bed and had been rapidly growing worse until now when the doctor gave little hope of her recovery. She does not know us, flossy said, and she talks so piteously of her old home and wants us to take her back to the garden where the birds are singing in the use and where she says there is just one place between her father and the wall and that is for her. Oh, Mr. Gerald, what if she should die? She must not, she shall not, Gray answered her energetically and by the sense of bitter pain in his heart he knew that Bessie McPherson was more to him than any other girl could ever be and if she died the world would lose much of its brightness for him. He had never forgotten her and over and over again in both his sleeping and waking hours there had arisen before him a vision of her face as he had seen it when first he went to Stonely and as he saw at their last pale and worn and sad but inexpressibly lovely and sweet. And now, flossy told him she was dying and for a moment he grew cold and faint then he rallied and saying I will go and see Mrs. McPherson. Bad flossy good morning and started for number blank fourth floor. His knock was answered by Daisy herself whose face was very pale and whose eyes were swollen and red with watching and tears. All her better nature had been aroused. The mother love was in the ascendant now and in her anxiety for her child she had forgotten much of her cockatry and was almost womanly in her grief. You are Mrs. McPherson, Gray said to her as she stepped out into the hall and closed the door of the sick room. She bowed in the affirmative and he continued, I am Gray Gerald. I knew your husband. I was with him when he died. I have just heard from Miss Meredith of your daughter's illness and have come to offer you my services. Is there anything I can do for you? Daisy's tears fell like rain as she replied. Oh thank you, Mr. Gerald. It will be something to know I have a friend for we are all alone. Neil is in Cairo and there is no one beside him on whom we have any claim. I have heard Bessie speak of you. Only last night she called you by name in her delirium. Yes, I heard her, Gray said, explaining that he occupied the adjoining room and thus had learned that there was someone sick near him. In an instant Daisy's face brightened as something of her old managing nature asserted itself and in a few moments she adroitly contrived to let Gray know how very much alone she felt with no male friend to counsel her, how bitterly disappointed she was that the last male from England did not bring her the expected funds which she so sorely needed, how exorbitant the proprietor of the hotel was in his charges, taking every possible advantage of her helpless condition and how much she had desired in adjoining room in order that Bessie might have better air and those who took care of her more space. Not that it matters so very much except for the air, she added, for I cannot afford a nurse so there is one less breath in the room. Oh, Mr. Gerald, it is dreadful to be sick in Rome with no friends and very little money. If Neil were here or my remittances from England would come it would be all right. No nurse, Gray exclaimed, have you known nurse for your daughter? Who then takes care of her? I do with Miss Meredith's help. She is very kind and occasionally one of the servants in the hotel stays with us during the night, but I hear Bessie moving and I must go. I am so glad that you are here. Good morning. It is needless to say that within two hours time Gray's room was at Daisy's disposal and the proprietor had orders to charge the same to Mr. Gerald's account instead of Mrs. McPherson's, while Gray's own luggage was transported to a little close eight by twelve apartment which smelled worse than old Mrs. Meredith could possibly have smelled with all her burnt brimstone and camphor and chloride of lime. The physician in Italian was also interviewed and a competent nurse secured and introduced into the sick room and when Daisy protested that she could not meet the expense Gray said to her, give yourself no uneasiness on that score, that is my business. We cannot let Bessie die. And then he asked to see her. Very cautiously he entered the room and with a great throb of pain in his heart stood looking upon the pallet face and the bright blue eyes which met his inquiringly but had in them no sign of recognition. Taking one of her hands in his and bending over her Gray said very softly, Do you know me, Bessie? There was tenderness and pity in the tone of his voice as he said the name Bessie and the sick girl looked at him curiously as if struggling to recall something in the far past. Then a smile broke over her face and the lip quivered a little as she replied, Yes, you are Neil. I have waited for you. I am so glad you have come. Still holding the feverish hand which clung to his Gray hesitated a moment and then said, I am not Neil. He will be here soon. I am Gray Gerald. Don't you remember I spent a Christmas with you once? Again she regarded him fixedly a moment and then she said, Yes, I remember Gray Gerald, the American. He was