Chapter VI: Part 6

"I'm not denying that women are foolish: God Almighty made 'em
to match the men."--_George Eliot_.

"Gracious, man! do give those unfortunate eyes of yours a rest. I should think they would ache, the way you roll them. Besides, it's such a waste of time to make eyes at me."

"I don't think so."

"I suppose it keeps you in practice," Miss Bent remarked, sardonically.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said," repeated Miss Bent, slowly and deliberately, "that I supposed that--it--kept--you--in practice--to--make--eyes--at--me!"

"It does. But that's not the only reason I do it."

Miss Bent eyed him with extreme disfavour.

"How silly you are," she said, snubbingly.

"Now that's unworthy of you," her companion returned. "Its rudeness is worthy of you, but not its stupidity. Ordinarily your remarks are witty, even when they are rude, but this"--

"Has only truth to recommend it."

"I don't care for verbal gymnastics."

"Your likes and dislikes are not"--

"A matter of interest to you? no, I suppose not. And you see that relieves me from considering yours. Take the present case, for instance. I feel like making eyes, as you rudely call it, at you: therefore I make them"--

"And make them very badly!" interpolated the well-bred Miss Bent.

"You are no judge, being by nature incapable of doing anything in the eye-making way at all."

"Ah!" said Miss Bent, reflectively, "there is no saying how well I might make eyes if I saw anything worth making eyes at. But, I say, don't be cross."

"I'm not!"

"No, of course not: but don't, anyway, for I want to tell you something and some way I can't talk to cross people"--

"But I tell you I'm not"--

"Dear, dear! there you are again with a face flaming with rage, interrupting me and contradicting me."

Mr. Ogden opened his mouth; then shut it with an air of determination, as though he really might have replied, had he chosen.

"And now you're glaring at me as if you were beside yourself with rage. Why don't you try to be reasonable?"

The unhappy Mr. Ogden stared wildly but ventured no remark.

"I suppose I may go on now," Miss Bent said in a rather pointed manner when a moment of silence had elapsed. "What I began to tell you half an hour ago--only you would keep interrupting me--was that Mrs. Hadwell is giving all sorts of things for those cousins, or whatever they are, of hers from the States. And she has asked me to a theatre party and a tobogganing party, so I think I ought to give something for them. What would you suggest?"

Mr. Ogden looked perplexed.

"Surely you're not sulking all this time!" said Miss Bent, rather sadly.

"I don't know what you mean. I never sulk."

"Then, perhaps, instead of sulking, you will answer my question," said Miss Bent with asperity.

Mr. Ogden laughed.

"I should suggest a drive," he hazarded. "A drive by moonlight and a supper afterwards."

"Perhaps that would be the best plan," said Miss Bent, thoughtfully. "Who would you ask?"

"Me, for one."

"Oh, yes, I suppose so, but--O dear! has my snowshoe come off, again?"

"Let me fix it."

"What do you suppose is the reason?"

"The reason? You didn't let me do it at the start."

"I suppose you think you can attend to my snowshoes better than I can myself."

"I do, indeed."

"Well, don't start to argue about that, please don't. I haven't seen you for such a long time and there are such a lot of things that I want to say, but some way, whenever I am going to start, something happens to prevent me."

"Your snowshoe, for instance?"

"Yes, or you. You begin to argue about something. Now don't be cross! I suppose I really shouldn't have said that, but"--

"Oh, it's quite true that I occasionally make a remark."

"Occasionally!"

"Very occasionally, yes. When people are with you they don't talk much as a rule. Queer, isn't it?"

"I suppose," said his companion after thinking deeply for a moment, "that what you mean is that they don't get much chance."

"That was my meaning, exactly."

"I can't help talking a little sometimes, you know," said Miss Bent, icily----

"You can't, indeed!"

"No. I come by it honestly. _My own father was a man!_"

Silence reigned, unbroken and long. The snowshoers trudged on in silence, the lady chuckling delightedly to herself.

"I had two things to tell you," she remarked, presently, perceiving that her companion was unmoved by her silence and getting very tired of preserving it.

"Yes?"

"Yes. The second one is gossip, so I suppose I shouldn't"--

"Oh, but you will."

"Not," said Miss Bent, impressively, "not unless you promise solemnly never to tell a living soul about it--especially not Agatha!"

"Why is Agatha to be debarred from hearing what no living soul may know?"

"Because," said his companion, seriously, "Agatha is not to be trusted. She can't keep a secret. Oh, you needn't laugh. The person who told me this said the same thing to me. 'Don't tell anyone about this,' she said, most earnestly, 'and whoever you tell, don't tell Agatha.'"

"What lack of confidence you two secretive people do show in Agatha. Why is it?"

"In the first place because she's a cat."

"Doesn't seem conclusive. I've known cats who talked less than some ladies."

"--And in the second because she's her cousin."

"Whose? The cat's?"

"No. Lynn Thayer's."

"My golf-balls! Where are we at?"

"Why, I'm sure I've made myself plain enough," said Miss Bent, looking surprised.

"On the contrary you've made yourself awfully pretty in your sporting togs but you have _not_ made yourself explicit."

"You silly thing! Don't you see what I mean? It's Lynn Thayer that the gossip's about."

"Oh, Miss Thayer," said Ogden. "Then I hardly think it's true."

"Oh, it must be. This person saw her. It seemed so queer she could hardly believe her eyes."

"What did?"

"Why, Lynn's being there alone at that time of night. Not that it was a proper place for a lady at any time"----

"What place wasn't?"

