Chapter XIII: In America (3)

She had seated herself beside me, still holding my hand, and at the sound of her voice I broke down entirely. All the loneliness, and dreariness and poverty of my life swept over me like a billow of the sea, and forgetting the difference in our stations, I laid my head in her lap and cried bitterly. I think she must have cried, too, a very little, and that for a few moments she lost sight of the poor music teacher in crumpled feather and shabby boots, and saw in me only the girl who had loved her boy, and whom the boy was to have married, if death had not interfered. She was very kind to me, and made me tell her all the sad story of my life since father died, and questioned me of Tom, and then, turning to her niece, who had retired to the window, said:

“Darinda, you did not positively engage Mademoiselle Couchet to read to me?”

Her tone implied that she wished her niece to say no, which she accordingly did, while Mrs. Browning continued:

“Then, I think I shall ask Miss Burton if she can come to me for two hours five days in the week, and read to me either in English or French, as I may choose at the time. I will give her a pound a week for the winter. Will you come for that?” and she turned now to me. “Come between eleven and one, so as to lunch with me in my room.”

I had hidden nothing of my needs from her, and I felt sure that she included the lunch for a purpose, and my heart swelled with a gratitude so great that it was positive pain, and kept me from accepting the generous offer for a few moments. I had indeed found friends where I least expected them, and when a little later I arose to go, my heart was lighter than it had been since I bade good-by to one favorite pupil in Paris. I was to have a pound a week, with lunch, and what was better yet, Archie’s friends were mine at last. I was sure of that, and was not foolish enough to question their motives or to suspect—what was perhaps the truth—that inasmuch as I was in no way connected with them, and they were not at all responsible for my appearance, they could afford to be kind and lend me a helping hand; and then, I might have been the lady of Briarton Lodge, and lived in as grand a house as that of Lady Fairfax or Miss Lucy Elliston. I passed the latter on my way to the station, knowing it by the number which Mrs. Trevyllan had told me, and which I found was the same which Tom had sent me long ago.

The short November day was drawing to a close, and already the gas was lighted in the parlors of No. —, and in the dining-room, where the butler was arranging the dinner-table. He had not yet closed the shutters, and I could see the silver, and damask, and flowers, and wondered if they were expecting company besides the son just returned, or were their table surroundings always as elegant and grand. Then I remembered Mr. Gordon, and said: “He is to be there too,” just as the figure of a young lady passed before the window of the parlor. It was Miss Elliston, in blue silk evening dress, with white roses in her hair and a soft fall of lace at her throat. She was dressed for dinner, and I stood watching her a moment as she walked up and down for two or three times, restlessly as it seemed, and then came to the window and looked out upon the street. Did she see me, I wonder?—the forlorn little woman who hurried away in the fast-gathering darkness. If she did she thought it some maid or shop-girl, no doubt, and continued her watch, while I sped on my way to the station and was soon mounting the stairs which led up and out to High street, Kensington.

It was not far to No. — Abingdon road, but a heavy mist was falling, and I was wet, and bedraggled, and cold when at last I reached the house, and finding the door unfastened, walked in without ringing, and hurried directly to my room. From the basement below one of the Misses Keith called to me softly, and thinking it was some inquiry about my supper which she wished to make, I answered back:

“I have had something to eat, and do not wish anything more.”

Then I ran on up the next flight of stairs, at the head of which was the door of my room. It was partly open, and a flood of light and warmth streamed out into the hall, causing me to stand perfectly still for a moment, while my eyes took in the view presented to them. Such a fire as was roaring in the grate had never been seen there since I had been mistress of the apartment, while in the middle of the floor the table was spread as for a gala dinner, with celery and jelly, and even the coffee-urn which I never had used. What did it mean? Why had the Misses Keith taken this liberty with me, and plunged me into such extravagance, when they knew the low state of my finances? I think I felt a very little indignant at the good, kind old souls, as I pushed the door wide open and advanced into the room, starting back and stopping suddenly, at sight of a man—a big, broad-shouldered, tall man—muffled in a heavy coat, and sitting with his back to me, his feet resting on a chair, and his hands clasped behind his head, as if he were intently thinking. Who was he that dared thus intrude? I thought, and my voice had a sharp ring in it, as I said:

“Sir, what are you doing here? You have made a mistake. This is my room.”

He started then, and sprang up so quickly as to upset the chair on which his feet had rested, and which he did not stop to pick up, as he came rapidly toward me. What a giant of a fellow he was, in that shaggy coat, with all that brown, curling beard! and how my heart beat as he caught me in his strong arms, and, kissing me on both cheeks, said:

“I have made no mistake, Norah, and I am here to see you. Don’t you remember spindle-shanks?”

Then I knew who it was, and, with a glad cry, exclaimed:

“Oh, Tom! Tom! I am so glad. Why didn’t you come before, when I wanted you so much?”