to have had my room but said he preferred the cold and the rats. Ugh! And she shivered a little as she continued. Where is he, Neil? He was with me when father died and was so very kind. Thank him for me when you see him. And now I am so tired. I cannot talk any more but stay by me, Neil, and hold my hand I am better with you here. She persisted in thinking him Neil and Gray humored the fancy. He had never heard of her engagement for Jack had not betrayed her confidence. But he knew that she and Neil were greatly attached to each other and were as he thought, more like brother and sister than cousins, and believing as he did with the world in general that Neil was pledged to Blanche Travelyan, he had no suspicion of the real state of affairs, though he wondered that all Bessie's thoughts should be concentrated upon her absent cousin. How sick she was and how high the fever ran and how strangely she talked as he sat there watching her with a terrible fear in his heart and a constant prayer for the dear life which seemed balancing so evenly in the scale for the next two or three days, during which he was with her all the time he could spare from his Aunt Lucy, who never suspected why he seemed so abstracted and sad or that the fever was in the hotel where he was staying. He knew how much afraid she was of it and how anxious she would be for him if she knew where he spent the hours not given to her. So he did not tell her of poor little Bessie who grew weaker and weaker every day until at last the old daughter shook his head and between the pinches of snuff which she blew about vigorously said there was one chance and a hundred for her and if she had any friends who wished to see her they should be sent for at once. But there was no one save Neil whom Daisy expected every day and Gray filled his place altogether with Bessie. She always called him Neil and once with a most grieved expression on her face she said to him, Why don't you kiss me, Neil? You have not since you came. Daisy and Flossie had gone to dinner and the nurse was resting a few moments in the adjoining room while Gray sat by her patient. Thus he was alone with Bessie when she startled him with a question. Why don't you kiss me, Neil? Bending over her he said, Would you like me to kiss you, Bessie? Yes, she answered faintly and then Gray pressed his lips to hers in a long, passionate kiss with no thought that there was danger and possible death in the hot breath which he felt upon his cheek as he laid it against hers. He thought of nothing but the sick girl before him whom he had kissed and whom he now knew that he loved better than anything in life. I, whom he had loved since the Christmas time when he first looked into her blue eyes and played for the knot of ribbon she wore at her throat. Gray had seen much of the world and many bright eyes had flashed upon him glances which mean so much but which had never affected him. Nothing, in fact, had touched him until he saw Bessie MacPherson whom he had remembered always and sometimes to himself he had said, I will see her again, I will know her better and if. He never got farther than that if, though he was conscious that in all his pictures of a future home there was a face like hers as he had seen it in the old Stonehouse at Stonley. He had not sought her again, but he had found her unsought. Sick, helpless, dying perhaps, and he knew how much he loved her and how dark would be the future if she were snatched from him. Oh, heaven, I can't let her die, he cried, and falling on his knees by the bedside he prayed long and earnestly that she might live for him who loved her so devotedly. This was the night before the second day of the carnival when Gray felt obliged to leave her for a few hours in due duty at his Aunt Lucy's side. Miss Gray had that morning heard rumours of fever in Rome and with her fears aroused she signified to Gray her wish to leave the city the following Monday. You are looking very thin, she said, regarding him anxiously as he bent over her chair, and I am not feeling very well myself. It is time we were out of Rome, I am sure it is not healthy here. She did look pale, Gray noticed, and as his first duty was to her he signified his readiness to leave with her on Monday. I shall know the worst by that time, he thought. If she is better I can go with a good heart. If she is dead it matters little where I am. All places will be the same to me. And so it was settled that with his Aunt Lucy should leave for Florence on the following Monday, and with a heavy heart he said good-bye to her when the festivities of the day were over and went back to his hotel. 