"Dear me, Neil, you are stupid, sometimes. Why, St. Eustache St."----

"Whew! St. Eustache St.!"

"Yes, and at eleven o'clock at night."

"Nonsense."

"It isn't nonsense. Mabel saw her--there! I let out the name, but you won't tell anyone, will you?--at all events you won't mention that it was Mabel"----

"Mabel be--wait a moment. Your friend saw Miss Thayer--at eleven o'clock at night on St. Eustache St."--

"Yes. Coming out of that rackety studio building on the south side, where unspeakable beings congregate."

"What? Oh, look here, Kitty, you mustn't say that. You don't know what you're saying. Your friend, whoever she is, made a mistake--a big mistake. It was not Lynn Thayer she saw at all--it could not possibly have been--and she does a very wrong and wicked thing in spreading such stories. Now what I want you to do is"----

"Neil, one would think I was fifteen. Do you suppose Mabel would say such a thing if it wasn't true? She didn't think at first that it could be Lynn, though she saw her distinctly; and so she followed her."

"Oh! Well, Kitty, all I can say is that if your friend's a woman, I'm glad I'm a man. By the way, was this paragon alone?"

"Certainly not. She and her husband had been to the French theatre: and, as it was a fine night they decided to walk home. Then they began talking about how these awful old streets used to be fashionable, and he said that he would show her an interesting old house in St. Eustache St. So they went there and he pointed it out to her and told her how it used to belong to the Duke of ---- and how now it had degenerated into the haunt of all sorts of people. Just as he was saying that only confirmed drunkards and opium eaters and things ever went there the door opened--and, to their infinite astonishment, Lynn Thayer came out."

"Your friend's a"----

"She isn't. She's a nice woman and so is her husband--at least I mean he's--well, anyway, they followed her for a block or two and she called a closed sleigh and, just for fun, they got into another and drove behind her. She went up to Pine Avenue and so they began to think that they must be mistaken when--what do you think?--she got out, paid the cabman and walked back to her aunt's house! There was no possible mistake about it."

Neil trudged along in silence for a few moments.

"Kitty," he said at last, "there seem to be only two interpretations that can be put on that story. The first is that Lynn Thayer, a girl who has always been considered one of the nicest in Montreal, has done an unpardonable thing; the second, that your friends are liars. I prefer to think the latter--hello! do you want to run over us? Where's your light?"

"Beg pardon, sir. I've just been driving a lady who asked me to put it out while I was up here. I'll light it right away."

"It's not right, a sleigh going at that rate without light: what on earth could the woman have meant by telling him to put it out. She must be--well, Kitty, what on earth is it?"

"Hush! Look!"

He looked. A woman clad in a long dark cloak and wearing a heavy veil passed them with averted head and hasty steps. Her walk and figure were unmistakable. She shrank into the shadow of the leafless maples and descended rapidly citywards.

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*MRS. HADWELL'S FANCY DRESS BALL*

"When Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet."
--_Byron_.

There is a fascination about a fancy dress ball which appertains to no other form of entertainment. The excitement of seeing one's common-place acquaintances blossoming out, under the magic influence of costume, into fairies, kings and cavaliers is one which never palls.

Interesting it is, too, to observe the characters impersonated and to note how clearly the character of the impersonator is expressed in his choice. Thus Mrs. Hadwell, on the evening of her famous ball, appeared as Titania, clad in a fluffy, shimmering robe of mousseline, which was further embellished and beautified by various shining ornaments and clusters of hothouse blooms. A sparkling diadem crowned her rich auburn tresses and a necklace of some value glittered on her neck. Her pretty arms were covered with bracelets and her prettier feet were adorned by diamond-studded sandals. She moved among her guests a shining, odorous, "form of faery," followed by ejaculations of admiration and murmurs of delight.

Erma Reed, on the other hand, had wisely chosen the dress of ancient Greece: and her chiselled features showed clearly cut and noble beneath the chaplet of green leaves which lay lightly on her smooth, dark locks; while her flowing robe added distinction and grace to her splendid form, beside which the puny, slender figures of more modern beauties seemed mean and artificial.

Lynn Thayer came, dressed as a Red Cross nurse. "Nothing about me suggests the heroine of history or romance," she said, "and I should make myself ridiculous by attempting to personate anything but an ordinary, everyday woman." She made a noble-looking nurse, however, and many turned from the more fancifully attired dames to watch her sympathetic countenance: some thinking, as they did so, that hers was a face that they would like to see in moments of illness or depression. Others there were, though, who watched her covertly and whispered stealthily to one another as she passed: and Lynn noted with surprise that Neil Ogden, who was standing by Kitty Bent, looked down hastily as he saw her approaching and made no sign of recognition. Nor did Kitty seem anxious to return her bow.

The twins in whose honour the affair had been contrived attracted more attention than all the other guests put together. They were in mad spirits and seemed unable to keep apart, hurrying to one another's side as soon as each dance was finished and whispering and laughing together in unrestrained fashion. Bert was attired as Mark Antony in flowing Egyptian robes, donned, as he explained, after he had made the acquaintance of the Serpent of the Nile: and he handled the crimson, voluminous garments with a grace which called forth more than one admiring comment from his partners. Their compliments were invariably received with a stifled giggle: in fact Bert's manners, as a whole, did not show their usual reserve and good breeding. Still the handsome, boyish face above the crimson draperies was so alight with good humour; the black eyes were so unaccountably mischievous and the olive cheeks so becomingly flushed that the most exigeant of his uncle's guests could not find it in her heart to be really severe until--but that, as Mr. Kipling says, is another story.