I had struggled to my feet, but did not try to release myself from the arm which held me so fast. In my excitement and surprise I forgot the years since we had met, forgot that he was a full-grown man, and no longer the “spindle-shanks,” as I used sometimes to call him—forgot everything but the fact that he had come back to me again, and that I was no longer alone and friendless in the world. Tom was there with me, a tower of strength, and I did not hesitate to lean upon my tower at once, and when he said, as only Tom could say, in a half-pitiful, half-laughing tone, “Have it out, Norah. Put your head down here, and cry,” I laid my head on the big overcoat, and “cried it out.”

I think he must have cried, too, for, as soon as his hands were at liberty, he made vigorous use of his pocket-handkerchief, and I noticed a redness about his eyes, when at last I ventured to look him fully in the face. How changed he was from the long, lank, thin-faced, sandy-haired Tom of old! Broad-shouldered, broad-chested, brown-faced brown-haired, and brown-bearded, there was scarcely a vestige left of the boy I used to know, except the bright smile, the white, even teeth, and the eyes, which were so kind and honest in their expression, and which, in their turn, looked so searchingly at me. I had divested myself of my hat and sacque by this time, and came back to the fire, when, turning the gas-jets to their full height, Tom made me stand directly under the chandelier, while he scanned me so closely that I felt the hot blood mounting to my hair, and knew my cheeks were scarlet.

“How changed and old he must think me,” I said to myself, just as he asked:

“I say, Mousey, how have you managed to do it?”

“Do what?” I asked, and he continued:

“Managed to keep so young, and fair, and pretty, or rather, to grow so pretty, for you are ten times handsomer than you were that day you walked down the lane with me, twelve years ago, and I said good-by with such a lump in my throat.”

“Oh, Tom, how can you——” I began, when he stopped me short and continued:

“Hear me first, and then put in as many disclaimers as you choose. I want to tell you at once all it concerns you now to know of my life in India. Those first years I was there I fell in with bad associates, and came near going to the dogs, as you know, and nothing saved me from it, I am sure, but the knowing that a certain little English girl was praying for me every day, and still keeping faith in me, as she wrote me in her letters. I could not forget the little girl, Norah, and the memory of her and her pathetic, ‘You will reform, Tom, for the sake of the dear old times, if for nothing else,’ brought me back when my feet were slipping over the brink of ruin, and made a man of me once more. I do not know why Mr. Rand trusted me and kept me through everything, as he did, unless it was for certain business qualities which I possessed, and because I did my work well and faithfully. When your father died you know I offered to come home, but you bade me not, and said you did not need me; and so I staid, for money was beginning to pour in upon me, and I grew richer and richer, while you—oh, Norah, I never dreamed to what you were reduced, or nothing would have kept me away so long. I always thought of you as comfortable and happy, in pleasant lodgings, with a competence from your father. I did not know of music scholars and daily toil to earn your bread. Why didn’t you tell me, Norah? Surely I had a right to know—I, your brother Tom!”

He did not wait for me to answer, but went on:

“Six months ago Mr. Rand, my old employer and then partner, died, and for some good or favor he fancied I had done him, he left me £50,000, which, with what I already had, made me a rich man, and then I began to think of home and the little cousin who, I said, must be a dried-up old maid by this time.”

At this I winced and tried to draw back from Tom, but he held me fast, while his rare smile broke all over his face as he went on:

“I thought I’d like to know just how you did look, and so wrote for your photograph, which, when it came, astonished me, it was so young and pretty and girlish; not in the least old maidish, as I feared it might be——”

“Tom, Tom—are you crazy?” I cried, wrenching my hands from his. “I’m not pretty; I’m not girlish; I’m not young; and I am an old maid of thirty-two.”

“Yes, yes, very true. I know your age to a minute, for didn’t we use to compare notes on that point when you brought up your seniority of ten months as a reason why you should domineer over and give me fits. I knew you were thirty-two, but you’d pass for twenty-five. Why, I’m ten years older than you now, with my bushy head, and tawny face, and brawny chest. Look at the difference, will you?” And leading me to the mirror he showed me the picture it reflected—picture of a tall, broad-shouldered, brown-faced, brown-haired man, who might have been thirty-five, and by his side, not quite reaching his shoulder, the petite figure of a woman whose forehead and lips were very pale, whose cheeks were very red, whose eyes were bright with excitement, and whose wavy hair was not unbecoming even if it was all tumbled and tossed, and falling about her face and neck.

That was Tom and I, and when, with his mischievous smile shining on me from the glass he asked: “Well Mousey, what do you think of us?” I answered with a dash of my old sauciness: “I think you look like a great shaggy bear, and I like a little cub.”

