Miss Alida might well congratulate herself on the interesting entanglements which she had voluntarily brought into her own placid life. Day by day, they grew into her heart, and gave that human zest to her employments and amusements, that their mere forms could never have done. A ball-room in which Rose was to watch, and Antony was to advise or sympathize with, was something more than a space for dancing. In the theatre or opera, there was a personal drama under her observation, in which she played no subordinate part; and even at her own fireside and table, she found that in many ways she could direct and advise and control events, to the end she thought most desirable.

For she had definitely made up her mind that the marriage of Rose to Antony would be the girl’s salvation; and she was resolved to accomplish it. That Mrs. Filmer actively, and Mr. Filmer mildly, disapproved the union only filliped her design onward to its completion. She believed Emma Filmer’s affections to have “undergone the world” and become dead to all but worldly considerations of position and money. And as for Henry Filmer’s opinions on any living question, she thought it might be as profitable to consult a mediÆval ghost. In both of these conclusions she was wrong; but it would have been very difficult to have convinced her of her error.

Adriana’s affairs in some respects gave her less trouble. Adriana felt no special interest in any of the 139 gentlemen inclined to feel a special interest in her. Only to Professor Snowdon did she show herself in that sweet home abandon which was her great charm; to all others, she was grave, tideless-blooded, calm and cool. The ordinary young man was a little uncomfortable in her presence. She had none of the ready platitudes which were the current coin of his conversation; and in the spaciousness of her nature, he got bewildered and lost.

This attitude was a trifle provoking sometimes. “You are too large-minded, Adriana,” said Miss Alida to her one morning, as they sat talking. “That comes of measuring yourself by Cousin Peter all the time. But though it is right that old people should think for themselves, youth ought to be conventional. What harm is there in dancing? And why can you not go to the Filmers’ dance?”

“There is not, perhaps, any harm in the act of dancing; but father says no one can dance and think at the same time, and that way mischief lies. When you dance, your brains are in your toes, and you let consideration slip. You are at the mercy of your emotions also; and that is a kind of thing to rot the moral fibre. I quote father, and you need not hold up your hands at my ‘consideration.’ As for going to Mrs. Filmer’s, I have a personal reluctance to do so. She practically bowed me out of her house not so long ago.”

“But Rose did not know it. And Emma Filmer is a woman of the world, and appreciates people according to the company they keep. As far as I have known her, she periodically deserts her old friends for more eligible new ones. She thought she had done with you, and she wished to be done with you, because you interfered with Harry.”

“So, then, if I go to Rose’s dance, she will be sure I have done so for an opportunity to interfere with Harry once more.”

“Then go for that very purpose. I would. I am provoked to death with the young man. He has refused all my invitations—very sorry to do so—but—”

“But he did not want to come. He evidently does not care to meet me again. It is very humiliating.”

“He fears to meet you again. And I think, Yanna, you made him drink a very humble cup. Men do not readily forgive such wounds to their self-esteem.”

“Harry has disappointed me. I hear nothing good of him.”

“I wouldn’t quite believe all Rose said on that subject. It is true that he is running a fast rig with a lot of gilded goslings, whose money came from industrious, economical ancestors. And it is also true that Harry has but a small inherited income, and must depend largely upon the results of his transactions in Wall Street; and that, therefore, he is simply going to poverty in very swagger company. But nothing else will cure him of his folly; not his father’s advice, nor his mother’s tears, nor love, nor honor, nor any good thing. Only poverty cures extravagance. Some day he will doubtless be sorry enough. Harry’s great want in life is a friend who will make him do what he can do.”

“It is a want we all share.”

“Then be a friend, and make me do what I can do.”

“You can do the thing you sketched out for yourself and others to Professor Snowdon. Bring together all the pure Dutch gentlewomen you know. Then begin your benevolent Holland Society. You are a fine 141 organizer, and excel in setting every one around you either to work or play.”

“Now, Yanna, it is my turn. Your duty is to forgive Emma Filmer, and to do good to her just because she did evil to you—which is a nice way of saying, go to the Filmer ball, and be as lovely to Harry as possible.”

“You know father does not like me to go to dances; and Mrs. Filmer will not understand my presence in the light you put it. She does not think I have been badly used, and she would not consider my being ‘lovely to Harry’ a kindness. I would rather talk no more on that subject.”

“Very well.” Miss Alida said the words with an air of disappointment, and then walked to the window to recover herself. In a few minutes she turned round, and said pleasantly:

“What will you do with your afternoon, Adriana?”

“I thought of going to see sister Augusta. I have not been near her for nearly two weeks. Antony spoke of one of the children being unwell.”

“Would you like me to drive you there? I can do so as I go for Mrs. Daly.”

“No, cousin. Augusta would think I was putting on airs, and would scold me for it. I will take the cars or walk.”

“Give my remembrance to her, and ask if she will join our society.”

