Chapter III: Captain Leopold Introduces His Friend (1)

Blanche Léopold was in great delight at having Pearl and Polly with her.

“We are just like three sisters, are not we, petite maman?” she said, as they lightly tossed their skirts over each other so as not to crush them.

“Exactly, chères enfants!” said Mme. Léopold, with a smile at both her _protégées_; but it was Pearl’s hand she pressed, it was Pearl’s forehead that she stooped to kiss, in answer to Blanche’s appeal.

“Is M. Léon to be at the ball?” inquired Polly.

“Of course he is! What a question, you wicked child!” said Léon’s mother; and then she turned to Pearl and laughed, and pressed her hand again.

Pearl’s cheeks were burning like two live coals, but nobody saw this in the dim light of the carriage.

“I thought he was on duty at the _Etat Major_ this evening?” persisted terrible Polly.

“So he was, but he contrived to get off,” said Blanche.

“A higher duty called him to the Tuileries to-night,” said his mother.

“Oh! the emperor has named him on his staff? How glad I am!” said Polly, and Pearl longed to choke her. “Yes, it will be very nice for you to have him in the emperor’s service,” went on the incorrigible Polly, as innocent as a babe of any mischievous intentions. “You are sure to be asked to the _Petits Lundis_ now; and we shall enjoy them more for having you all there. Are you very deep in engagements to-night, Blanche?”

They compared notes and discussed partners till they drew up before the palace; that is to say, Blanche and Polly did. Pearl lay back very silent all the way, and when they alighted Mme. Léopold noticed that she was very pale and seemed provokingly out of tune with the gay scene.

Who that has ever beheld it can forget how gay it was, that brilliant gathering in the old palace?—the blaze of light, the flashing uniforms, the splendidly-attired women, all the stars of fashion and wealth forming a dazzling galaxy round the beautiful Spaniard’s throne, she herself the centre of the firmament, outshining all in grace and beauty and magnificence of attire.

“There is Léon!” cried Blanche the moment they entered the Salle des Maréchaux. And Léon, obeying the magnetic attraction that we all know of, suddenly turned round, and, across the crowd of “fair women and brave men,” espied his mother and her maidens, and at once made towards them. He was very striking in his picturesque hussar uniform with its hanging dolman.

“_Il n’est pas trop mal, mon fils?_” said Mme. Léopold, glancing from him to Pearl and smiling at the latter. But Pearl made no answer, only crimsoned and looked away.

“How late you are!” exclaimed Léon. “I have been on the watch for you this last hour. Are you all engaged, mesdemoiselles?” bowing in one sweep to the three young ladies.

They all were, but their partners were not to the fore yet, and they might not meet for a long time.

“_Les absents ont toujours tort_,” said Léon; “so I claim the privilege of replacing one of them.”

It was to Polly he spoke; she responded by holding out her hand, and in a moment they were wheeling along in a waltz.

“That is a bit of masculine coquetry; he fancies he will make somebody jealous,” said Mme. Léopold, trying to look as if the joke amused her very much; but she was really annoyed with Léon.

Pearl set her face like a flint this time, and, without blushing happily, looked about her with an unconcerned air. She and Blanche were not left long waiting. Partners quickly found them out, and came up in a body, quarrelling over their claim to priority. Before Pearl had come to a decision Mr. Kingspring was at her elbow, and proclaimed his right to the first quadrille over all comers. She caught at this with avidity and hurried away with him.

“How I hate being here to-night!” she said when they were out of Mme. Léopold’s hearing. “I can’t imagine why mamma insisted on our coming. You could tell me if you liked?”

Mr. Kingspring was taken aback by this direct appeal. He was very fond of Pearl, and she treated him with a sisterly _sans façon_ that he was proud of. They were friends, in fact. He might easily put her off with some platitude or prevarication now, but he felt this would not be acting as a loyal friend.

“Is it fair of you to ask me? If your father has not let you into his confidence yet, it would not be honorable in me to do so. It would not be acting as one gentleman should towards another. You would not have me do this? You would not have one whom you call your friend act otherwise than as a gentleman?”

“I can’t imagine why there should be a mystery about it,” sighed Pearl. “If anybody was dead, we should not have been sent to a ball, I suppose?”

Mr. Kingspring coughed and muttered a vague assent.

“Is Cousin Darrell dead?” asked Pearl abruptly.

“No, no; it is nothing about Darrell.”

“Is it anything about money?”

“Well, perhaps it may be; but I hope not. I mean I hope it will turn out a mistake.”

“Mamma was crying this morning,” said Pearl; “she does not cry for nothing.”

“I hope there may be no real cause for her tears. I believe myself there is not.”

“Papa was in a dreadful state,” continued Pearl. “I heard him storming in his study for more than an hour. Was it about a letter he got from England?”

“There was a letter. But don’t cross-examine me; don’t, Pearl. It is not fair, and I really must not speak.”

Pearl never remembered him calling her by her name before, though he declared he used to do so when she was a baby.

“To think of their insisting on our coming here to-night when there is this horrible anxiety at home!” she said, and her eyes began to fill in spite of her.

“There is no _certain_ cause for it so far,” protested Mr. Kingspring. “Don’t worry till you know there is real cause for it; there is no use in saying good-morrow to the devil till you meet him. Let us take a turn with the waltzers; you have done me out of my quadrille.”