He laughed aloud at that and said: “You are very complimentary, but I’ll forgive you for once, and go on with my story, which was interrupted at the point where I received the photograph, which astonished me so much that I determined to come home and see if it was correct. And, as you know, I came, and wishing to surprise you gave no warning of my coming, but hunted up your lodgings, and felt utterly confounded when I was ushered into this little back third floor room, and was told you had occupied it for years, and not only that, but that you gave music lessons for a living, and had gone out to hunt up scholars. I don’t think I quite swore, but I did tear round a little, and bade the woman make up a roaring fire against your return, and told her I was going to dine with you. You ought to have seen her twist her apron, and heard her stammer and hesitate as she told me ‘Miss Burton didn’t mostly have dinners nowadays;’ meaning, of course, that you couldn’t afford it. I believe I did say d——, with a dash, under my breath, but I gave her a sovereign, and told her to get up the best dinner possible for the time, for I was hungry as forty bears. She courtesied almost to the floor and departed, but upon my soul I believe they think me a burglar or something dreadful, for one or the other of them has been on this floor watching me slyly to see that I was not rummaging your things.”

While he talked I was trying to dry my wet boots which, like Lady Darinda, he spied at last and exclaimed, “Why, child, how wet your boots are. Why do you not change them? You will surely take cold. Go now and do it.”

I did not tell him they were all I had, but he must have guessed it from my manner, and looking sharply at me as if he would wring the truth from me, he said: “Norah, are these your only boots?”

“Yes, Tom, they are,” and my lip quivered a little, while he stalked up and down the room, knocking over a chair with his big overcoat, and nearly upsetting a stand of plants. I think I felt my poverty more at that moment than I had ever done before, but there was nothing I could say, and fortunately for us both Miss Keith just then appeared, saying dinner was ready, and asking if she should send up the soup. What a dinner it was, and Tom did ample justice to it, until suddenly, remembering himself, he said:

“By the way, I must be moderate here, for I have another dinner to eat to-night: one, too, where the fatted calf has been killed.”

Up to this point I had not once thought of Miss Elliston since I found Tom sitting in my room, but now I remembered the handsome dinner table seen through the windows of No. — Grosvenor Square, and felt sure it was to that table Tom had been bidden as a guest; but I would not ask him, and he continued:

“My fellow-traveler from India was an invalid—that Lieut. Elliston of whom I wrote you once. I nursed him through a contagious disease when every one else had deserted him, and he seems to think he owes his life to me, and sticks to me like a burr; while his family, on the strength of that and the little Gordon blood there is in my veins, make much of me, and insist that I shall dine with them to-night; so I must leave you soon, but shall return to-morrow.”

I made no answer, but busied myself with preparing his coffee, and after a moment he went on:

“By the way, Norah, what do you think of Miss Elliston? She wrote you were at the same hotel in Paris.”

“At the same hotel with me? Miss Elliston at the Grand? When?” I asked, in much surprise; and he replied:

“Last September, when you were there with friends. Did you not see her?”

“No,” I answered, “I did not see her, or if I did, I did not know it; and she is much too proud to make herself known to me, a poor music teacher.”

This last I said bitterly, but Tom made no reply, and hardly knowing what I was saying, I added:

“Then you are the Mr. Gordon she talks so much about?”

“Miss Elliston talk about me! How do you know that?” Tom asked, with an increase of color in his face.

Very foolishly I told him how I knew, and of the photograph which must be his, though it was not quite like him now.

“Yes, it was taken three years ago, and we exchanged. I remember it now—and she has it yet,” he said, abruptly; then looking steadily at me across the table, he continued: “Norah, I have not told you all the reasons which brought me home. I am thinking of getting married and settling down in England among the daisies and violets.”

“Yes, Tom,” I said, with a great throb of pain in my heart, for I knew his marriage with Miss Elliston would separate him from me further than his absence in India had done.

“Are you not glad?” he added, and there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and a lurking smile at the corners of his mouth.

Then I told a fib, and said I was glad, for I could some time hope to see him. My life would not be so lonely.

He had risen by this time, and was putting on his overcoat, which made him so big and bearish.

“Good-by, Mousey, till to-morrow. Take off those boots and dry your feet the instant I am gone. I cannot have you sick now. _Au revoir._”

He passed his warm hands caressingly over my hair and across my cheek, and then he was gone, and I sat down alone to think it all over, and wonder if it really was Tom who had been there, or if it was a dream from which I should awaken. Naturally too, I followed him in imagination to the dinner, and saw Miss Lucy in her blue silk with white roses in her hair, and to my very finger tips I felt how Tom must be impressed with the difference between her high-bred grace and ease of manner, and the little shrinking woman in faded gray, with worn out, leaky boots. I did not take them off, but held them to the fire and watched the steam as it came from the soles, and rather enjoyed my poverty and loneliness, and thought hard things against Miss Elliston, who had known I was at the hotel and had never spoken to me.