In half-an-hour Adriana was ready for her visit, and Miss Alida watched her going down the avenue, walking swiftly and erect, with her head well up, and her neatly-folded umbrella in her hand. The afternoon was bright and pleasant, warm for the season, and Adriana was much exhilarated by the walk, when she 142 reached her destination. It was in that part of Second Avenue which still retains many traces of its former aristocracy,—a brick house at the corner of a street leading down to the East River. The whole first floor of the building was occupied by her brother-in-law’s grocery, the dwelling was immediately above it. An air of definite cleanliness pervaded the stairway to it, and as soon as she entered the house the prim spotlessness assailed her like a force; the presence of a wind could not have been more tangible.

Augusta herself, with her fair, rosy face, her smoothly braided hair, and her exquisite, neat dress, might have been the genius of domestic order. Her whole house had the air of having been polished from one end to the other; and the table-cloth in which Augusta was darning “a thin place” was whiter than snow, and ironed as if for a palace. She kissed Adriana with affection, but also with that air of superiority which her position as an eldest sister gave her. Then they sat down and talked over their home affairs—of the brothers in Florida, who were doing so well, of their sister Gertrude, who had bad health, of Antony, of their father, and of John Van Nostrand’s election to the Assembly. In a little while, the children came in from school—six rosy, orderly boys and girls, who knew better than to bring in a speck of dust, or to move a chair one inch out of its proper place.

The eldest girl soon began to lay a table with the utmost neatness and despatch, and the eldest boy having said a short grace, all sat quietly down and waited for their portions. Then Augusta put aside her sewing, and standing among her children, cut them beef and bread, and poured into the christening cups of each child its measure of milk; while they 143 talked gaily to her of their lessons and their play. One little girl showed her the medal on her breast, and received a smile and pat on her curly head for the honor; and a little lad of ten years old shyly exhibited a tear in his jacket, which he had got in a fight about his skates. The mother heard what he had to say, and looked gravely at him. “Did you whip Gustav Bok for changing your skates?” she asked. “Not to-day, mother; but I will whip him to-morrow.” “After that I will mend your coat,” she answered. “You must, of course, punish him, Adrian.” The little dialogue was a matter only for Adrian and his mother, the other children took no part in it. The whole scene was one of unconscious beauty, and Adriana thought she had never beheld anything fairer than Augusta among her children, with the loaf of bread or the pitcher of milk in her hands. So confidently were the little faces lifted to her; while her countenance—large, fair, and benignant—looked a blessing into each.

Suddenly, as Adriana watched her, she remembered her cousin’s message, and gave it. Augusta listened to the proposed plan of the new society with patience, but without a shadow of interest; and when Adriana ceased speaking, she waved her hands slightly, and answered:

“You see for yourself. I have my children, and my house, and my good John Van Nostrand to look after. With my cleaning, and my baking, and my sewing, and my cooking, these hands are full. Shall I neglect one duty, which is my own duty, to do another duty I know not who for? No. I will not do that. It is very well for Miss Van Hoosen, who has no duties such as I have, to look after the poor Dutch women and children, and the stranger Dutch who come here and 144 who have no friends. I say it is right for Miss Van Hoosen, and for you also, Adriana, if you are not going to marry yourself to some good man. What for do you not marry yourself?”

“Good men are now scarce, Augusta.”

“It is now, as it ever was, and always will be; good and bad men, and good and bad women, and as many good as bad. In our family, it is so, is it not? Theodore got himself a very good wife, and I have got myself a very good husband.”

“But what of Gertrude?”

“Gertrude does very well. She does not see more faults than she can help. Wives should remember they have eyelids as well as eyes.”

“Is Gertrude’s husband kind to her?”

“Can I know? If Gertrude has picked up a crooked stick, she does not go about telling everybody so.”

“Then there is brother George. He is making money, but you can tell from his letters that he is not happy with his wife.”

“I am not sorry for George,” answered Augusta. “When you were at college, George came here, and he told my John about his wife. He thought she had money, and she thought he had money, and both of them were mistaken; so—as my John said to me—when the rag doll and the stuffed elephant got married, they found each other out. But John and I married for love; and so must you marry, Adriana.”

“There is so much trouble in any marriage, Augusta.” And Augusta again waved her hands over her boys and girls, and answered with unspeakable pride: “There are the children! Husbands you must take your chance with; but the little children! You make of them what you will.”

“Then you will not join Cousin Alida’s club?”

“I will not. John has three clubs; and the money is spent, and the time is spent, and who is the better for it? I have my own club with my boys and girls; and for them, all I can do is too little.”

As soon as the short winter afternoon began to close in, Adriana bade her sister “good-bye,” and turned westward. She took the quietest streets, and felt a little thrill of vague wonder and fear, as she puzzled her way through Gramercy Park and Madison Square to Fifth Avenue. There she encountered life and bustle, and the confusion of many vehicles of many kinds going northward. As she waited for an opportunity to cross the street, some one came to her side; some one said:

“Yanna! Dear Yanna!”