They took a few turns down the long gallery, now densely crowded, and then he stopped to let her rest.

“Who is that Polly is dancing with?” said Pearl, as she spied her sister in the distance with a tall, distinguished-looking man in the uniform of the hussars.

“I don’t know; probably some fellow Léopold has introduced.”

While they were still standing in the embrasure of a window Léon came up.

“May I claim the honor of a dance, mademoiselle?” he said, doubling himself in two before Pearl.

“I don’t feel a bit in the mood for dancing,” said Pearl, “the rooms are so hot and so dreadfully crowded. Do you know who that is that my sister is waltzing with?”

“Captain Darvallon, one of the most distinguished officers in the service, and quite the best fellow I know; he is a great friend of mine.”

“Then it was you who introduced him to her?”

“I was proud to procure him that honor.”

“Poor devil!” said Mr. Kingspring. “I suspect you have done for him; if he has such a thing as a heart he will go home a miserable man to-night. I never saw Mlle. Polly looking so unmercifully pretty. D’Arres-Vallon you say his name is? Does he spell it in one word or two? I used to know two families of that name; one spelt it D’Arvalhon, the other D’Arres-Vallon. Which is his?”

“Neither; he writes it in one word with a big D; he does not boast the noble _particule_.”

“Then he is a man of no family?”

“None whatever. He is what we call the son of his works; he has risen in his profession by sheer force of intelligence and moral worth. There is not an officer in the army more respected than Darvallon.”

Pearl looked again at Polly’s partner, and he struck her as still more prepossessing than at the first glance.

“Amongst military men I can imagine its making no difference; but socially his low birth must subject him to disagreeables now and then,” observed Mr. Kingspring, following the direction of Pearl’s eyes, and surveying the hussar with the sort of interest one bestows on a curious variety of animal new to one’s experience.

“The man who would subject Darvallon to anything of the sort would be either a fool or a snob,” replied Léon coldly. “I suppose there are plenty of both going about the world; but men like Darvallon have a sort of charm that keeps them at a distance.”

Mr. Kingspring felt that this remark addressed to him was not that of a perfect gentleman; it sounded too like a snub. But the Léopolds, as Mme. de Kerbec said, were after all only Empire people, Léon’s grandfather having been made a baron by the first Napoleon.

Pearl admired Léon for standing up so bravely for his friend; there was that in her which responded instinctively to everything noble, even when it was violently against her own opinions or sympathies.

“He must be a nice man, as well as clever,” she said. “Introduce him to me when he has finished his waltz with my sister.”

“Reward me beforehand for that act of generosity by finishing the waltz with me,” said Léon.

And Pearl did, Mr. Kingspring being left alone to meditate on the low ideas of modern Frenchmen and the strange inconsistencies of well-born English maidens.

“Mademoiselle, may I have the honor of presenting to you my friend and brother officer, Captain Darvallon?”

M. Darvallon bowed low, and when he looked up Pearl’s soft brown eyes met his with a glance of interest so full and frank that, if he had been a coxcomb, he might have flattered himself he had slain her on the spot.

Polly was a little tired and said she wanted an ice, so Léon offered her his arm to the buffet, and Pearl followed with her new acquaintance. He was a tall, powerfully-built man, with a Gothic head set on broad shoulders, and long, well-bred hands and feet. Judging from his hands and feet, Captain Darvallon might have had the blood of the Montmorencis in him; not that he needed this _cachet_ of distinction to redeem his appearance otherwise or stamp him outwardly as a gentleman. Pearl, even in the distance, had singled him out as somebody above the common. His head, massive as it was, had nothing coarse about it; his features, without being handsome, were marked by an expression of energy, intelligence, and refinement that impressed you more than mere good looks; and though the prominent characteristic of his whole appearance was power, it was too tempered by gentleness to be alarming or repulsive. An array of stars and crosses on his breast bore witness to his prowess on the field, but his manner had borrowed no tinge of soldierly roughness from the camp; it was, on the contrary, marked by a courtesy towards the fair sex rare enough in these days, when the independence of women who have rights is too often pleaded as an excuse for forgetting that they still have privileges.

“What a crowd there is to-night!” said Pearl.

It was a silly remark, but she wanted to say something that would put her companion at his ease. It was the first time that she had been in the company of a man who had risen from the ranks, and she fancied the experience on his side must be novel enough, too, to be embarrassing.

“Just at this point the crush is rather great; but I don’t think the rooms are more crowded than usual. Is it your first ball, mademoiselle?”

“Oh! no; I came out last season in London. You have never been to England, monsieur?”

“Pardon me; I spent five months there three years ago.”

“Indeed! And did you think it a horrible place? Was it raining all the time?”

“No; it behaved very well in that respect, and I liked the country very much, and London especially; perhaps it was owing in a measure to all the kindness I received there.”

Pearl wondered who the people were who had shown him so much kindness; good-natured middle-class people, no doubt, who thought it rather fine to have a French officer to entertain.

“The English understand the virtue of hospitality in a charming way,” continued M. Darvallon; “the mere fact of your being a stranger opens every door to you.”

“Whereas in France it shuts them?” said Pearl.

“I am sorry if that is your experience of us, mademoiselle.”

“I don’t say that; I only thought you meant to say so. But it is true; we are fond of foreigners in England.”