I must have fallen asleep while I thought, and the fire was out, and the clock striking twelve when I awoke, chilled in every limb, with a dull, heavy pain in the back of my head, and a soreness in my throat. I remember going to the window and looking out into the foggy night, and wondering if the grand dinner was over, and how soon Tom would come again. Then I crept shivering to bed, and when I woke the Misses Keith were all in my room, together with Mrs. Trevyllan, and I heard them say:

“Twelve pairs of boots for her to try, with orders to keep them all if they fit. He is very generous.”

Then I knew that somebody had sent me a box of beautiful French gaiters, and it made me so tired to think of wearing them all at once, as I thought I must, that I gave a weary sigh, which brought the ladies instantly to my side with anxious inquiries as to how I felt, and where I was the sickest.

“Not sick at all,” I said, “only tired, and cold, and sleepy. Please go away with the dinners, and boots, and Toms, and leave me alone. I want to sleep it out.”

“Poor girl, she’s out of her head,” I heard one of them say, and then I slept again, how long I do not know, but when I woke a curious thing seemed to have happened, which yet did not surprise me in the least.

I, Norah Burton, was hidden away in the deep window seat, where, myself unseen, I could command a view of the bed, which had been brought from the little recess, and now occupied the center of my room. On that bed, with a face as white as the pillows, save where the fever spot burned on either cheek, somebody was lying—somebody who looked like me, and yet was not I, though they called her Norah, and talked in whispers about the long strain upon her nerves, being so much alone; the long walk in the November mist and fog before she was able, and the repeated wetting of her feet from the want of strong, new shoes. How queerly it all sounded; how curiously I watched the girl, who looked so young, lying there so still, with her hands folded always the same way, just over her breast, and her face turned a little toward me.

If she had ever been restless, and from what they said I judged she must have been, it was over now, and she lay like one dead, never moving so much as an eyelid, or paying the slightest heed to what was passing around her. The Misses Keith and Mrs. Trevyllan were never all together in the chamber now, though each came frequently, and Mrs. Trevyllan always cried out and asked, “Do you think she is any better? Will she live?” of the tall man who sat and watched the sick girl just as closely as I did, and who would sometimes answer, “God knows,” and again shake his head mournfully, as if there was no hope.

How kind, and tender, and gentle he was—gentle, and tender, and kind as any woman—and I found myself wishing the girl could know he was there, and know how, when he was all alone, he kissed the pale little fingers, and smoothed the ruffled hair, and called so soft and low, “Norah, Norah! don’t you hear me? Don’t you know old Tom?”

She did not hear; she did not know; and the pale fingers never stirred to the kiss he gave them, and only the breath from the parted lips told there still was life. How sorry I felt for them both, but sorriest I think, for the man, who seldom left the room, and sat always where he could see the white face on the pillow.

“Dear little face! dear little girl! I cannot let her die. Please, God, spare her to me!” I heard him say once. Then there certainly was a fluttering of the eyelids—an effort like struggling back to life; and I think the girl in the bed wanted to tell the man in the chair that she heard him, and appreciated all his watchful care.

But nature was too weak to rally, and after that one sign the sick girl lay quiet and motionless as ever, and only the ticking of the clock broke the deep silence of the room. I wondered did that ticking disturb her. It would have worried me, and I should have been forever repeating the monotonous one-two, one-two, which the pendulum seemed to be saying. Did my thought communicate itself to her the girl on my pillow, with a face like my face, and which yet was not mine? Perhaps, for she did at last move uneasily, and the pale lips whispered: “One-two, one-two! it keeps going on forever and ever, and makes me so tired. Stop it, Tom.”

He knew what she meant, and the clock which had not run down in years was silenced at once, while Tom’s face grew bright and hopeful, for she had spoken, and called him by his name.

Outside there was the sound of carriage wheels stopping before the door—a pull at the bell, a hurried conversation in the hall below, Miss Keith’s voice sounding flurried and confused, the other voice self-assured, surprised, and commanding; and then footsteps came up the stairs, and Archie’s mother, Mrs. Browning, was standing on the threshold, red, tired, panting, and taking in rapidly every portion of the room, from the cheap hearthrug and carpet to the tall man by the bedside, and the pallid face on the pillows. At sight of that her countenance changed sensibly, and she exclaimed:

“I did not suppose it so bad as this.”

Then Tom, who had arisen from his seat, spoke a little sternly, for he was angry at the intrusion:

“Madam, don’t you know Miss Burton is very sick and cannot see strangers?”

“Yes, I know;” and Archie’s mother pressed close to the girl on the pillow, trailing her India shawl on the floor directly across Tom’s feet. “She was engaged to read to me every day for two hours, and I waited for her to come or send some message, till at last I concluded to drive round and see what had become of her. You are her cousin, I believe? I am Mrs. Browning.”

She said the last name as if between Mrs. Browning and the cousin there was a vast difference, but if Tom recognized it, he did not seem to notice it; he merely said:

“Yes, I am her cousin, and you were to have been her mother-in-law?”