“Harry!”

The recognition was instant; they met before they knew it, in each other’s eyes; hand slipped into hand, and almost unconsciously Harry led her across the street. Then he leaned towards her and whispered:

“At last, dear Yanna! At last!”

“But why not before, Harry? It is your fault.”

“Ah, I have been so weak! I have been so wicked, Yanna. Pass it by without a word. No words can explain or justify me. I have nothing to trust to but your gentleness and love. Do you yet love me?”

She looked at him, and he understood the light on her face, and the heavenly smile on her lips. It grew dark, but they knew it not; it grew cold, but they felt it not; the busy thoroughfare became empty and still, but they were aware of nothing but the song in their hearts. What they said to each other they could not afterwards remember at all. In the delicious, stumbling 146 patois of love, so much was said, and so much understood that was beyond their power to reduce to mere syllables. Only, when at last they parted, a great weight had been rolled from each heart.

For Harry had spoken freely, as soon as he found Yanna willing to listen. All his burdens and temptations, his remorses, his resolutions, and his inevitable slips again and again into sensual mire were confessed; and in spite of all, he had been made to feel that life still had the lustre of divine dignity around it, and of divine duty before it. He left Adriana full of hope, and she stood a minute at the door to listen to the clear ring of his steps on the pavement; for steps are words, and Harry’s steps were those of a man who has been turned into the right road, confident and purposeful.

Then she ran lightly to her own room. She stood quiet there, with clasped hands and radiant face, and told herself in so many audible words: “He loves me yet! He loves me yet! Oh, fluttering heart, be still! Be still!” And constantly, as she bathed her face and dressed her hair and put on her evening gown, she chided herself as tenderly as a mother the restless babe she loves, saying softly, “Be still! Be still!” And she was lovelier that night than she had been for a long time, for since her parting with Harry at Woodsome, her life had been out of harmony; but now heart and life were in tune, and she could live melodious days once more.

After leaving Adriana, Harry walked rapidly towards his home. He did not think of calling a cab; there was a necessity for motion in his condition, and walking is the natural tranquillizer of mental agitation. He had not gone far before he met Antony Van 147 Hoosen. Now, the young men were still warm friends, though the exigencies of society had kept them more apart than at first seemed necessary. But Harry affected a set of young men outside of Antony’s toleration; and their social engagements very rarely brought them together. At this hour, however, Harry was particularly delighted to meet Antony, and as they were in the neighborhood of a good hotel, he urged him to enter.

“Let us dine together, Antony,” he said. “I want to tell you something particularly good—for me. I have just left Yanna.”

Antony heard him with singular indifference. “Harry,” he answered, “I will go with you, for indeed I have something particular to tell you. I wish I could say it was good, but it is not.”

“Then do not tell me anything about it, Antony. I am so happy to-night.”

“But I ought to tell you. It relates to your sister.”

Harry was instantly speechless.

“Will you come back with me to Miss Van Hoosen’s? We can reach my room without disturbing the ladies.”

“No. If you are not cold, we will walk here. What have you to tell me about Rose?”

“You know that I love her?”

“I have known that a long time.”

“Well, every man loves in his own way; and mine is a way you may not understand. However, I cannot live if Rose is long out of my sight; and so I have seen some things—Oh, dear Harry! need I tell you?”

Harry shook his head, and was gloomily silent.

“I saw Rose go into Delmonico’s this afternoon, after the matinee. There was a person with her who 148 has often been with her lately—that is, when Rose is without Mrs. Filmer’s company.”

“Who is he?”

“I do not know him. I have not liked to ask any questions about him. He is tall, with a supple, languid figure. He has the face of a fallen angel, handsome and wicked. I have noticed his eyes particularly, because, though he is dark as a Mexican, the eyes are a calm frosty blue—cold and cruel.”

“I know whom you mean. His name is Duval. So Rose was with him to-day?”

“You see what a position this confidence places me in—an informer against the girl I would die for. But I do not speak without good reason. I followed them into the restaurant. They had a bottle of champagne; then this scoundrel rang for another, though it was evident Rose had already taken quite enough.”

“Well, Antony? Speak out, man.”

“I went up, then, to Rose. I said, ‘Miss Filmer, I am sent for you. You must return at once. There is no time to lose.’”

“Well?”

“She trembled, and asked: ‘Is my father ill? Has anything happened to Harry? What is the matter, Mr. Van Hoosen?’ And I said, ‘You had better hasten home, Miss Filmer.’”

“What did Duval say?”

“He bowed and palavered, and got out of the way as quickly as possible. Poor little Rose was sick and white with fear; he understood my meaning well enough. I left Rose at her own door. I did not wish to explain to Mrs. Filmer then. But I must speak to you, Harry, for Rose is in danger. I love her, and will devote my life to her welfare. She loves me, 149 though she will not trust her heart when it tells her so. To-morrow I am going to see your father and mother, and make an offer for your sister’s hand. But I find it impossible to point out the danger in which this dear little Rose lives. Yet they should know it, for, oh, Harry! her salvation may depend upon their knowledge, and their willingness that she may be taken out of temptation.”