As for his sister, it is safe to say that no other girl created such a sensation. It was not only her appearance, though that was sufficiently striking, but the wild gayety and vivacity of her demeanour that made her the cynosure of every eye. She was dressed as a lady of the French court in a tightly fitting gown of French brocade with trailing draperies: and her eyes looked even darker and brighter than their wont beneath the high structure of powdered hair which the dress demanded. The pink and white brocade and the crimson robe of Egypt were so frequently seen in absorbed conversation that the twinly devotion of Mrs. Hadwell's connections was a favourite topic of conversation at the beginning of the evening. Later on, I regret to say--but here again I anticipate.

Agatha Ladilaw, dressed as the Queen of the Roses, received her usual meed of praise and attention. Her three lovers followed her around with dog-like devotion; and many others, seeing what a magnet she was for three of the conflicting sex, hastened to make her acquaintance in order to discover for themselves what the attraction was. Agatha, in consequence, became more than ever convinced that she was bound to make the best match of any girl who had come out that year; and considered more seriously than before the advisability of adding a still more eligible fourth to her list of fiances. Among the many who sunned themselves in her smiles was Harold Lighton, who found her gaze of respectful attention and her eager and smiling responses so soothing after his late reverses that he insisted on sitting out several dances with her in order that he might give her further particulars of her cousin's cruelty; which cruelty she almost wept over.

"She's such a queer girl, Mr. Lighton," she said, shyly yet impulsively, "oh, I know she's my own cousin and perhaps I oughtn't to say so but"--

"Isn't she?" inquired the disconsolate lover, eagerly. "As you're her cousin, I suppose I can say so"--

"Anything you say," said Agatha, dimpling seraphically, "is quite safe with me, Mr. Lighton--anything!" She raised her deep, soulful eyes to him with an air of rapt attention and Mr. Lighton found himself murmuring involuntarily, "What a charming girl!"

"All I was going to say was," he continued, returning to the attack, but half forgetting his griefs in the joy of finding such an intelligent listener, "that your cousin really doesn't treat a fellow fairly. Now she won't listen to anything a fellow tries to tell her. All she will say is, 'Surely we have discussed this often enough, Mr. Lighton; do talk of something else!' Now, hang it all, Miss Ladilaw, that's rude!"

"I should think it was," exclaimed Agatha, looking appropriately shocked and grieved and inwardly wondering whether any man _could_ spend an hour in her society and bestow a thought afterwards on a plain girl like Lynn.

"And then, when I tell her she is rude, all she will say is, 'I wonder you come to see me so often when I am so unpleasant and there are so many nice girls in the world.'" He paused.

"Ah!" said Agatha, softly, wondering inwardly why he did; and wondering, moreover, whether it was too soon to ask him to drop in some quiet evening when she was quite sure of having no other callers, in order that they might the more fully discuss her cousin's iniquities.

"And then to have her add the finishing touch by refusing me outright after all the time I've spent on"----

"What?" said Agatha, startled, for once, out of all semblance of good manners. Was the man in earnest? Had he actually proposed? and had the fool--for no other word seemed appropriately to describe her cousin--had the fool refused him? Agatha gasped and caught her breath. Refused him! refused a horse and carriage and a nice house and a trip to Europe if she wanted it? Agatha could scarcely regain her composure.

"Yes, indeed, she refused me," reiterated the Rejected One, indignantly. "And she not only refused me but she told me that I would thank her for her refusal ten years hence."

"Mr. Lighton," Agatha's voice was solemn--"Do you--I don't suppose you do, but--excuse my asking--_do_ you still want to marry her?"

"I should rather think I did," rejoined Mr. Lighton, staring. "Never was so dead gone on any girl in my life. But it's no use; I may as well make up my mind to"----

"Mr. Lighton, if it is any satisfaction to you, I shall speak to my cousin. I cannot feel," Agatha continued, raising her big eyes almost tearfully to her companion's face, "I cannot feel that it is right to let my cousin refuse such an offer--I mean, such an honest and manly love as yours--without, at any rate, trying to show her how--how _wicked_ it is. For," said Agatha with righteous indignation, "for what is Lynn, anyway? A public school teacher! And whom else is she going to get if she refuses you? Nobody! And I don't care whether she likes it or not I'm going to put her conduct before her in the right light."

"That's the stuff," said Mr. Lighton, delightedly. "You're a fine little girl, that's what: and I tell you what it is, if you do make any impression on her--which," said Mr. Lighton, relapsing into despondency, "which you won't, for she's as stubborn as a--but, if you should--why, all I can say is, I'll never forget it."

Agatha had, as all ladies who follow the time-honoured sport of man-hunting must have, an eye to all contingencies. She impulsively clasped her companion's big hand in her two small ones now as she murmured, feelingly:

"Don't think that I am intruding, Mr. Lighton, but, if this _should_ be a failure--and no one can tell anything where Lynn is concerned--always remember that you have one friend, anyway."

"I won't forget it," responded Mr. Lighton with alacrity. Nice little thing! Pity her cousin wasn't more like her, that was all he could say. And yet, confound it all! there was something about the other--he couldn't help liking her in spite of everything--but, whatever happened, this little thing was worth cultivating. He wondered, as Agatha with a sympathetic smile and an air of stern resolve gathered up her pink draperies and departed in search of her cousin what the outcome of it would be. Well! he would soon know, at all events.

*CHAPTER XIX*

*AGATHA "DOES HER DUTY" AND IS REWARDED*

"Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget my own?
If she slight me when I woo
I can scorn and let her go."
--_G. Wither_.