“Yes, Archie was my son. If he had lived he would have been heir of Briarton Lodge; both the young lords are dead.”

“Oh, yes, and my cousin would have been Lady Cleaver of Briarton Lodge,” Tom answered, and it seemed to me that he thought just as I did, namely, that the sick girl was of more importance to Mrs. Browning because of what she _might have been_.

The shadow of the honor she had missed reached even to this humble room, and made Mrs. Browning more gracious, more pitiful, more anxious than she might otherwise have been. And yet it was wholly the fault of her birth and education that she cared so much for these things. At heart she was a thoroughly good woman, and there was genuine kindness in her inquiries of Tom as to what was needed most, and in her deportment toward the sick girl, whom she tried to rouse, calling her by name, and saying to her:

“I am Archie’s mother; you remember Archie, who died?”

There was a little sob in the mother’s voice, but the girl gave no sign; only Tom looked gloomy, and black, and intensely relieved when the India shawl was trailed down the stairs, and the Browning carriage drove away. Next day it stopped again before the house, and this time it held an added weight of dignity in the person of Lady Darinda Fairfax, whose heavy silk rustled up the stairs, and whose large white hands were constantly rubbing each other as she talked to Tom, in whom she had recognized the Mr. Gordon seen once at Miss Elliston’s, where she was calling at the same time with himself.

“Really, Mr. Gordon, this _is_ a surprise. I had no idea, I am sure, that Miss Burton was your cousin; really, I am surprised. And she came near being _my_ cousin, too. You must know about Archie?”

“Yes,” and Tom bowed stiffly. “I had the honor of seeing him years ago when he visited my cousin. I went out to India just before he died.”

“Yes, I see; and did not return until a few days since. It must have shocked you very much—the change in her circumstances. Poor girl, we never knew it until she came to us for employment. I am glad for her, that you have come to care for her. She will live with you, of course, if you marry and settle here.”

Lady Darinda, though esteeming herself highly bred, was much given to direct questioning which sometimes seemed impertinent. But Tom did not resent it in this case; he merely replied:

“My cousin will live with me when I am married, and I am happy to say she has no further need to look for employment of any kind. I shall take care of her.”

Lady Darinda was so glad. Nor was it a sham gladness. The intimate friend of Miss Lucy Elliston, she had heard much of “the Mr. Gordon who had saved Charlie’s life, and who was of the Gordon stock, and a thorough gentleman.” She had also felt a kindly interest in the girl who had _almost_ been Lady Cleaver, and that interest was increased when she knew her to be a near connection of Miss Elliston’s Mr. Gordon. The time might come when it would do to speak of her and possibly present her to her friends, and she made many anxious inquiries concerning her, and talked so rapidly and so loud that the head on the pillow moved as if disturbed, and Tom was glad when the lady at last gathered herself up to leave. She was still nervously rubbing her jeweled hands, and Tom’s attention was attracted to a solitaire of great brilliancy, the same I had observed the day I sat in her reception-room, and she stood talking to me and rubbing her hands just as she was rubbing them now. Suddenly, and as if her mind was made up, she drew off the ring, and bending over the sick girl pushed it upon the fourth finger of the left hand, saying to Tom as she did so:

“The ring is hers, and she ought never to have parted with it. I don’t know why she sent it back to us, but she did, just after Archie died, and as his cousin I kept it, but wish her to have it again, and I fancy she is too proud to take it if she knew. I must go, now, but will come again soon, or send to inquire. Shall I see you at Miss Elliston’s to-night at the musicale? Lucy will be greatly disappointed, if you do not come.”

“I shall not leave my cousin while she is so sick,” was Tom’s reply, and with a loud spoken good-by, Lady Darinda left the little room which she had seemed to fill so full with her large, tall person and voluminous skirts.

Scarcely was she gone, when Tom took in his own the pale little hand where the solitaire was sparkling, looked at it a moment, then gently withdrew it; put it in his pocket-book, with a muttered something I could not quite understand. Then the girl on the pillow began to grow restless, and her fever came on, and Tom said there had been too much talking in the room, and no one must be admitted except the Misses Keith and Mrs. Trevyllan, and across the window they hung a heavy curtain to exclude the light, and so to me everything became a blank, and I knew no more of what was passing until one bright December morning, when I awoke suddenly to find myself in the bed where the sick girl had lain.

I was very weak and languid, and very much bewildered as I tried to recall the past, and remember what had happened. It was something like the awakening after Archie died, only, in place of dear old Aunt Esther, here was a tall, brown man looking down upon me, with so much kindness and anxiety in his eyes, that without knowing at all who he was, I tried to put out my hand as I said: “You are very, very good. I’ll tell Tom about it.”

“Norah, Norah. I am Tom. Don’t you know me?” and his great warm hands were laid on mine as he bent over me with his eager questioning. “Don’t you know me, Norah? I am Tom.” I did know him then, and I said:

“Yes, I know you, and I’ve been very sick; it must have been the leaky boots which kept my feet so cold and wet. Where are they, Tom?”