“Can you do this?”

“I can.”

“Will you do it?”

“I will. I shall live for her, and her alone.”

“Pardon me, Antony, if I suggest that cash may have a great deal to do with this proposal.”

“I am rich. I shall spend all I have to save her. I shall take her to Europe for a year. All that love and money can do to make her strong shall be done.”

Then Harry let his hand seek Antony’s hand, and they understood each other, without words. But Harry was very unhappy and also very angry. His betrothal to Adriana had been interfered with because it was supposed to be inimical to the social interests of his sister; and now the joy of his reconciliation to his love was shadowed by Rose’s misconduct. Yet he felt that some steps must be taken at once to prevent the evils which would certainly result from her selfish weakness, if it were unchecked. For, after all, the sin resolved itself into the black one of selfishness; Rose was determined to have the pleasure she desired, though she should tear it through, the hearts of all who loved her, though it should bring her personally only misery and shame.

Such thoughts were natural enough to Harry, and they irritated as well as wounded him. It scarcely 150 needed his mother’s look of reproach and querulous question as to “why he had forgotten the dinner hour,” to make him speak the truth, with almost brutal frankness.

“Where is father?” he asked, impatiently.

“Your father has been all day hard at work in the Astor Library. He came home perfectly worn out, and had his dinner served in his study. He did not feel able to dress for the table to-night.”

“It is perfectly absurd. Father has some duties to his family, I think. For instance, if he would remember he had a daughter. Where is Rose?”

“Rose is with that angelic young person, Miss Van Hoosen. And it is not your place to call your father ‘absurd.’ Some day, you will be proud of him.”

“My dear mother, Rose is not with Yanna.”

“Yanna! Rose told me that she was going to the matinee with Miss Van Hoosen. I suppose she is spending the evening with her also.”

“Rose is at home. She was brought home by Antony Van Hoosen, in a cab. He took her from that fellow Duval. They were taking wine together in a restaurant. Now do you understand?” He spoke with gathering passion, and Mrs. Filmer looked frightened and anxious, but she answered scornfully:

“No, I do not. You must speak more plainly. Is Rose sick? Is she hurt? Why should Mr. Van Hoosen interfere with Miss Filmer?”

“Mother, go and ask Rose ‘why.’ I cannot say what I intended to say. I shall go to father; perhaps I can talk to him, if he will listen to me.”

Mr. Filmer was surrounded by slips of paper which he was arranging with so much absorbing interest that he did not at once look up. But as Harry 151 remained standing before him, he said fretfully: “I have to arrange these data while the facts are fresh in my mind. What do you want, Harry?”

“I want to tell you about Rose, sir. You must put down your data and listen to me. It is the most important duty you have.”

Then the attitude of the elder gentleman changed as quickly as a flash of light. He cast the slips of paper upon the table; his thoughtful countenance became alert; he turned round, faced his son, and asked, sharply: “What do you want to say about your sister?”

Then it was as if some seal had been taken off Harry’s heart and lips. He spoke from the foundations of his being; he said: “Sir, my dear sister is on the way to mortal and immortal ruin; and both you and mother shut your eyes to the fact. I also have refused to see what others see. I have said to myself, when mother speaks, when father speaks, it will be time enough for me to do my part. Sir, Rose takes too much wine; she takes it at improper times, and with improper people. This afternoon Mr. Van Hoosen found her with that nephew of Folletts—you know the man.”

“Richard Duval?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go on, Harry. Tell me all you know. What had Antony Van Hoosen to do with the matter?”

“He saw that she was taking too much. And he loves Rose better than his own life. So he invented an excuse to get her home.”

Mr. Filmer bit his lips passionately, and Harry saw that he was disposed to settle his anger upon the innocent. “Sir,” he said, “Antony did our family a great kindness. I met him on the avenue afterwards, 152 and we had a long conversation. He is coming to see you in the morning. He is anxious to have the right to watch over Rose—to protect her——”

“God in heaven! Has not Rose a father, and mother, and brother?”

“We have hitherto done nothing to help, or to save, the girl. We have each and all trusted to the power of social laws and judgments. Mother and I have certainly suspected, feared, divined something wrong for a long time; and we have both acted as if we thought by ignoring the danger we could destroy it. Antony loves her better than we do. He is ready to marry her at once. He will take her to Europe, and watch over her constantly, until the temptation is dead, and the memory forgotten by every one.”

“Harry, we do not want a stranger to do our duty, do we? If Rose is to be taken away, her father and mother are the proper persons to go with her.”