Past Boadicea, reclining against a marble heater and conversing with Mephistopheles; past Joan of Arc, flirting vigorously with Torquemeda; past the Queen of the Fairies, chatting to a miscellaneous group of knights and demons; past every variety of hero and lady fair went the self-sacrificing Agatha, intent on her altruistic aim. "For," as she muttered to herself, "if he has proposed to her, already, it isn't very likely that he will change for a little while, anyway, and I want to be married before any of the other girls. Besides it wouldn't be half so nice to marry a man who had been refused by your own cousin; though every one would think you had cut her out and Lynn is so funny that she would probably just giggle and say nothing, so it wouldn't matter much. But, as matters stand, I think it would be really wicked to let Lynn actually refuse him, particularly when I can get so many others: and, once they are married, she will be grateful to me as well as he and they will have a nice home and entertain a lot and I can be their bridesmaid and everyone will say how much prettier I am than the bride and"--At this moment she caught sight of her quarry.

Lynn had been dancing and had just come out to the hall in search of a vacant chair or stair when she saw a vision of pink tulle gazing at her with such an unusual amount of feeling and expressiveness that, with a hasty excuse, she dropped her partner's arm and hurried to her small cousin's side.

"Agatha," she exclaimed, wonderingly. "What is it? Is anything the matter? Do you want me?"

"Indeed I do," responded Agatha, solemnly.

"Then just let me speak to Mr. Barnes a moment and explain why I am going: then we can run upstairs to Del's little sitting-room and talk quietly."

This programme was carried out; and, when they were safely ensconced behind closed doors, Lynn turned eagerly to her cousin.

"Now, Agatha!" she said.

Agatha turned and looked at her.

"Lynn," she said with portentous solemnity, "I don't know what you will think of me and I don't care. Some one has got to talk to you."

Lynn stared in amazement, wondering if her thrice-engaged cousin objected to her dancing twice with the same man: she could think of no other enormity of which she had been guilty that evening.

"I have been sitting out a couple of dances with Mr. Lighton, and he became unusually confidential," went on Agatha, turning almost pale: "and he tells me," pausing impressively, "he tells me that you--have--refused--him."

"He tells the truth," responded Lynn, looking annoyed, "and all I can say is, Agatha, that if you have torn me away from the dance"--

"Wait a moment," said Agatha, earnestly. "This is very important to me, Lynn. It isn't only that I feel sorry that you, being my cousin, should be so foolish as to refuse him, once; but what I want to know is,--did you mean it?"

"Assuredly I did," said Lynn, staring.

"You meant," said Agatha, pathetically, "you really meant, Lynn, to refuse that nice house and"--

"Yes, and that nice horse, too," exclaimed Lynn, turning red. "Upon my word this is too much! I can stand Aunt Lucy and Del, but when it comes to you, Agatha--understand once for all that I meant to refuse that nice house and that good-sized yard at the back and that commodious stable with all that it contains--not even excepting the horse which every one seemed to think that I would accept with tears of rapture, despite the fact that it was encumbered with a master whom I should have to accept, likewise, as they are inseparable."

"Oh, Lynn, dear! such a lot of long words and such a temper and all because I tried to advise you for your own good."

"Agatha, I give you fair warning that I shall gently but firmly assassinate the very next person who tries to advise me for my own good."

Agatha sat for a moment, absorbed in thought.

"Lynn," she said, presently, "does anyone know that you have refused Mr. Lighten?"

"Not unless he has chosen to tell anyone. I am not in the habit of publishing every offer I receive in the daily papers, which is one reason why some people suppose that I never get any."

"Then," said Agatha, thinking deeply, "I suppose, Lynn, you will not mind if I advise you not to--not to tell anyone? Do you remember what you said to me about those things--proposals and engagements and things, you know!--well, at the time I did say I thought it was foolish not to tell when people proposed to you because then lots of people, as you say, think you never get any--but since then I have changed my mind; I really think it is more sensible not to--particularly in your case where it would be so embarrassing for Mr. Lighton if he were attentive to some girl."

Lynn burst out laughing.

"I never in my life told on any man who was misguided enough to ask me to marry him. I have always felt that the pain of feeling that he had so lowered himself was punishment enough for any crime."

"Why, Lynn, I don't quite see what you mean," said Agatha, patient but bewildered.

"This is all I mean," said Lynn, gravely. "If you have any idea of going in for Lighton--and certainly his house is all that could be desired--why, don't feel as you walk up the aisle in veil and orange blossoms that I am whispering to my nearest acquaintance, 'I could have had that man if I had wanted him.'"

"But," said Agatha, timidly, "suppose such a thing _did_ happen--it would not be very nice for you, Lynn, to think that people were saying that I had cut you out. That is the first thing that Mrs. Langham-Greene would think."

"I can think of nothing at the moment less likely to worry me than Mrs. Langham-Greene's thoughts concerning me."

"Oh, how queer you are!" said Agatha, opening her eyes widely. "Then, Lynn, if you should hear--well, anything! you won't mind. For there is still time for you to change your mind, you know; and really he's very fond of you, and his house"--

"Has only one drawback! Now don't dare to tell him I said that, Agatha, or"--

"Why, I don't know what you did say," responded Agatha, patiently. "You say such queer things, Lynn, that half the time I don't know what you're driving at. At all events, however, as I understand, you are quite determined not to accept Mr. Lighton."

"Quite."

"Then," said Agatha, dimpling bewitchingly and adjusting her rose wreath with an air of satisfaction, "then, Lynn, I must just go and tell him so, I suppose."