“Burned up, Norah. I did it myself in the kitchen range, and you have in their place twelve pairs of the neatest little gaiters you ever saw, waiting for your feet to be able to wear them. Shall I show them to you now?”

He did not wait for me to answer, but darted into the recess adjoining, and bringing out the boots, tumbled them all upon the bed where I could see them. Twelve pairs of boots, of every style and make! Walking boots, morning boots, calling boots, prunella boots, bronze boots, French calfskin boots, and what was very strange, a dainty pair of white satin boots, which laced so very high, and were so pretty to look at. I think these pleased me more than all the others, though I had no idea as to when or where I could wear them.

A handsome boot was one of my weaknesses, and lo! here were a dozen pairs of them, and I laughed as a child would have done over a box of toys. He let me enjoy them a few moments, and then took them away, telling me I was not to get too tired, and how glad he was that I was better, and able to recognize him. I had been sick three weeks, he said, and he had been with me all the time, except when he went out for a short time each day.

“You have been out of your head,” he said, “and insisted that you were sitting over in the window, and that somebody else was here in bed, and that I was a big bear. What do you think of me, now?”

I looked at him closely, and saw that the heavy overcoat and coarse sea clothes had given place to garments of the most fashionable kind, which fitted him admirably, and gave him quite a _distingue_ air, while his hair and beard were cut and trimmed after the most approved style of Hyde Park and Rotten Row at the height of the season. He was a man to be noticed anywhere, and after inspecting him a moment, I said:

“I think you are very nice, and very handsome, and I am so glad you have come home.”

This was a great deal to say at once in my feeble state, and he saw how tired I was, and bade me not talk any more, and drew the covering about me and tucked it in, and brought me a clean handkerchief, and laid it on my pillow, and did it all as deftly and handily as any woman could have done.

Oh, those first days of getting better, how happy they were, and how delightful it seemed to be made much of, and petted, and waited on as if I were a princess.

Archie’s mother called two or three times, and was very kind to me, and said once, as she was leaving:

“You will hardly come to me now as we had agreed upon.”

“Oh, yes I shall,” I replied. “I must get to work again as soon as I am able.”

Then Tom came forward and said in a quiet, decided way, as if he had a right:

“My cousin will not go out any more. She is under my care now.”

That was so like Tom; and I let him have his way with Mrs. Browning, but was nevertheless just as firm in my determination to care for myself. I had not forgotten what he had said about being married, nor had I any doubt that he meant to marry Miss Elliston, and if so, our lives must necessarily drift very far apart. But it was so nice to have him all to myself just now, and I enjoyed it to the full, and let him wait on me as much as he liked, and took gladly what he brought me, rare flowers and hot-house plants, and books of engravings for me to look at, and books which he read aloud to me while I lay on my pillows, or sat in my great arm-chair and watched him as he read, and wondered at, and rejoiced over, and felt glad and proud of the change in his appearance. I think he was, without exception, the finest-looking man I ever saw, and Mrs. Trevyllan quite agreed with me, always excepting, of course, her George. She was with me a great deal during my convalescence, and one morning, when Tom was out, she came with a radiant face, which I knew portended some good news. Miss Elliston had actually called—that is, she had come to the door in her carriage, sent in her card, and with it an invitation to a large party to be given the next week.

“And are you going?” I asked; and she replied:

“Certainly I am. I think it was real snipping in her not to call herself, but then I can excuse something on the score of old acquaintance, and I must wear that lovely silk before it gets quite out of fashion. She wrote me a little note, saying it was to be a grand affair—quite a crash. I can hardly wait to see it.”

Just then Tom came in, and the conversation ceased, though I was tempted to tell him I knew of the party. He was going, of course, and I felt a little hurt that he did not speak to me about it; He might have done as much as that, I thought, but he did not until the very day, when he said to me, late in the afternoon:

“I have an engagement for to-night, Mousey. Miss Elliston gives a large party, and as she has deferred it until I could be present, I think I ought to go.”

“Yes, certainly, by all means,” I said; and then, when he was gone, I was silly enough to cry, and to think hard things of Miss Elliston, who was so rich and happy in everything.

When Mrs. Trevyllan was dressed she came to let me look at her, and I thought I had never seen anything as lovely as she was, in pink silk, and lace, and pearls, with her sunny blue eyes and golden hair.

“You will be the belle of the party,” I said; but she shook her head, laughingly, and replied:

“I’ll tell you to-morrow.”

Alas! when the morrow came, the little lady’s plumes were drooping, and her spirits a good deal ruffled. Tom was late in his visit that morning, and so she had ample time to tell me all about it.