“Not in this case, father. When a man of Antony’s spotless character, good lineage, and great wealth makes Rose his wife, every one’s mouth will be shut by the honor done her. People will recall the old reports only to say, ‘There must have been a mistake! Rose is so excitable!’ And no one will eventually, in the face of such a fact as her marriage, trust their own sight or memory about what they think they have seen or heard. If you are Rose’s friend, my dear father, listen to what Antony Van Hoosen says, and make Rose marry him.”

“Make? Who can make a woman do what she is resolved not to do?”

“Then, let us go back to Woodsome; there we may be better able to protect Rose from herself and others.”

“Yes. We can go back to Woodsome.”

“But even that will not be sufficient, sir.”

“Do you think I am unaware of my duty, Harry? If Mr. Van Hoosen is willing to devote his life to watching and guarding Rose, what am I capable of? I, her father! I will leave my studies; I will put every thought out of mind but Rose. The Saviour who went out into the wilderness after the stray lamb shall be my example. All the other ninety-and-nine interests of life shall be forgotten, if so I may accomplish this one.” He rose as he said the words, and stooping to the table, swept the slips of paper into an open drawer; and his face, though solemn, was full of light and purpose.

“We should have spoken plainly to each other before this hour, Harry,” he said, “and you were wrong not to have come to me before. A matter of such vital importance ought not to have been trusted to the peradventures and influences of society. We ought to have looked the danger in the face; we ought to have acknowledged it to each other, and never suffered the possibility of such a sorrow and shame to have become even a probable event.”

“My dear father, it is not surely too late. I will help you in any way I can.” And then Mr. Filmer’s eyes met his son’s eyes, and, oh, how well they understood each other!

“And the way being the way of duty, Harry,” he answered, “we shall not miss it; for duty is the commandment exceeding broad.”

At this point Mrs. Filmer entered, and Harry, after placing her in a chair, left the room. For a few minutes she sat quiet, looking into the fire with that apathetic stare which follows exhausted feeling.

Then Mr. Filmer put his chair beside hers, and taking her hand, said:

“My dear Emma, we must bear and fight this trouble together. Harry has told me all. And I do think, if Mr. Van Hoosen will marry Rose, it is the very best thing for the dear girl. He will take her to Europe, into entirely fresh scenes,—and marriage buries so many imperfections and offences.”

“Pray, what has Mr. Van Hoosen to do with Rose?”

“He wishes to marry her. He wishes to have the right to watch over and protect her.”

“Mr. Van Hoosen marry Rose! What an idea! Rose is exceedingly angry at him. She says he interfered with her in the most unwarrantable manner, and frightened her until she has been quite sick from the shock.”

“He did well to frighten her. On that awful road leading down, and down, nothing but a fright will arrest attention. If Rose will not put herself in a loving husband’s care, then we will shut this house and go to Woodsome to-morrow night.”

“Such nonsense!”

“I say, we will leave New York to-morrow night for Woodsome, or else we will take the next steamer for Europe. There are these two alternatives; these two, and no other.”

“And you will permit your daughter to marry the son of the mason who built our house?”

“The mason who built our house is of my own kindred. He is as fine a gentleman as ever I met. He is honorable and well cultured; and his son, Harry says—and he knows him well—is worthy of his father.”

“Nevertheless, Rose will not marry him. And as for breaking up the house now, it is not to be thought 155 of. People will say that we had been compelled to do so, either by Rose’s misconduct or else by our own poverty. It is simply ruinous to our social standing to leave the city now.”

“If Rose is not inclined to marry Mr. Van Hoosen, we shall leave the city to-morrow evening. For I do not believe I shall be able to afford the European alternative. At any rate, not for a few weeks; and those few weeks we must spend in Woodsome.”

“You are simply talking, Henry.”

“To-morrow, I shall simply act. I do not often go against your wishes, Emma, but in this affair, as surely as I live and love, I will take my own way! What did Rose say to you? What excuses did she make for herself?”

“I think there has been a great deal too much made of the affair. Rose says, Adriana Van Hoosen had partly promised to go to the matinee with her, and she went to ask her to redeem her promise this afternoon, as Irving was in a Shakespearean character. But Adriana had gone out—gone to see her sister, who is married to a Dutchman keeping a little grocery on Second Avenue. So then Rose intended to come back home, but met Mr. Duval, and he persuaded her to go to the matinee with him. After they came out, they went into the restaurant for a cream and a glass of wine, and while they were taking it Antony Van Hoosen came to her in a hurried manner and told her she must return home at once. Rose was terrified about you. We are all terrified about you, when you are out of our sight—studying so much as you do, we naturally think of apoplexy, or a fit of some kind,—so the poor girl feared you had had a fit, and she was too terrified to ask questions.”

“But why did she not see you as soon as she came home? for Harry says you did not know she was home until he told you.”