She found the Rejected sitting where she had left him, and gazing disconsolately into space. He brightened a little as she sat down beside him.

"You had no luck, I suppose?" he remarked, tentatively.

"Mr. Lighton," cooed Agatha, softly, "she is not worthy of you. She is my own cousin, but I can't help saying so."

Mr. Lighton turned a rich, ripe tan colour, the nearest approach to a flush of rage that his skin was capable of attaining.

"Made fun of me, I suppose?" he queried in tones of stifled fury. "Oh, you needn't try to smooth it over, Miss Ladilaw! I know that tongue of hers too well."

"Well," said Agatha, commiseratingly, "I must say, Mr. Lighton, that she might have been nicer. It's one thing to refuse a man and another to make jokes about it. Not that she said much, you know, but there was one speech about your house having only one drawback"--

"That," exclaimed Mr. Lighton in a burst of horrible enlightenment, "was Me!"

"I am afraid so," said Agatha, softly. "But please don't tell any one I repeated it, Mr. Lighton. I really shouldn't have, you know. But I felt so disturbed and angry at the idea of any one belonging to me being so heartless"--

Six months later when Miss Agatha Ladilaw, "the prettiest debutante of the former season," made "the match of the year," Lynn felt rather hurt at the demeanour of both bride and groom toward her.

"I was disagreeable," she reflected, "but he brought it on himself and I can't understand why the mention of my name should invariably produce a chill in the Ladilaw household. Agatha, at least, has nothing to blame me for."

Agatha and Agatha's husband, however, agreed in seeing as little as possible of Agatha's cousin and in acting as coldly as was consistent with politeness whenever they did meet her. This, Society thought, was owing to the fact that poor Miss Thayer had cherished useless aspirations in the direction of the Lighton house, herself. Poor Miss Thayer!

*CHAPTER XX*

*THE TWINS UNDER A NEW ASPECT*

"Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful jollity."
--_Milton_.

The fun was at its height. The most delightful waltz of the evening had just concluded and streams of gaily dressed forms poured in the direction of the balcony. It was mid-winter and the thermometer stood at five below: yet more than one couple strolled out on the balcony and stood, contracting lung trouble and pneumonia, while they gazed enraptured at the beautiful panorama which spread beneath them. The city was a mass of glittering lights, seen through the delicate pencilled branches of bare maples and willows; and seemed to the watchers as though lying hundreds of feet below Hadwell Heights. At the foot of the high hill on which the house was built lay Pine Avenue, thronged with couples arrayed in sporting garb and bent on their way to the toboggan slide at the back of the mountain. Less often a party of snowshoers would rush past on their ungainly footgear: an object of little amusement to the Canadians but one of never-failing interest to the Americans: and, less frequently still, a couple of men on skis. The twins, who never thought of colds or of precautions against them, spent most of their time between the dances in standing in the most exposed part of the balcony and watching the passers-by until the icy winds which whirled around drove them indoors, shivering but happy.

Bertie seemed to-night as though possessed of some demon of mischief and unrest. She confessed to a rather bad cold already, but it detracted nothing from her appearance though it affected her usually sweet voice, rendering it hoarse and strained. No entreaties could keep her from the icy balcony, though, and her partners soon stopped making them and devoted themselves to carrying on the flirtations which she seemed determined to push to the utmost limit. Never had any of her Canadian admirers seen her in such a mood; her usual gay, but rather reserved manner had given place to the one commonly attributed to the American girl in foreign fiction. Her partners were at first amazed, then flattered at her open and eager anxiety for their attentions; but some, including Donovan, her companion of the hockey match, who had come to like and admire the pretty Ohio girl, were rather repelled and disgusted at the change in her. Toward the end of the evening his disgust reached a climax. An extremely shy and painfully proper youth to whom Bertie had begged him to introduce her at the beginning of the evening, had just emerged from sitting out a dance with her and had asked Donovan to have a smoke with him in Mr. Hadwell's "den," which, for this night, was given over to the needs of the dancers. On Donovan's assenting, Mr. Simcoe, the shy youth, had unfolded a tale of horror. He had come up for his dance with Miss Hadwell when she, without a word of apology, had piloted him in the direction of the stairs, murmuring, as she did so, "We don't want to dance, do we? We can do better than that." On his expressing his willingness to do as she wished she had squeezed his arm and informed him in an ecstatic whisper that he was a duck, a perfect duck, and that she was going to show him a nice little cubby hole behind some curtains at the end of the hall which she was sure Mrs. Hadwell must have fixed expressly for them. "Of course," Mr. Simcoe had remarked, nervously, "of course I couldn't refuse to go, Donovan." Donovan, looking very grim, had agreed with him: of course he could not. So, it appeared, they had gone. Mr. Simcoe had seemed unwilling to divulge the secrets of his prison house but had gone so far as to hint that ladies who asked fellows to kiss them on so short an acquaintance were not in his line. Donovan had informed him here that gentlemen did not, as a rule, "kiss and tell": and had refused to listen further, regardless of Mr. Simcoe's anguished explanation. "But I didn't, Donovan! hang it all, it was she who insisted, you know, and she can't blame me for speaking of it." Donovan had walked off in a furious rage, awakened, not so much by Mr. Simcoe's lack of gallantry as by Miss Hadwell's lack of common sense and good breeding.