“Nothing is more delightful, certainly, than the way in which you make them welcome. I was staying at our embassy—I went over with the Comte X—— as military _attaché_—but it was merely a kind of nominal headquarters; I spent most of the time in the houses of English people. The Duke of S—— was particularly kind to me. I had known his brother in the Crimea, and he made this a pretext for receiving me as an old friend; so did Lord B——. I spent two days at his place on the Thames. What a little paradise it is! The grounds and the house and the view combine to make it a perfect Eden. Some of the country places of your old aristocracy are the most magnificent residences in the world, I suppose; but they are so home-like, there is such a genial atmosphere in them, that one is not oppressed by the magnificence.”

“I am glad to hear you say so; one so often hears foreigners complain of our _morgue_ and stiffness.”

“I saw none of it.”

“Did you visit any of our palaces?”

“Yes; St. James and Buckingham I saw at once, of course. But Windsor is glorious. We have nothing like Windsor in France. I have seen the finest palaces in Europe, and to my mind Windsor is the most beautiful of all. There is such a prestige of historic interest about it, added to its artistic beauty; then the grounds and the surrounding country are so beautiful. Nature and art have put forth their best to make it a worthy abode of royalty.”

“And our royalties—did you approve of them, too?”

“Most highly,” said M. Darvallon, smiling; “they are excellent hosts, since we are on the subject of hospitality. No one is overlooked. La Reine Victoria has in a high degree that royal faculty of making all her guests, from the highest to the humblest, feel that they are duly noticed in her salon.”

So these were the middle-class people who had been ostentatiously civil to the French officer. Pearl was laughing to herself at the false hit she had made, and also at her foolish idea that he needed to be encouraged to be put at his ease. It was impossible to be more entirely simple and free from all shyness and affectation than he was. They had reached the buffet now, and Léon and Polly were pushing their way to get next to them. This was not so difficult, for the crowd fell back, as it instinctively does for all royalties, and made way for Polly as she advanced. Pearl looked up at her companion, and saw his eyes fixed on her sister with an expression of admiration so unfeigned, and so full of respect at the same time, that she felt quite tenderly toward the stalwart hussar.

“Monsieur le Capitaine,” said Polly, as soon as they all came together round the ices, “he insists that it was you who took Sebastopol all by yourself!”

“_Voyons_, Léopold, don’t push modesty too far,” protested M. Darvallon. “You lent me a hand; he did, I assure you, mademoiselle.”

“Don’t believe him; he is a flatterer. It is a trick he learned at courts,” said Léon, and his solemn black eyes stared Darvallon full in the face without a smile; but Pearl detected an expression of almost feminine fondness in them as they met the gray eyes looking down on him.

“I don’t believe either of you took it,” she said, with saucy defiance; “it was my papa who took it. Did M. Léopold tell you our father is a soldier too, and that he lost a leg at Balaklava?”

“Col. Redacre’s name and valor were known to us all in the Crimea, mademoiselle,” said M. Darvallon, bowing deferentially.

Both the girls blushed with pleasure, and turned a smile of fullest approbation on the speaker.

“I told you he was a flatterer,” said Léon.

Before M. Darvallon could enter a protest some one spoke from behind him.

“I say, Léopold, you are going to catch it for staying away from your mother so long with these young ladies. She’s very angry with you.”

“It’s no fault of M. Léon’s,” said Polly. “We stayed ourselves, dancing; that’s what we came for.”

“We had better go back to my mother and make an _acte de présence_,” said Léon. “Where is she, Kingspring?”

“Where you left her, in the Salle du Trône. I have just conducted Mlle. Blanche there after waltzing with her.”

Mr. Kingspring moved towards Pearl, as if he expected to conduct her back; but M. Darvallon proffered his arm, and she took it.

On their way through the long ball-room they met Blanche waltzing down on them with a slim, sallow-faced partner, of the type that Polly called “scrubby.” The partners pulled up, and then she saw that Blanche was radiant with smiles, and listening with delighted attention to whatever the scrubby man was saying.

“_Qui est ce monsieur?_” Polly inquired of Léon.

“That monsieur is the Marquis de Cholcourt, the greatest _parti_ in France just now.”

“Is he amusing?”

“I really don’t know. I shouldn’t say he was, to look at him.”

“Blanche is listening to him as if she thought him so.”

Léon made no remark, and they went on till they reached the Salle du Trône. There they saw Mme. Léopold, just where they had left her; but she had risen from her velvet seat, and was expostulating in an excited manner with M. Léopold, who had just joined her, and who seemed vainly endeavoring to pacify her. Madame shook her head, and opened and shut her fan, talking all the time volubly, and with a countenance disturbed by no pleasant emotion. When she caught sight of Léon and his companion she became suddenly silent, and awaited their approach with an air of grave displeasure.

“Mesdemoiselles, you forget you are not in England; you must know that it is not the custom here,” she began; but the good-natured deputy cut short the scolding, and broke out into compliments to the two delinquents: they were the stars of the Imperial firmament to-night; every French girl in the room was dying with jealousy, etc.

Mme. Léopold was not sorry to have their attention drawn away from herself for the moment, and while this bantering went on with Pearl and Polly she said in a _sotto voce_ to Léon:

“My son, you have behaved with criminal imprudence. Have you _said_ anything to compromise you? Tell me the truth.”

“Compromise! What on earth do you mean, mother?” said Léon in amazement. “I have spoken to no one but these two young ladies.”