“She says she ran upstairs to take off her bonnet, and that she felt suddenly so ill that she lay down a moment to collect her feelings before seeing any one; and that she fell asleep, or into a faint—she does not know which. She had hardly come to herself when I spoke to her. The poor child has been crying her eyes out, and for a little while she could say nothing but, ‘Oh, mamma, is not this dreadful, dreadful!’ And when I told her you were not sick at all, and none of us were sick, she was naturally very angry at Mr. Van Hoosen for frightening her in such a way; and I think myself it was a very great impertinence.”

“Emma! Emma! You know it was a kindness beyond the counting. If Mr. Van Hoosen had not brought her home, would Mr. Duval have done so? Dare you think of the possibilities of such a situation? As for me, I count Antony Van Hoosen to have been a friend beyond price. A man able to meet such an emergency, and brave enough to face the responsibility he assumed, is a noble fellow; I care not whose son he is. I hope, I pray, that Rose may not fling her salvation from her.”

“But, my dear Henry, if she does, it will not do; it really will not be prudent to leave New York till the proper time. I promise you to go with Rose wherever she goes.”

“I shall take her out of the way of temptation. When a poor, weak soul is in temptation, it is too late to reason or entreat; and Rose will not be frightened again. She must marry Mr. Van Hoosen, or else we shall return to Woodsome to-morrow. That is all about it.”

“I cannot be ready to-morrow. It is impossible to move at a moment’s notice.”

“I was at Woodsome last week, and the house is warm and comfortable. Every necessity can be procured in an hour. I will stay with Rose, and you can return and arrange for the transmission of your dresses and such other things as you wish to remove. You know how to manage well enough, Emma.”

“To overdo is always a man’s way; and I tell you in this matter, to overdo is to underdo.”

“I am sure I am right, Emma. Ask your heart, and tell me honestly if you think Rose is in danger or not?”

“I will watch her carefully.”

“Then you think she is in danger?”

“Oh, Henry! Henry! What can I say? How can I tell? I love Rose so dearly! I love her so dearly!”

“So do I love her! I am sorry that I have not looked better after our little treasure.”

“But I cannot—I cannot let her marry. I cannot give her up—and to that man!”

“If we have been recreant to our duty, Emma, and he is willing to assume our arrears, and do it for us in the future, we deserve to endure loss and obligation because we did not honor our office as parents.”

“I am sure I have never had a single thought but for my children.”

“Well, well! In the morning we shall perhaps understand things better. Trouble, like a turbid river, runs itself clear in the night.”

They talked thus for hours, but nothing further was reached. And Rose was just as wretched and restless. As they passed through the dining-room, which was under Rose’s room, they heard her slowly pacing up 158 and down the floor, though it was then long past midnight. For Rose’s conscience was still very quick, and she was quite capable of estimating the sin and folly of her afternoon’s escapade, so that the tide of self-reproach went on rising, until she could not struggle against it. A disgust of all things, but especially of herself, darkened both the past and the future; and she felt the wretchedness of a combat where defeat had followed defeat, until her thoughts were all remorse. Those few hours of the past afternoon—dull enough while she possessed them—returned to her memory only to make her feel how much more they might have given. She had disappointed and deceived her mother to obtain them, and what had they brought her? Nothing but an intolerable shame and remorse.

Spiritually, she felt a prostration worse than death. She told herself that she had prayed, that she had asked God to help her, and that he had not done so. If God had so willed, it need not have been thus with her. But alas! accusing God brought her no comfort; her conscience continually reminded her of what she had done, and what she had left undone—of her selfishness—her lost time—her idle languors—her hypocrisy—her rebellion against God,—all these sins she realized, and she hated herself for them.

Still, this very activity of despair was hopeful; for it is not despair, but the sombre inertia of despondency, that is fatal to improvement. It was the happiest thing in the world for Rose that she was capable of being unhappy. For when she met with herself thus, she felt the need of meeting with God. If she had suffered less, she might have been content to leave God in heaven; but this utter sense of misery and weakness made her at last fall humbly before “the Father 159 which is in heaven,” and murmur, “Have mercy upon me!” And with that prayer, she slept.

Very early in the morning Antony called on Mr. Filmer. But there was no need to apologize for the hour. Mr. Filmer was possessed by the necessity for rapid action, and he welcomed Antony the more warmly for his promptitude.

“I am a lover, Mr. Filmer,” said Antony, “and you know lovers run ahead of the clock. I love Miss Filmer most sincerely, and I desire to make her my wife. Of course, this desire implies the means to support her in the position to which she has been accustomed, and I have therefore brought you this schedule of my income to examine.”

Mr. Filmer lifted the paper and read its contents with the caution and respect the circumstances warranted. He laid it down with an air of pleasure and astonishment. “This is an extraordinary record of property for so young a man as you are, Mr. Van Hoosen.”

“I have had extraordinary good fortune, sir. As you see, my share in the hotel, of itself, insures Miss Filmer’s adequate support; and I am desirous to make over to her absolutely, for her own use in any way she wishes, the income from the Aladdin Reef mine. It is now worth from eight to ten thousand dollars yearly. I only ask that our marriage may not be delayed, as I desire to go to Europe early in April; and if I could take Rose with me, I should count myself the most fortunate man in the world.”