If Miss Bertie's conduct gave rise to comment, what shall be said of Mr. Bert's? It is safe to say that never before in a Montreal drawing-room had any gentleman disported himself with such amazing freedom. Before many dances had transpired ominous whispers might have been heard among the young ladies who had been honoured with his partnership; and it was a matter of common observation that, toward the end of the evening, several of his companions flatly refused to "sit out" dances which he had engaged, earlier. The most amazing snub which he received came from Miss Reed, who, on his reminding her that she had promised him the eighteenth dance, had answered in tones of ice, "So sorry, Mr. Hadwell, but I never dance--except with gentlemen!" This was merely the climax of a series of unpleasant remarks which had been showered upon him; but, coming from Miss Reed, who was known to have absorbed all his time and attention until that evening, it was expected to have had a chilling effect upon him. This, however, was far from being the case. "I may not be exactly a gentleman, Miss Reed," he had returned with the utmost sangfroid, "but"-- At this moment he had caught sight of his sister's eye, fixed on him with a look in which rage and consternation were strangely blended; and breaking off abruptly, he had left Erma's side, his manly shoulders shaking visibly. Bertie had held a hasty and agitated conversation with him; and the twinly devotion which had so impressed the assembled company when the dance commenced was apparently conspicuous by its absence.

In the midst of the dance Mrs. Hadwell was seen to leave the room, hastily, in response to a whispered message from a housemaid. When she returned her eyes were sparkling mischievously and her whole demeanour was charged with importance. Presently she beckoned confidentially to Mrs. Langham-Greene, who stood, resplendent in pale green draperies and water lilies, a most pleasing and graceful Undine. Undine approached and Titania linked her arm in hers. "My dear," she cooed, "you haven't an idea--oh, how shall I begin? You know my housekeeper, don't you? Wasn't she an old school friend of yours?"

"Not a friend, exactly," answered the elegant Undine, rather deprecatingly. "An acquaintance, rather. Such an ugly little thing and so lacking in any sort of brightness and attractiveness"--

"To us yes!" purred Titania. "But only think of a man like General Shaftan having cared so much for her that he was unable to die without seeing her and imploring her for the last time to become his wife"-- She paused and viewed the crimsoning Undine with a countenance absolutely devoid of guile.

"General Shaftan?" inquired her guest, turning from crimson to scarlet. "General Shaftan? Why, my dear Mrs. Hadwell"--

"I know," murmured Titania, sympathetically, casting a demure glance at the infuriated water nymph, "I know! we all thought it was you--and, no doubt, he made you think so as well! men are such dreadful deceivers--but he sent for Mrs. Waite on his death-bed and wanted to marry her."

Undine found her breath.

"My _dear_ Mrs. Hadwell," she laughed, lightly. "Does it sound a probable story?"

"No; and if the poor woman, herself, had told me about it, I regret to say that I should have doubted her. But the General told his nurse and trusted her with the secret contents of his will. It was drawn up three hours before he sent for Mrs. Waite and, in it, he says that he leaves all of which he dies possessed to Amy Marion Waite in the belief that that lady will, in the next few hours, become his wife, as he hopes and intends she shall."

Mrs. Langham-Greene said nothing, but turned white and twisted the fan which she held in her long, snake-like fingers feverishly. Titania, looking at her, felt a sudden twinge of compassion and compunction. She left her with some hurried excuse.

"So," she said, slowly to herself, "so even that unscrupulous, wheedling serpent is capable of caring for somebody: and caring for him all those years, too. Am I the only woman living who--who"----

Something wet and glistening fell on her chiffon dress. She hastily wiped it away and stared in amazement.

"Getting sentimental at my age?" she inquired in stupefaction. "Here, Estelle Hadwell, don't be a fool! You've got everything you ever wanted and you're ten times happier than anyone else you know. Think of your dresses and your jewelry and your friends and your--n-n-no, I don't know that you need think of him--not just now, at all events! But think of"--

She looked up, up the long, broad stairway, up to the big, quiet nursery. Then she smiled and tossed her head.

"I have everything, practically everything," she said, defiantly. "Everything but a sentimental experience which disappears, anyway, after six months of married life. I'm a fool, that's what I am! a discontented, ungrateful fool. The trouble with me is that I've got too much. If only--if only one of them doesn't"----

A spasm of agony crossed her face at the unwelcome thought; then she resolutely crossed the hall and opened an animated conversation with one of her numerous admirers. Lack of self-control was not one of the pretty Titania's failings.

Presently Lynn Thayer joined her, looking grave and perplexed. "May I have Mrs. Hadwell to myself for a few moments?" she asked, smiling in a rather forced way: then, putting her hand on Mrs. Hadwell's arm, she drew her aside.

"Del," she said in a low voice, "you know I am no prude and I don't make a fuss, unnecessarily, about anything; but I tell you plainly that you must speak to those young connections of yours."

"Why, what have the poor things been doing?" asked Mrs. Hadwell in amazement. "I noticed that they were awfully lively but, surely, at their age"--

"My dear Del, their conduct is outrageous. Particularly Bertie's. After all, if a boy of twenty chooses to act like a fool he simply gets severely snubbed and, in time, comes to his senses and is forgiven. But when a girl of the same age, a girl who has had every advantage, starts to act in her uncle's house like an extremely fast barmaid, why, you know as well as I do that it won't be forgotten in a hurry. What has got into them to-night I don't know; but the whole room is talking of their actions. Imagine Bertie asking that shy little recluse of a Simcoe to kiss her and pretending to weep when he hesitated"----

"_Lynn!_"

"My dear, that isn't the worst of it. She has taken about half her partners to that little alcove in the second floor hall, which is curtained off, and has treated them to a course of hoydenish flirtation which is, to say the least of it, in the poorest taste. Silly little Simcoe was bad enough, but, when it comes to Parham, one of the fastest men in the city"----

"Surely not!"