2. Farewell It was Sunday and the gay pageant of the carnival was moving through the Via Nazionale on which the Hotel du Quirinal stands. This was the grandest gayest day of all, and the spectacle which the long street presented as carriage after carriage and company after company pressed on had in it nothing of the calm, quiet repose which we are want to associate with Sunday. It was not Sunday to the throng of masqueraders filling the streets or the multitude of spectators crowding the balconies and windows of the tall houses on either side of the way. But to the little group of friends gathered in the room where Bessie lay it was the holy Sabbath time, and save when by the opening of some door crossed the hall a strain of music or shout of merriment was bored to their ears they would never have guessed what was passing. The fever had burnt itself out on Bessie's cheeks and left them colorless as marble, while in her eyes so large and heavy with restlessness and pain there was a look of recognition and on the pale lips a smile for those around her. She had known them all since the early morning when awaking from a heavy sleep she called her mother by name and asked where she was and what had happened to her. The last three weeks had been a blank and they broke it to her gradually and told her of Grey Gerald's presence and how she had mistaken him for Neil from whom they had that day heard and who would be with them on Monday. It was Falassie who told Bessie this last as she kissed the white forehead and said through her tears, I am so glad to see you better. It nearly broke my heart when I thought that you might die and Mr. Gerald too I am sure would have died if you had. Oh, Bessie, I never saw this Neil, but he cannot be as nice as Mr. Gerald who next to Sir Jack is the best man in the world. Hush, Falassie! Bessie whispered for she had not strength to speak aloud. Such things are over with me now. I shall never see Sir Jack again, never see Neil for when he comes tomorrow I shall not be here. Oh, Bessie! Falassie cried with a great gush of tears, but Bessie motioned her to be silent and went on. Tell Sir Jack that I might have loved him had I seen him first, but it will not matter soon whom I have loved or who has loved me. Tell Neil when he comes and stands beside me and I cannot speak to him that I loved him to the last and if I had lived I would have been his wife whenever he wished it, but it is better to die for perhaps I could not have borne the burden and the care again. I am so tired and the rest beyond the grave looks very sweet to me. You say Mr. Gerald is here. I should like to see him and thank him for his kindness. Gray had not been to the room that morning, but he soon came and was admitted to Bessie's presence. Smiling sweetly upon him as he came in, Bessie said, I cannot offer you my hand for I have no power to move it. The life has all gone from me. See? And she tried in vain to lift one of the thin transparent hands which lay so helplessly just where flossy had put them. Don't try, Gray said, sitting down beside her and placing one of his own broad warm palms upon the little hands as if he would thus communicate to them some of his own strength and vitality. I am glad to find you better, he continued, but Bessie shook her head and answered him, saying, but not better. I shall never be that. But I want to thank you for all you have done for us, for mother and me. You were with me when father died. I remember all you did for me then, and I prayed God to bless you for it many a time, and now I am going where father has gone and shall sleep by him in the little yard at home for they will take me back. Mother has promised. I could not rest here in Rome, lovely as the graveyard is. Flossy told me you were to leave to-morrow, and I wanted to say goodbye and tell you how much good you have done me, though you do not know it. Neil told me once of your resolve to make somebody happy every day, and I have never forgotten it, and have in my poor way tried to do so, too, in imitation of you, but have failed so miserably. While you—oh, Mr. Gerald, you are so noble and good. You have made so many happy. God bless you and give you everything which you desire most. She was too much exhausted to talk any more, and closing her eyes she lay as if asleep while Gray watched her with the bitterest pain in his heart he had ever known. Would she die? Must he give her up? Was there yet no brightness, no happiness in the world for her whose life had been one of this sacrifice and toil? He could not think so, and all his soul went out in one continuous prayer. Don't let Bessie die. All day she lay motionless as the dead, scarcely lifting even an eyelid, or showing that she was conscious of what was passing around her, save when her mother is a low-morning cry. Bessie, oh Bessie, I could not give you up, sounded through the room. Then she moved uneasily and said, Don't, mother, please. God knows best. He will care for you, and you, you, will keep your promise. Yes, child, so help me, God, Daisy answered excitedly. I promised you to be a better woman and I will. But, oh, my heavenly Father, don't let Bessie die. It was the echo of Gray's prayer, and Flossie took it up and made it hers, and so the day were on and the night stole into the quiet room, and it was time for Gray to say goodbye, for he was to leave on the early train and he had yet much to do in settling bills both for himself and Daisy, and providing for her needs in case Neil did not come. If I thought he would not be with