“You have my full consent to all you desire, Mr. Van Hoosen. Perhaps I ought to say something about Rose. Do you know my daughter well enough to make her your wife? She is not without faults, sir.”

“Neither am I without faults, Mr. Filmer. I think perhaps those who have something to forgive may love the best. If Rose will take me with my faults, I shall be most favored and fortunate.”

“Then, Mr. Van Hoosen, go and ask her.”

“Sir, I will call this afternoon for her answer. It may be that in the interim you can say a word in my favor; and I must not lose a single aid to success. I had hoped to have won her without calling in the question of my wealth, but there are now reasons which seem to make delay inadvisable. Therefore, I must gain all I can from any circumstance.”

“I shall say everything in your favor that is possible, sir; but at the last, you know, it is Rose that must decide.”

Still Mr. Filmer was well aware that Antony had acted with great discrimination. No one is insensible to the power of wealth and all that wealth can give, and Antony’s fortune was sufficiently large to command respect. When Mrs. Filmer followed the suitor, she found her husband walking excitedly about the room.

“Do you know, Emma,” he said, “that Rose has the opportunity to make a stupendously fortunate marriage? The man is worth a couple of millions, and his property is of that kind that grows while he sleeps and plays. He owns half of one of the largest hotels in this country, ranches and cattle, and a good deal of excellent mining stock. He has real estate in most of the growing towns on the Pacific coast, and a lot of property in San Francisco. Why, the man actually proposes to settle about ten thousand dollars yearly on Rose, to simply do as she likes with. I am amazed! I am grateful beyond measure!”

“The idea! Who could have imagined that man owning anything of consequence? And yet, he always had that air of sublime indifference which rests itself upon a good bank account. I do hope Rose will be reasonable.”

“He wishes to marry immediately, for he desires to take Rose to Europe early in April, for a year’s travel. The prospect for the dear girl is all we could desire—and such a good, honorable, strong man, Emma! He will be Rose’s salvation. I am sure he is a lover that even her good angel would approve.”

“We shall see. Rose will need some management. She is often very cross in the morning, and disposed to dislike every one.”

This morning, however, Rose was in her sweetest and most obliging mood. Something of the night’s struggle yet lingered in her subdued and conciliating manner; and Mrs. Filmer fortunately chose the subject most suitable for the condition—her daughter’s weary look, and the necessity for some rest. “Your father was talking seriously about going back to Woodsome,” she said. “I never saw him more determined about anything.”

“That would be so ridiculous! You never would do such a thing, mamma, not for two or even three months?”

“He spoke of going in a day or two. He finds the city’s noise and exigencies very trying. But you need not go, unless you desire.”

“And pray, who would chaperon me?”

“Perhaps Miss Alida Van Hoosen.”

“Oh, mamma! You know she has Yanna with her; and besides, their way of living is unutterably dull and stupid—lectures and concerts, and such 162 things. I could not endure it, and they could not endure me.”

“Your father had an offer for your hand this morning; but, of course, you will refuse it.”

“Of course I shall if the offer came from Antony Van Hoosen, as I suspect it does.”

“The man really thought that his enormous wealth would count with you; for he must have known it could not affect your father.”

“His enormous wealth! Pray, when did Antony become enormously wealthy?”

“He must have been rich for some time. Your father says he brought him the evidences of millions—fancy it, Rose, of millions! And he offered to settle a large yearly income on you, just to do as you please with.”

“He did?”

“Yes.”

“Hum—m—m!”

“Your father was quite firm with him. He said the decision was yours entirely, and that he would have to take your ‘yes’ or ‘no’ in the matter.”

“I should think so! The idea of going to father at all!”

“As for that, it was right to show your father his position. Money is such a wonderful thing! I am sure I wish I had some of his millions! For, do you know, Rose, Harry’s rapid life lately has been a dreadful thing for us. I relied upon Harry doing as much as he always has done, but my hopes have all been vain. He talks about the depression of business; but, my dear, it is the expansion in his own life. Club after club, and all of them cost a living. And then he has other expenses, which I do not care to 163 name to you. I think Harry has been cruelly forgetful of us. Just look at that pile of bills on my table. They make me sick.”

“Why do you not carry them to papa?”

“They are bills for costumes and such things. Your father would take a fit over them. Harry has always helped me out of such dilemmas before. But he has been running an awful rig this winter.”

“It would have been better if he had married Yanna.”

“Do not name the girl. I wish I had never seen her. And now, her brother wanting to marry you! It is too absurd!”

“I—do—not—know—about—that. You say millions!”

“Millions! That is what your father told me, and he saw the vouchers for them. People like the Van Hoosens, with all that money! and we on the verge of bankruptcy!”

“Most of the Van Hoosens are rich. Look at Miss Alida. Father says no one can keep an acre of land for her. Where is Antony’s property?”