"She has been sitting up there with him for the last two dances; and she is evidently taken with him, for, when she showed me her programme and I remarked on her having promised him three dances in succession, she giggled in the most affected manner and said, 'Oh, I simply adore those sad-eyed, soft-voiced men with reputations yards long!' and danced off before I had a chance to suggest that"----

"Why, Lynn, what can I have been thinking about to allow it? Oh, the silly child! If she must act like a goose, why couldn't she do it a little more privately? Don't laugh, Lynn: you know what I mean. And you tell me that Bert?"----

"Has been acting like a perfect fool. He even wanted to kiss me."

"Lynn! the boy must have taken leave of his senses."

"I was afraid myself that he was drunk. In fact I took the liberty of asking him if he was. He was quite angry for a moment. 'What do you mean by saying that I am drunk?' he asked. 'Oh,' I said, 'I didn't say that you _were_ drunk: on the contrary I said I hoped you weren't.' 'But why should you think I was?' persisted my gentleman. So I told him that when people tried to make love to me I always thought they must be drunk. He shouted at that and explained that he was in good spirits--animal, not vegetable--and wanted to enjoy himself. I treated him to a piece of my mind, but it didn't seem to do much good."

"Isn't it extraordinary? With all their high spirits and love of fun I thought those twins were as well-bred a pair as you would want to meet. Well! I must do my duty, I suppose. Where are the miscreants, Lynn?"

"Bert is in the ballroom, trying to pacify his partners, most of whom are not pleased with him for reasons best known to themselves. Bertie, as I told you, is sitting behind a fairly thick curtain with a man who shouldn't be admitted into any respectable house."

"My dear child, don't start to lecture about that! I have enough on my hands."

She mounted the stairs with a determined but bored expression and presently descended, followed by the unrepentant Bertie who winked joyously at the stony and disapproving visage of her aunt's friend. Behind them strolled the redoubtable Parham, apparently highly amused.

Mrs. Hadwell entered the ballroom and looked about for Bert. He was presently discovered in the act of fanning an indignant-looking lady who pretended to ignore his efforts at small talk. Mrs. Hadwell beckoned and he sprang to his feet with alacrity.

"Bert!" said his aunt by marriage, sternly, "there are limits to my forbearance. I am sorry to say that you have transgressed those limits. I am still sorrier that you have no better taste than to take pleasure in showing impertinence to my guests."

Bert's face worked for a moment: he said something in an aside to his sister, then spoke.

"Aunt Del," he said, humbly but with an irrepressible twinkle in his black eyes, "we have acted like a couple of demons, I must admit, but, if you'll only forgive us this once, I swear we'll straighten things out. Every one is going to supper, now; well, Bertie and I are going in together and, just as soon as the people are seated, you will see what will happen."

"I will not," was Mrs. Hadwell's unexpected rejoinder. "I have had quite enough nonsense, Bert. It must end, here."

Bert consulted his sister with his eyes; then, catching his diminutive aunt by the waist, he whirled her down the room and whispered something in her ear. She gasped, then suddenly laughed and looked relieved; and Bertie approached and entered into an animated conversation with her.

Five minutes later, when the assembled company was seated at supper, the unruly and ostracized pair walked solemnly in and stood for a moment at the head of the room. Then Bert raised his crimson-decked arm with a mute request for silence. A hush of surprise fell on the revellers. He spoke.

"My dear friends," he said, gravely, "my sister and I have acted so badly to-night and have laid ourselves open to so much well-deserved censure that we think the least we can do is to apologize, and we do it--thus!"

He deliberately laid hold of his companion's snowy locks and, with a vigorous pull, exposed a close cropped head. Then he doffed his crimson headgear and a dark tress fell athwart his nose.

When the prolonged shrieks of amazement and laughter had died into silence Bert--the real Bert--spoke.

"My sister says that if all the girls whom she has kissed will forgive her she will never do it, again," he said. "And, as for me," he paused and cast a glance of pure delight in the direction of Messrs. Simcoe and Parham, "as for me, while I must confess that I am a horrible flirt"--

He could get no further.

An hour later Undine, looking paler than her wont, sat whispering behind a large fan to two or three other women. One of them, a pleasant-faced middle-aged woman, looked distinctly sad and uncomfortable.

"The poor girl!" she said.

"Such people should be exposed," returned Undine, coldly. "The idea of her being here at all. Mrs. Hadwell cannot associate with fast women and expect to keep her own character. Personally I never think there is any real harm in Mrs. Hadwell, though"-- She paused tentatively while a venomous gleam lit her large, pale eyes.

"Oh, no, no!" cried the others in horrified unison; and Mrs. Langham-Greene saw that it would be dangerous to venture further. She bade an affectionate farewell to her hostess and ordered a closed sleigh.

"My dress is so thin," she explained, smiling.

As the sleigh drove away she crouched among the fur rugs and bit her naked arms and writhed.

"I'll pay them for this," she whispered, catching her breath in torture. "He sent for her--for her! and that little cat dared to tell me to my face--oh, I can't reach her, not yet; but I can hurt her through her friend, anyway. She really cares for the Thayer girl; it'll make trouble with her pompous old husband when she insists on supporting her--oh, I'll do what I can! it may help me to forget." She groaned. "Oh, I can't bear it: I didn't mind his death as I mind this! it's like losing him all over again--I'll pay her for what she's made me suffer to-night! _I'll pay her!_"

*CHAPTER XXI*

*A LIE WHICH IS PART A TRUTH*

"A lie which is part a truth is ever the blackest of lies,
A lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright,
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight."
--_Tennyson_.