“Such a jam!” she said; “and it had taken half an hour for their carriage to get up to the house, then another half hour to push her way to the dressing-room and down again to the drawing-room, where Miss Elliston just touched her hand and said good-evening; and then she was shoved on to a corner, where she and George stood, entirely surrounded by strangers, and feeling more alone than if they had been in the desert. When the dancing commenced, it was better, for the parlors thinned out, and she was able to walk and look about a little; but nobody spoke to her or noticed her in any way, and she was not introduced to a single individual, until the lion of the evening, the man who received so much attention from every body, accidentally stumbled upon her, and was so kind and good. And who do you suppose it was? I was never more astonished in my life. And they say he is to marry Miss Elliston. It is quite a settled thing, I heard. Your cousin, Mr. Gordon; and that was his photograph, though not very natural; at least, I did not recognize him from it. Perhaps, because I never thought of such a thing.”

“The picture was taken three or four years ago,” I said; “and Tom says it was never a good one.”

“Then you did know all the time that he was Miss Elliston’s Mr. Gordon, and you never told me?” Mrs. Trevyllan cried, in a slightly aggrieved tone of voice.

“I knew he was her brother’s friend,” I said, “but not till after he came home. Is she so very handsome?”

“Why, yes, I think she is, or at least she has a style and high-bred air better than mere beauty. Last night she was all in white, with blush roses on her dress, and in her hair, and when she walked or danced with Mr. Gordon, everybody remarked what a splendid couple they were, she so tall and graceful, and he so big and prince-like. Did you know they were engaged?”

She put the question direct, and I knew my cheeks were scarlet, as I replied:

“I supposed—yes. I—Tom told me he came home to be married; that’s all I know.”

I was taking my breakfast, and my hand shook so that I spilled my chocolate over the clean napkin and dropped my egg-spoon into my lap.

There was an interval of silence, and then the impulsive little lady burst out:

“I say, Miss Burton, it’s too bad. Here I’d been building a castle for you, and behold, Lucy Elliston is to be its mistress. I don’t like her as well as I did, I’m free to say, for I do not think she treated me as she should at the party; never introducing me to a person, or even speaking to me till just as I was leaving, when she was so glad I came, and hoped I had not found it very dull among so many strangers; and then, Miss Burton—I despise a talebearer—but I will tell you what I heard. I was standing by myself in a little window alcove, and Lucy came along with a tall, large woman, whom I think she called Lady Fairfax. They did not see me, and after the conversation commenced I dared not show myself, so I kept still and heard them talk of you.”

“Of me?” I exclaimed; and she continued:

“Of you; yes.” Lady Fairfax said:

“‘What a splendid fellow he is, and how he wins the people. I almost envy you, Lucy, if you do marry him. By the way, do you know his cousin, Miss Burton? Was she invited to-night?’

“‘No,’ Lucy said. ‘I’ve never called upon her. She teaches music, you know. I saw her in Paris, with one of her pupils; rather pretty, but no style. You never saw her, of course!’

“‘Yes, I have;’ and I fancied Lady Fairfax spoke a little hotly. ‘I know all about her, and she is as nice as she can be, and a lady too. She was to have married Cousin Archie, who died, and if she had she would have been Lady Cleaver, of Briarton Lodge, now. She has been very sick; did you know that?’

“‘Yes, I should think so, for that has kept Mr. Gordon from us so much, and Charlie was so vexed, for he needed amusing himself. I trust she will soon be well. Is she really nice and a lady?’

“‘Yes, every whit a lady; and I advise you to cultivate her at once.’

“From where I sat I could see Miss Elliston distinctly, and saw her give a little shrug which she picked up abroad, and which always irritates me. Lady Fairfax must have understood its meaning, for she went on:

“‘Mr. Gordon is evidently very fond of his cousin, and looks upon her as a sister, and——’

“‘How do you know that? How do you know he is very fond of her?’ Miss Elliston asked, quickly; and I saw in a moment she was jealous of you. And when Lady Fairfax told of her call when you were sick, and of his devotion to you, and added, ‘He will undoubtedly expect her to live with you when you are married,’ she gave another shoulder shrug and said:

“‘_Cela depend._ I have not married him yet, and, if I should, I do not propose marrying his entire family. This girl is not of the Gordon blood.’

“What more they would have said I do not know, for just then some dancers came out to cool themselves, and behind them Mr. Gordon, looking for Lucy, who took his arm with such a sweet smile and air of possession, and I heard her say to him:

“‘Lady Fairfax has been telling me such nice things about your cousin. I wish you would bring her to see me; I am so busy and have so many engagements, I think she might waive ceremony with me.’”

“What did Tom reply?” I asked, and Mrs. Trevyllan said:

“I did not hear his answer; but, mark my words, she’ll make a fool of him, and he will be asking you to call on her. But don’t you do it, and don’t you live with them either.”

“I never shall,” was my answer; and as Tom’s step was heard in the hall just then, Mrs. Trevyllan left me to receive his visit alone.