“That is just it! You have been parading yourself with Pearl for the last hour. Have you said anything to lead her to hope—”

Léon began to understand, and the look of indignant surprise that answered his mother completely reassured her.

“Thank Heaven!” she muttered under her breath. “I knew you were incapable of it, my son, but—”

Léon did not wait to hear more; he abruptly turned away, fearful lest Pearl should have overheard his mother’s offensive insinuations; but a glance at her face showed him she had heard nothing.

“Are you engaged for the cotillon, mademoiselle?” he said.

“No.”

“Then may I claim your hand for it?”

“Good gracious, my son! you are not so selfish as to want to keep me here till four in the morning? I am worn out already—I am indeed,” protested the terrified mother, whom her son and everybody else knew to be simply indefatigable when the duty to society was in question.

“Pray don’t let _us_ detain you here, madame,” said Polly with a certain asperity; “we shall be glad to go the moment you feel inclined.” She saw that a change had come over their chaperon, and she was annoyed at the way she snapped at Léon about the cotillon.

“Is it indeed true? You would not mind coming away now? I am so exhausted by the heat! I never knew the palace so overheated. But Marguerite wishes to remain for the cotillon?”

“I have not the least wish to remain for it, madame,” said Pearl; the sudden change from affectionate familiarity to being called “Marguerite” showed that she had in some way incurred Mme. Léopold’s displeasure.

“Then let us come,” said that lady, signing to her husband to give his arm.

“And Blanche?” said Léon.

“Good gracious! It shows how ill I am that I could have forgotten her. Where is she? It appears that English manners are _à la mode_ everywhere to-night. Why is your sister so long away from me? Who is she with?”

“I saw her dancing with M. de Cholcourt; but it is some time ago,” said M. Darvallon.

“She was dancing with him again then, five minutes ago,” said Polly.

“M. de Cholcourt!” repeated Mme. Léopold in a tone of unmistakable satisfaction. “Are you sure?”

“M. Léon told me that was his name,” said Polly. “I asked him because Blanche seemed particularly to enjoy his conversation.”

“Dear child! I am glad she is amused. I wonder if she has made an engagement for the cotillon?” This was said interrogatively to the two girls and the two gentlemen with them.

Nobody knew. Meantime, Léon had gone in pursuit of Blanche, and it was not long before he returned with her. She looked angry.

“What is the matter with you, mamma?”

“Chérie, I am rather tired to-night, and these good children are anxious to get home.”

“It was hardly worth coming to go away so soon,” said Blanche, “and I have made an engagement for the cotillon.”

“With whom?”

“The Marquis de Cholcourt.”

“Ha! My dear child, I am always ready to sacrifice myself to your pleasure.... If your young friends don’t mind waiting, I will stay for the cotillon.”

“Pardon, ma mère,” said Léon, “Blanche prefers your comfort to her amusement; she will go home now.”

“My son, you should consider your sister. If she has made an engagement....”

“I will make her excuses to Cholcourt.”

Mme. Léopold looked exceeding displeased, and tried to convey the full motives of her displeasure to Léon through her eyes. But Léon would not see it. Blanche saw there was a conflict between the two, and she sided with her brother.

“Yes, you will tell M. de Cholcourt,” she said. “We had better go at once, mamma, as you are not well.”

“What an angel she is!” said the enraged mother, swallowing her vexation under the fondest smile.

The drive home was performed almost in silence. Mme. Léopold lay back with a pretence of utter exhaustion, and never said a word. Blanche and Polly sat opposite, and had a little confidential talk to themselves.

“Is he nice, that marquis who was dancing with you?” inquired Polly.

“Nice! He is the greatest _parti_ in all France. He is heir to the dukedom, and he has a fortune _now_ of two hundred and fifty thousand francs a year; besides that he is heir to his aunt, who has _enormous_ property in the south; and I believe, only I am not sure, that the Comtesse de V—— has left all the family diamonds to him—just think!”

Blanche summed up all this in a voluble whisper to her friend.

“What a catch he will be!” said Polly. “I hope he may fall in love with you, Blanche.”

“_Pas tant de chance, ma chère_; my _dot_ will be a drop compared to M. de Cholcourt’s. I have not the ghost of a chance of making a marriage like that.” And the young French girl sighed.

“He might fall in love with you,” suggested Polly.

“His family would never allow him.”

They drew up at Colonel Redacre’s door, and the two girls, thanking Mme. Léopold for her kindness, wished her and Blanche good-night.

* * * * *

At a preternaturally early hour next morning Mme. Léopold presented herself at Mrs. Monteagle’s.

“I make no apologies,” she said on being admitted into that lady’s dressing-room. “The case is so urgent that I could not delay an hour. Did you speak yesterday to the Redacres about that absurd idea of mine?”

“You mean did I offer your son’s hand to Pearl?”

“Oh! you have done it. We are compromised!” exclaimed Mme. Léopold in despair.

“Console yourself, madame; I had not an opportunity of doing your commission—”

“You have said nothing! I thank Heaven! Then indeed we have had a narrow escape. My son is so chivalrous there is no saying what folly he might have committed had he known it.”

“Known what?”