Mrs. Langham-Greene's pretty town house possessed a drawing-room as elegant as its mistress, and far less harmful. It was flanked by two bay windows, admirably adapted for gazing on the peccadilloes of one's neighbours, the while one ruminated contentedly on one's own virtues. Here its fair owner loved to sit on winter afternoons, dispensing excellent tea and gossip: and here one bright January day found her brewing the witching potion for a waiting guest. This was no other than Gerald Amherst, who happened to be painting the lady's portrait. When the daylight faded she had insisted on his accompanying her home and joining her in a cup of five o'clock tea. The fair widow was not an especial favourite of the artist's; but his stock of excuses had been exhausted on previous occasions and he had therefore submitted meekly.

Mrs. Langham-Greene was a woman who wore well, as the saying is. Her figure was straight and supple as a girl of twenty's and her delicate features had escaped the pinched look which frequently accompanies thinness in a woman of fifty. Her skin had always been colourless and now resembled fine ivory; her hair, which she wore parted in the middle in the Madonna style, was only very slightly flecked with grey. Julia Langham-Greene was a distinguished woman, an interesting woman, an elegant woman. When, at thirty-five, she had first donned widow's weeds, she had created such a furore that it was many years before she found herself able to relinquish them. However, when a woman reaches forty and finds herself capable of wearing pale blue and scarlet to advantage--she usually does.

Mrs. Langham-Greene was now forty-seven, yet she could attend a fancy dress ball attired in Nile green and pearls and look the part of Undine to perfection. Small wonder, then, that she wished to transfer such lasting charms to still more lasting canvas; and Amherst had attained distinction as a portrait painter years before. She smiled delicately on him now, as she sugared his tea and inquired in tones of melted honey whether he took cream or lemon; and pondered inwardly how best to land the shaft she held in store.

"You are too good," she purred, in response to a perfunctory compliment on his part. "Far too good. Among so many young and pretty girls I fear I must have been quite unnoticed. Miss Reed, for instance! What regular features she has; quite ideal! What a pity that she has so little conversation! and such poor taste in dress. And is it true that her father has fits and that her mother was a house-maid before he married her?"

"I never heard that," returned Amherst, opening his honest eyes in amazement. "Miss Reed is a striking looking girl, but, to my mind, Miss Ladilaw is far prettier."

"But so uninteresting, don't you think?"

"Not more so than the majority of very young girls."

"Still," pursued Mrs. Langham-Greene, thoughtfully, "she is a nice lady-like little thing. I daresay she will marry young; she is so naive and pretty. It is not likely that she will hang on year after year like that poor, plain cousin of hers."

"Surely you don't mean Miss Thayer?"

"I mention no names," said the widow, archly: then her face dropped, pathetically. "I should not like to say one thing about that poor, misguided girl that might sound unkind,--poor creature, she has enough to bear."

"I don't understand you," said Gerald, flushing angrily.

"Ah, you men are so gallant," commented the widow, smiling a little sorrowfully. "I am told that the things gentlemen say about Miss Thayer when they are alone could not be repeated in a lady's hearing."

"Whoever told you that, Mrs. Greene," replied Gerald, forgetting the hyphened adjunct in his fury, "is an uncommonly first class liar. The things that _gentlemen_ say about Miss Thayer could be repeated in the hearing of St. Peter."

"My dear Mr. Amherst, you have lifted a weight from my mind. Is it possible that there are men in this world so--so kindly that they refrain from unpleasant comment on a woman of that kind even when the refining influence of ladies' society"----

"A woman of that kind! Unpleasant comment! I don't know what in the--what in thunder you can mean, Mrs. Greene; and, if you will kindly inform me in as few words as possible"----

"I?"

Mrs. Langham-Greene drew her slender figure up haughtily and regarded her interrogator with stately yet grieved amazement.

"_I? I_ repeat scandal--I spread scandal about another woman? a woman, too, who, in spite of the fact, that she must be fully thirty, has not yet been able to secure a husband to protect her? Indeed, Mr. Amherst, you must not think that you can drag me into this. You quite forget yourself if you suppose that I am willing to discuss such questionable things. If you choose to delve into these unpleasant matters it shall not be in my drawing-room."

Mr. Amherst surveyed her in silence.

"Pardon me, Mrs. Greene," he said, courteously, "but was not the matter first referred to in your drawing-room, and by you?"

"If," said Mrs. Langham-Greene, rather sadly, "if I allowed an expression of sympathy for the unfortunate girl to escape me, I did not expect to be reproached for it, Mr. Amherst."

Amherst, despite his indignation, began to feel a little abashed. After all, the woman _had_ done nothing but mention Lynn pityingly; but why she or any one else should----

He pulled himself together and spoke, quietly.

"I gained the impression from what you said, Mrs. Greene, that there were unpleasant rumours afloat concerning Miss Thayer. Won't you tell me what they are?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Amherst," murmured the lady, distressfully. "I couldn't, really."

"Can't you give me an idea of them?"

"But, Mr. Amherst, you must know something. Why, the very servants talk of it. My butler and housemaid"----

"Yes? Not having the pleasure of either your housemaid's or your butler's acquaintance, I am still grievously in the dark. Has anyone else mentioned the matter to you?"

"Why, everyone. I supposed, of course, that you knew, that you had heard of it long ago or, believe me, I should never have mentioned it. Of course if it were another man--if it were even a gentleman--it would not be quite so awful. But a villainous, sickly little foreigner like Ricossia"----

"What?"