you tomorrow I would stay, though to do so would greatly disappoint my Aunt Lucy. He said to Daisy, who was unselfish enough to bid him go, though she knew how she should miss him, and felt intuitively that twenty Niels could not feel his place. I cannot ask you to stay longer. May God bless you for all you have been to us, she said as she took his hand at parting and then turned away with the feeling of utter desolation in her heart. Only Flossie was with Bessie, who was sleeping quietly, when Gray entered the room to say farewell to the young girl whose face looked so small and thin and white as it rested upon the pillows. When her fever was at its height and her heavy hair seemed to trouble her, her physician had commanded it to be cut off. It will all come out any way if she lives, he said, and so the cruel scissors had severed the long bright tresses which had been Bessie's crowning glory. But the hair which had only been cut short grew rapidly and lay in little curls all over her head making her look more like a child than a girl of nineteen. Flossie knew it was Gray's farewell and guessed that he would rather be alone with Bessie even though she were sleeping. So she arose and offering him her chair still softly out and closed the door behind her. For a few moments Gray sat gazing intently upon the beautiful face as if he would stab its image upon his heart so that whatever came, whether for real or woe, he should never forget it, and then he prayed fervently that if possible God would give back the life now ebbing so low and that he yet might win the prize he longed for so ardently. Oh Bessie, poor little tired Bessie, he whispered as he gently touched one of the hands near him. If I might call you mine, might take you to my home across the sea, how happy I would make you. I cannot let you die just as I know how much I love you and something tells me you will yet be mine. We should all love you so much, my mother, Aunt Lucy, Aunt Anna and all. And then suddenly as his mind leaped to the future, Gray seemed to see the old farmhouse in the rocky pastureland far away, and Bessie was there with him, sitting just where he had so often sat when a child, on the little bench in the woodshed close against the wall, beyond which was that hidden grave whose shadow had in a way darkened his whole life. And it fell upon him now with an added blackness as he thought. Could I take Bessie and not tell her of that grave? I don't know. But God will help me do right, and all things will seem possible if he gives Bessie to me. She was breathing a little more heavily now. She might be waking. He must kiss her goodbye before she was conscious of the act, and bending over he kissed her forehead and lips and cheeks, on which his hot tears fell fast. Goodbye, my darling, he whispered. In this world you may never know how much I love you, but in the next perhaps I may be permitted to tell you how it broke my heart to see you lying so low, and to know that I must leave you. Darling Bessie, goodbye. And with another kiss upon her lips he lifted up his head to meet the wandering gaze of the blue eyes, in which for an instant there was a puzzled, startled expression, then they filled with tears, and Bessie's lips quivered as she said. Don't, Mr. Gerald, such words are not for me. I—don't you know? She hesitated a moment and he said, I know nothing except that I love you with my whole heart and soul, and whether you live or die you will be the sweetest memory of my life. Don't talk, it is not necessary. He continued rapidly as he saw her about to speak. I am not going to trouble you now. You are too weak for that. I am here to say goodbye, for I must leave tomorrow. But in the future when you are well, as something tells me you will be. Oh, Mr. Gerald, listen—Bessie began as the door opened and Flossie came in. Times up, she said smilingly, as she glanced at Bessie's flush cheek and gray's white face and guessed that something exciting had taken place. When Jack Travellion returned from his unsuccessful wooing the previous summer he had in strict confidence told Flossie why he failed so that she knew of Bessie's engagement to Neil but did not feel at liberty to communicate what she knew to Gray even though she guessed the nature of his feelings for Bessie. And so he was ignorant that he had a rival and did not in the least suspect the truth as he once more said farewell and followed Flossie out into the hall. Wait a minute, I have something for you. She said to him, and putting her hand into her pocket she drew out a piece of soft white paper in which was carefully wrapped one of the curls she had cut from Bessie's head. I brought this to you thinking you might like it when you were far away and she was dead, she said in a choking voice. Thank you, Flossie. He said taking the package from her. God bless you for all you are to her. Rate me at Venice, Hotel New York and tell me how she is. We shall stay there a day or two before going on to Vienna and Berlin. He wrung her hands and walked away down the broad flight of stairs and Flossie saw him no more.