“That I had asked Pearl in marriage for him. Happily, he has not the faintest suspicion of anything. But I am heartily sorry for the poor child,” continued Mme. Léopold, finding room in her heart to pity Pearl the moment her terrors for Léon were allayed. “I feel deeply for her. The disappointment will be a terrible blow, she is so much in love with my son. That is the dreadful part of your English way of doing things; but it is no fault of mine.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Mrs. Monteagle. “A terrible blow to Pearl, you say? My good lady, take comfort; Pearl is perfectly heart-whole. Your son is the only person to be pitied in the affair. Ha! ha! ha! Capital! So you thought Pearl was in love with him? What an excellent joke!”

Mme. Léopold did not see the joke, and was deeply offended by this manner of treating the matter.

“I see nothing surprising in the fact of my son’s inspiring a sentiment,” she replied. “You yourself seemed of that opinion yesterday. As to Léon, he could not deny it when I put it to him; he had to admit that it was true.”

“True that Miss Redacre had a _passion malheureuse_ for him? He says so, does he? Then I heartily congratulate Pearl on escaping him,” said Mrs. Monteagle, bridling with the spirit of a gentlewoman and a loyal friend. “I thought your son was a gentleman; it seems he is a cowardly coxcomb.”

“Madame!” Mme. Léopold stood up in wrath.

“I sincerely congratulate my young friend on escaping such a husband!”

“You mean to insult me?”

“I mean to speak my mind. I am sorry if it insults you; but you may tell your son from me, madame, he is stating what is false when he says that Miss Redacre is in love with him: it is a delusion of his own vanity.”

“He never said it,” said Mme. Léopold. “When I said so he did not deny it; he feigned not to believe it; but when I persisted in affirming it he spoke in the kindest terms of Miss Redacre, and declared he was ready to make any sacrifice of his own inclination and happiness if it was necessary to—”

“Pray tell him nothing of the sort is necessary. I am sure it is most kind of him,” said Mrs. Monteagle with a contemptuous chuckle. “He never will have the luck to get such a wife; he is not worthy of her.”

“Madame!”

“But since we are on the subject, may I ask why _you_ have so suddenly changed your views about this marriage?”

“Have you not heard? They are ruined.”

“Who? The Redacres?”

“Yes. Is it possible you have not heard of it?”

Mrs. Monteagle stared at Mme. Léopold with a troubled countenance for a moment.

“Sit down, I beg of you, and tell me what all this means,” she said, her tone changed in a second from anger to one of intense and painful interest.

Mme. Léopold was not sorry for the change as regarded her share in it; she did not want to quarrel with Mrs. Monteagle, and she felt that the wrong had been on her own side. She sat down and told all she knew. It seemed that a letter had arrived on the previous day, by the early post, with news of the death of some person, who by dying in this sudden way let Colonel Redacre in for an enormous sum of money—in fact, utterly ruined him. This was all that Mme. Léopold knew. Who the man was, or how the money was gone, she had not heard; but the main fact was positively true. M. Léopold heard it from M. de Kerbec, who knew more than he liked to tell; Mme. Léopold had heard it from her husband at the ball last night. Mr. Kingspring knew it too; he had been to see the Redacres in the morning. Apparently they wanted to keep the affair quiet for some little time, and this was why the door was closed yesterday on the plea of the colonel’s not being well.

“And this was why they sent the girls to the ball, no doubt,” said Mrs. Monteagle. “It is a most extraordinary affair. Do you know, I am inclined to think there is some mistake. I don’t believe Colonel Redacre ever speculated to the extent of half a crown in his life; in fact, he had nothing to speculate with, as he tells you himself; the money is his wife’s, and that, I know, is bound up so that he could not touch it.”

“I know nothing except that in some way they are ruined,” said Mme. Léopold. “The letter fell on them like a bombshell. I am very sorry for them—very.”

“To me it is like a personal misfortune,” said Mrs. Monteagle. “And to think of their not sending for me at once! How did M. de Kerbec hear it, do you know? But I tell you there is some mistake; I feel certain there is. Those poor, dear girls! It is heartbreaking to think of them if this be true. And the boys—what is to become of them?”

“Boys always pull through somehow,” said Mme. Léopold. “It is the girls that my heart bleeds for. I suppose they will have to go out as governesses—Pearl at least. Polly’s beauty would make it impossible for her to do anything; no family would run the risk of letting that face in amongst them.”

“They shall never be asked to run the risk so long as I can prevent it,” said Mrs. Monteagle with a touch of her old asperity. “While I have a home those children have one.”

“That is real friendship; it consoles me wonderfully to hear you say so, chère madame.”

Mrs. Monteagle made no answer. She was speculating on the possible truth of this story of sudden ruin, and it occurred to her how mysterious Mr. Kingspring had been on the subject of Mrs. Redacre’s not receiving the day before.

“I will go down the moment I am dressed,” she said. “I can’t lose an hour till I know the truth.”

Mme. Léopold rose to go.

“Have you breakfasted, or will you stay and have a cup of tea with me?” said Mrs. Monteagle.

“Thank you; I had my coffee before I came out. You will not mention that I have been here? They think at home that I am gone to see my poor people; I always go early, because then they do not interfere with my day.”

Mrs. Monteagle hurried through her breakfast and went down to the entresol. She was admitted at once.

“What is this? What does it all mean?” she said, as Mrs. Redacre, who was not lying on the sofa, but actively sorting letters at a table, stood up with an exclamation of welcome and hastened to meet her.