He looked tired and ennuied, and was absentminded and moody for him, while I, too, was very reticent, and never once mentioned the party until he said:

“I met Mrs. Trevyllan as I came up. She told you about the party last night, I suppose.”

“Yes,” I answered, and he continued:

“What did she say of Miss Elliston? They are old friends, I believe.”

“Yes: they knew each other in Ireland. She said she was very pretty and stylish, and so lovely last night in white, with blush roses——”

“Yes,” Tom replied, evidently wishing to hear something more.

“And she said everybody was talking of you, and what a fine-looking couple you were.”

“Yes,” and this time the yes rang out rather sharply, but brought no response from me.

I had told him all I had to tell him of Miss Elliston, and, after waiting a few moments, he began himself:

“Miss Elliston it a very handsome girl, with fine manners and style. She is considered a great catch, I believe. Would you like to see her—that is, enough to call on her with me when you are able? She asked me to bring you, as her time is so fully occupied. Will you go?”

“No, Tom, I’d rather not. I’d do much to please you, but not that. It is her place to call on me, if she cares to know me.”

I said this faintly, and with tears gathering in my eyes, and a horrid feeling of loneliness gathering in my heart.

I was losing Tom sure, and it made me very sad, and made the old life to which I must return seem harder than before. Perhaps it was this, and perhaps it was that I had no vital force with which to rally, no bank to draw from, as the physician said, which kept me an invalid all that winter, with barely strength to walk about my room, and drive occasionally with Tom, who came to see me nearly every day, and who surrounded me with every possible comfort and luxury, even to the providing me with a maid to wait upon me. I protested against this, knowing how hard it would be to go back to my work after so much petting, and said so once to Tom when he was spending the evening with me.

“Go back to your work again! What do you mean?” he asked, and I said:

“Mean just what I say. Take care of myself as soon as I am able, and—and—you are married, as they say you are going to be.”

Since the morning after the party he had never mentioned Miss Elliston or referred to her in any way, and his silence was beginning to annoy me, and so I added:

“You are, are you not?”

“Are what?” he asked, with a comical gleam in his eye.

“Are going to be married?” I replied, and he continued:

“Yes, I believe I am, provided the lady will have me. Do you think she will?”

“Have you! Of course she will,” I said, quite vehemently, and felt my whole face burn with excitement.

“And if I do marry,” Tom added, “why should that compel you to return to your teaching, I’d like to know? Wouldn’t you still be my care?”

“No,” I answered, emphatically. “I shall just take care of myself as I did before you came from India. It will not be any harder.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” Tom answered, with a laugh, nor was I so sure of it either, and after he was gone I remember that I cried bitterly over the certainty of his marriage and the change it would bring to me.

During the next three or four weeks I did not see Tom quite as often as usual; he was very busy, he told me; occupied, I supposed, with Miss Elliston, whom I saw with him in the gardens where I was taking an airing in a Bath chair one pleasant morning in April. Mrs. Trevyllan was walking by my side, and first called my attention to them coming straight toward us, and so near that to escape by turning into a by-path was impossible. Tom saw me at the same moment, and I fancied there was a look of annoyance on his face as if the meeting were one he would have avoided. But it was too late now. We were very near each other, and wishing to spare him the necessity of recognition, if possible, I pulled my blue hood closely about my face and pretended to be very much interested in a bed of crocuses; but Tom was not inclined to pass me by, and before I quite knew what I was doing, I had been presented to Miss Elliston, and she was looking at me, and I was looking at her, and each was undoubtedly forming an opinion of the other not altogether complimentary. Mine of her was: Fine-looking, stylish, very stylish, but cold as an iceberg, selfish, smooth and deep, and if it be true that in the case of every married couple there is one who loves and one who permits it, Tom will be the one who loves, and she the passive recipient. I should as soon think of receiving a caress from an iceberg as from that calm, quiet, self-possessed woman. Poor Tom, with his warm, loving heart, and demonstrative nature! This was my opinion of Miss Elliston, while hers of me, I fancy, was something as follows: “That little dowdy, faded old maid, Mr. Gordon’s cousin! and does Lady Fairfax think I’ll ever consent to her living with me as a poor relation?”

I thought I read all this in her eyes, which scanned me so curiously, while she tried to be agreeable and said she was glad to see me; that she had been coming to call upon me for a long time, but really her time was not her own, and she wished I would come to see her with Mrs. Trevyllan, “who, naughty girl, owes me a party call,” she added, playfully, and shaking her finger at the “naughty girl,” she made a movement to pass on.

Tom said very little, and I felt he was glad when the interview was over, and I was being trundled along the road further and further from him and his _fiancee_. She was that, I almost knew, and when three weeks later, he told me of a place on Finchley Road, Hampstead, which was for sale, and which he meant to buy, I was sure of it, and asked him when it was to be.

“The wedding, you mean?” and he looked so quizzically at me. “I’d like it as soon as the middle of June. How do you suppose that would suit her?”