The colonel was standing with his back to the fire.

“It means this: that we are beggared,” he said.

“Only for a few years, Hugh. Don’t speak in that despairing way about things!” said his wife, and she cast a look of tender entreaty at him.

“Tell me, for goodness’ sake, what has happened,” said Mrs. Monteagle. “I hear that somebody has died and that you are ruined by their death.”

“That is about it,” said the colonel. “I put my name to a bill for £30,000 some five years ago, and the man for whom I did it is dead, and died a bankrupt, leaving me to pay the money.”

“Thirty thousand pounds!” repeated Mrs. Monteagle.

“We can pay it, Hugh, and Providence will come to our aid,” said his wife.

“By sending us another income when every penny has gone to meet this bill?”

“I don’t know how; but trust me, dearest, help will come. If only you won’t break down under it! What does poverty or anything matter so long as we are left to bear it together?”

He made no answer, but stooped down and gave the fire a savage poke.

“What madness possessed you, Redacre? I always thought you had a horror of speculation,” said Mrs. Monteagle, her resentment against him rising at the sight of Alice’s gentle face of anguish.

“It was no speculation,” said the wife quickly; “he did it to oblige a friend. Any one would have done it in his place.”

“Any fool would,” thought her friend, but she said nothing.

“Fortunately we can meet it,” Mrs. Redacre went on. “I thought at first that it might have been paid off at once with my fortune; but it shows what a goose I am in practical things,” she said, trying to laugh. “My money is so tied up that neither Hugh nor I can alienate the capital; all we can do is to surrender the income for a few years till the debt is paid off.”

“She means that we must raise the money to pay it off, and pay back the loan by mortgaging our income for about ten years.”

“It may not be for half that time, dearest. Providence may shorten the trial for us unexpectedly.”

“You mean that Darrell may die. He is more likely to bury us all. Those kind of men live for ever. I am sure I don’t want to hurry him away; I have made a point of wishing him a long life. You have always heard me say I hoped he might have a long life? Of course, if the Almighty saw fit to call him home, I could not but feel that the loss would be also a gain to me—to you and the children, that is; for myself, I count no man’s money.”

“Has he a very large property to leave?” inquired Mrs. Monteagle. Col. Redacre talked very openly about his money affairs, but in such a vague, exaggerated way that one never knew what to believe about his prospects or his difficulties.

“Broom Hollow is a glorious old place,” he said, “but it brings in nothing; that must come to me. Darrell himself is a rich man, but he may leave his money to whom he pleases. As likely as not he will leave it to pay off the national debt. He is just the man to do a thing of that sort.”

“My dear Hugh! he told you himself that you were to be his heir; that he had made his will and left you sole legatee!” said Alice.

“That’s just it. When a man tells you he has made his will in your favor, be you sure you will never see a penny of his money. I make a point of never believing what men say about their wills.”

“The dean is not the least likely to tell a falsehood, dear, even about his will,” said Alice.

“I don’t say he is. I never said he was not a truth-telling man; but people have crotchety notions about wills. However, we are a long way off from the settling of that question, I fear—that is to say, I hope; I devoutly hope the poor fellow may live for twenty years. At the same time, if the Almighty sees good to call him to his reward sooner, and that he leaves me his money, he will do as good an action as he ever performed in his life.”

“Have you written to him about this unfortunate business?” inquired Mrs. Monteagle.

“No. I will worry nobody about it. What is the use? We are beggared, and there is an end of it.”

“There is no use making things out worse than they are,” said his friend. “They are bad enough as it is; but, as Alice says, Providence will pull you through somehow. I may turn out of some use myself; but we will come to those matters by and by. The thing is, What are you going to do now? Is it out of the question—your getting something to do? You have friends who have influence; so have I.”

“What could they do for me? Could they get me back my leg? If it were not for Balaklava I should not let this catastrophe cast me down a bit; but it makes all the difference when a man has to face the world with one leg.”

“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Monteagle. “You have not half the sense I gave you credit for, Redacre. What difference can it make, your having one leg or two? I don’t expect you to enter an infantry regiment and go on the march. There are appointments to be had where legs are not wanted at all. My nephew, Percy Danvers, has an appointment of fifteen hundred pounds a year at the Horse Guards.”

“But Danvers has both his legs?”

“But he doesn’t write with his legs, and the work he does is all writing.”

“How did he get the appointment?”

“His father got it for him. And, by the way, he had no legs at all, poor fellow; he lost one in the Crimea and the other in China. And he used to joke about it, and say that the loss of his legs was the best investment he ever made, and the only one that paid regularly.”

“That’s just it: if a man loses both he is a hero; if he loses only one he is a cripple. Balaklava never did anything for me but worry my life out.”

“That is a most excellent idea!” said Mrs. Redacre, turning with a look of sunny hopefulness to Mrs. Monteagle. “I don’t see why Hugh should not get something at the Horse Guards. We know so many old generals, and some of them are influential, and I am sure all our friends will be kind and anxious to help us. Hugh, dear, we must lose no time in seeing about this.”

“First of all, we have got to pay this £30,000. When that is done, it will be time to think of the other. But with the government we have now I don’t expect we would succeed. They are a beggarly lot, who toady all the self-made men, as they call them—fellows who have risen Heaven knows from what, and to whom it is as well to throw a bone to stop their mouths. I would see them farther before I asked a favor of them if I had my two legs to stand on.”

“Where are the girls?” said Mrs. Monteagle; she was losing patience with these lamentations over the missing leg.

“I sent them out for a ride before breakfast; they may as well enjoy it while they can, poor darlings!” And the mother’s voice faltered a little.

“Have you told them?”

“Not the whole terrible truth. I prepared them for it yesterday a little, and again this morning. But they guess that worse is coming, and they are very brave.”

The noise of hoofs pattering under the porte cochère announced that the girls had come back. In a few minutes they both entered the room. The fair young things, in their beautifully-fitting habits, their complexions freshened by exercise in the morning air, their features lighted up with the buoyancy of youth hitherto untouched by sorrow, made a pathetic and striking contrast with the group they broke in upon—the father stern and irritable, his fine face ploughed into sudden furrows of care, the mother courageous and tender, with undried tears on her cheeks. Pearl spied the tears at once, and, taking a bunch of violets out of her riding-habit, she went and kissed the wet face lovingly and fastened the flowers in her mother’s breast.

“My darling! Have you had a nice ride?”

“Yes; but we had no heart to care about it. I wish you would let us stay at home with you, and not send us off to amuse ourselves while you are worried. It is not kind of her, is it, Mrs. Monteagle?”

Polly was standing at the table, holding up her habit, and looking from one to the other of them all, with an expression of awakening terror in her large, lustrous eyes.

“I don’t know what it all means,” she said. “Is it very bad? Is it going to last long? Papa, we are not babies; you ought to tell us the truth.”

“I ought, my dear; but I have not the courage to do it. Ask your mother.”

“Redacre, you are a selfish brute!” burst out Mrs. Monteagle, glaring at him.

“Oh! don’t,” cried Alice, with a look at once imploring and angry. “Of course it is my duty, but I am such a coward!” She let her head fall on Pearl’s shoulder, and sobbed aloud.

“For God’s sake, Alice, don’t give way!” cried her husband. “I can bear anything but that; I can indeed, my love. It is quite true I am a selfish brute. I ought not to have asked you to tell them. Come, now, don’t! It will all come right, if you will only cheer up and help me to bear it.” And he went over and laid his hand on her shoulder.

“Help you to bear it!” repeated Mrs. Monteagle; but she checked herself as she met Alice’s eyes uplifted in supplication through her tears.

“Come with me both of you, children,” said the old lady; “I know all about it now, and I will tell you everything. Come, and leave the colonel and your mother to themselves a little; they were very busy when I came and interrupted them.”

The two girls kissed Alice with many a tender endearment, and followed Mrs. Monteagle up to her own apartment. She told them the truth as gently as possible, but without disguising anything.

“Then we have nothing at all to live on except papa’s half-pay?” said Polly, her eyes wide open in dismay, her lily-white hands lying motionless on her knees.

“I fear not, my dear child; but I hope we will soon be able to get an appointment for him. Meantime you must not worry too much. I have some money lying by that he can have and welcome; he won’t refuse me an old friend’s privilege at a moment like this. You must both do your very best to help him and your mother to bear it. You will not let them see you cast down.”

“And the boys,” said Pearl—“they must come home and grow up dunces; that is the worst of all. What is to become of the boys?”

“What is to become of any of us?” said Polly. “What could have possessed papa to promise to pay such an enormous sum of money for any one? It was very wicked of him.” And the big tears welled up and came streaming down the lovely face.

“Has he written to Cousin Darrell?” said Pearl.

“No,” said Mrs. Monteagle. “I asked him, and he said he would not write; that it would worry the dean.”

“But he might give us the money to pay this, or some of it, at any rate,” argued Pearl. “I am certain he would; since we are to have all his money by and by, he would not refuse a portion of it now to do us such a service.”

“I would not be too sure of that, dear Pearl,” said her friend, with a dubious shake of the head. “Giving and bequeathing are very different things. Still, I agree with you, Colonel Redacre ought to write and tell your cousin the truth; he owes that to the dean and to you all.”

“I will make him do it!” said Polly, brushing away the tear-drops and shaking back her head with a resolute air; “and if he won’t write, I will.”

“You mustn’t do it against papa’s will, Polly,” said Pearl, a little frightened by this unexpected display of will. Polly had always had her own way hitherto without making any effort to get it.

“I think we had better go down now,” she said, not answering Pearl’s remark. There was an energy in her manner and look that amazed Mrs. Monteagle.

“Perhaps you had, dears,” said their friend; she was anxious to have a little private talk with Pearl on other things, but she did not venture to ask her pointedly to stay.

“I will go to papa at once, and tell him he must write to Cousin Darrell,” said Polly; and gathering up the folds of her long habit, she walked away, too absorbed in her own thoughts to say good-by or notice if Pearl was following her. Mrs. Monteagle signed to Pearl to stay.

The idea that this misfortune was weighted to Pearl with a super-added individual sorrow had been in her friend’s mind ever since Mme. Léopold had announced the bad news to her. When that lady declared so emphatically that Pearl was attached to her son, Mrs. Monteagle had denied it and laughed to scorn the pretended compassion of the manœuvring mother. This was clearly her duty as a stanch friend, whether she believed or not that Pearl loved Léon; but, indeed, she so earnestly desired at the moment not to believe it that she concluded she did not, that it was a delusion of Léon’s vanity or his mother’s; but now there recurred to her Pearl’s vivid blush at the mention of Léon’s name, and her confusion when Mme. Léopold was announced. It was dreadful if the young heart was to set out on the rude battle of life with its bloom rubbed off and all its brightness quenched. But though she had a true woman’s heart, Mrs. Monteagle indulged little in sentiment. If the mischief was done, it must be undone as quickly as possible, and Pearl was a girl of rare sense.

“My dear, did Léon Léopold propose to you last night?” said the old lady when they were left alone.

“No,” said Pearl, looking her straight in the face. “What put that into your head?”

“But he ought to do so, ought he not? He has been paying you a great deal of attention.”

“Léon!” The old innocent laugh rang out in spite of all her trouble, as Pearl repeated in amazement, “Léon?”

“And you really don’t care for him?”

“Not I, and I should be very sorry to think that he cared for me; but I am perfectly certain he does not. If I were a _pot de confiture_ he might.”

“You relieve me immensely, my dear,” said Mrs. Monteagle, quite at rest now on the score of Pearl’s heart. “It would have been dreadful had you been in love with that young man.”

“It would indeed,” assented Pearl. “I had better be going now; I don’t like leaving mamma alone—without me, that is. Poor darling mamma, if I could take some of the worry off her! What are we to do? I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Keep a cheerful spirit and a brave heart; that is all you have to do for the present. I promise you things will come right in good time.”

* * * * *

Mr. Kingspring called very early, and was closeted a long time with Col. Redacre. Pearl met him in the hall as she was coming out of her father’s study, and whispered to him:

“Make papa write to Cousin Darrell.”

Mr. Kingspring nodded yes and went in.

It had got wind that the Redacres were ruined, and everybody was very sorry for them. It was all conjecture yet how the ruin came about. The general belief was that a banker with whom he had lodged his money had “gone smash.” Mr. Kingspring and M. de Kerbec were the only two who had known the truth from the first, and they were not communicative as to details; Mr. Kingspring from innate discretion, M. de Kerbec from friendly desire to shield Col. Redacre from the ridicule which awaited a man imbecile enough to fool away his money by signing a bill.

“No, I can’t write to Darrell,” said Col. Redacre in answer to Mr. Kingspring’s urgent advice that he should at once apply to his rich cousin. “Darrell is a man who never did a foolish thing in his life, and he despises people who do. If he knew I had been idiot enough to put my name to a bill, he would disinherit me for a fool; he is a most eccentric fellow.”

“But he is sure to hear of it,” said Mr. Kingspring, “and he will be more likely to resent it if you seem trying to hide it from him.”

“I don’t see that he need ever hear of it. He never sees any one, never writes to any one, I believe, except his medical man, and his lawyer perhaps; he leads the life of a hermit down there with his books. If he does not hear of this miserable business from ourselves, he is likely never to hear of it.”

Mr. Kingspring could not press the point after this. Pearl, meantime, was on the watch to catch him when he left the study, and in answer to her eager “Has he promised to write?” Mr. Kingspring only replied, “No; he says it would do no good; and I think he is right.” Pearl was disappointed, and took the news to her sister, who was awaiting it in her own room.

“It is nothing but pride that prevents him,” said Polly, angry and impatient; “it is cruel and selfish of papa to sacrifice us all to spare his own pride.”

“He is sacrificing himself as well as us,” said Pearl; “and I don’t believe it is pride. I am sure papa has some good reason for it; he knows Cousin Darrell better than we do.”

“Do you write to him,” said Polly; “he is your godfather, and he pretends to be greatly interested in you. Tell him you will have to go out as a governess if he won’t come to papa’s help.”

“I could not write against papa’s will,” said Pearl.

“Stuff! Then I will.” And Polly tossed back her head, and her almond-shaped eyes had a light of dangerous wilfulness in them as she rose and went towards her writing-table.

“O Polly! you must not do that; papa would be so angry,” pleaded Pearl.

“He will forgive me when Cousin Darrell sends the money.” And Polly sat down and opened her dainty blotting-book and prepared for action.

“Polly, you sha’n’t. I will go and tell mamma of it. I won’t be a party to your defying papa in this way,” said Pearl resolutely, moving towards the door.

Polly started up.

“Come back; you need not play tell-tale. I won’t write.” And she shut the blotting-book and flung the pen angrily aside.

“I am sure it is better not, darling,” said Pearl. “We can’t know as well as papa in a matter of this kind.” She went over to Polly and would have kissed her; but Polly repulsed the caress with an impatient movement of her head. Pearl did not force the kiss on her, but she felt the tears rising as she turned away and left the room. If misfortune was going to change Polly like this, it was a worse sorrow than anything she had anticipated.

TO BE CONTINUED.

THE ESPOUSALS OF OUR LADY.[152]

(SCENE: _Before the Temple_.)

ST. JOSEPH.

From boyhood up I had but one desire:
To live alone with God—as much alone
As wholesome concourse with my fellow-men,
And scope of humble traffic, would allow:
Not sullenly churlish—with a helping hand
For others’ need—but peacefully obscure.
And so, when came the glow of youth, and thoughts
Of woman’s love dawn’d roseate, I upraised
My heart to Him who was indeed to me
The Good Supreme, the Beauty Infinite,
And made, at once, a vow perpetual
Of perfect chastity; and straightway knew
’Twas He had drawn me to it.