“It is in San Francisco, chiefly. My dear, he owns half an hotel, and has nothing to do but sit still in New York, or Paris, or anywhere, and get the results sent to him. And he has property in mines, and cattle, and land, and lots of real estate, all down the Pacific coast. The man is vulgarly rich.”

“Antony is not vulgar, mamma. One ought to give even the devil his due. I have often noticed him in a room, and he wears a dress suit as well as any one. Besides, you know, he really does belong to a very good old family.”

“Well, he is going to Paris, London, Vienna, St. Petersburg, Rome, and I know not where else; so he 164 will doubtless acquire some foreign polish. He is an old friend of the California grand dame who queens it over the American colony in Paris, so he is sure to be a great favorite at the French court. Oh, it takes Europeans to appreciate California millionaires.”

Rose was silent for a long time, and Mrs. Filmer took out her accounts, and laid a file of bills at her side, and then began to add up her check book, and to look very grave and hopeless over it.

“I do not wonder your father talks of Woodsome,” she said, “and I am sure we have had very few entertainments, and have been as economical as possible; yet I do believe my bank account is overdrawn. Can you remember the amount of your last check, Rose?”

“No, I cannot, mamma. Millions are a great deal of money.”

“I wish we had a quarter of only one million. We should be happy, and free from care.”

“Why does Antony want to be engaged when he is going away for a year? A girl would not wait that long for him, unless she were awfully in love—or had no other offer.”

“Well, Rose, it is funny, and presumptuous, and impatient, and thoroughly manlike, but this lover of yours wants to be married at once and take you to Europe with him. I suppose he thinks you will make a very lovely bride, and so add to his Éclat.”

“Nothing as selfish as that ever entered Antony’s head, I am sure. He is not mean or conceited; he is just troublesome and interfering. I suppose I would make a lovely bride!”

“An exquisite one.”

“Some people think brides ought not to wear diamonds.”

“Diamonds and white satin would be the proper thing for you. I dare say you could outshine any bride that ever knelt in Grace Church, if you wished to do so; but there are lots of things that go to a wedding besides white satin and diamonds. I must go and talk with Madame Celeste about her bill. It is shameful! It is simply outrageous! Will you drive with me? You were saying you wanted a new pair of dancing shoes. We can get them if they are really necessary; if not, Rose, I must ask you to do without them; our shoe bill is already frightening me.”

“I do need them, mamma; but I shall not go out this morning; I have a slight headache, and I want to think a little.”

Mrs. Filmer then rose in a hurried, preoccupied manner, but at the door she turned, and with her eyes still on her shopping list said, “Do not wait lunch for me. I may go into Cousin Martha’s for lunch. I shall be near her house; and, Rose, I would not read much; your eyes look like one of your bad headaches.”

“Mamma cares for nothing but the house and the bills!” thought Rose, as the parlor door closed upon her. “One would imagine such an offer as Antony’s was worth a little talking about. But she always did dislike Antony—from the first—and I am sure I do not know why, unless because he is Yanna’s brother. Well, Yanna is tiresome; that is the truth! No wonder mamma does not like her. And what Harry sees in such a cold, stately, pious girl, I cannot understand! I think I will go and make myself look a little pretty. One likes to leave a fine impression, even on a lover that is to be refused. But shall I say ‘No’ to Antony? To have millions of money! and diamonds to my heart’s content! and the finest wedding of the 166 season! and a year’s European travel! and how the Greyson, and the Helper, and the Manton girls will envy me! and lots of others—and Dick! I do not care a cent for Dick! he sneaked away like a dog when Antony spoke to me. I hate Dick! I shall never notice him again. He will doubtless get an invitation to my wedding from some one, and if he feels heart-sick, it will serve him right.”

To this soliloquy she slowly mounted the stairs to her room, and there she stood a few minutes, considering. The result of this reflection was the withdrawal from her drawers of an exquisite gown of pale gray cashmere, and a little tippet of Delhi mull and Valenciennes lace. The ineffable softness and repose of this combination pleased her. “I look my sweetest in this gown,” she thought, “and Antony has never seen it; but it will suit him, I know.”

Indeed, the dress affected Antony like a contrition and a confession. She looked, oh! she looked everything he could desire or imagine! And as Rose was always sensibly affected by the dress she wore, she naturally toned herself to her lovely and gentle appearance. The dress was in every way a fortunate one. It put Rose in the proper mood, and it gave Antony the proper courage. The one advantage reacted on the other; and Rose suffered her heart and her best instincts to lead her. For Antony brought to this question all the force of his character; he pleaded eloquently, with love in his eyes and on his tongue; nor did he neglect such material advantages as his wealth and his ability to grant her every one of her wishes gave him. He was perhaps disappointed that they had so much influence; but he was a patient, self-relying man, and he told himself that he must be grateful 167 for Rose as she was, and trust to the future for the Rose that he foresaw as possible.

So he took things on their present level, and talked so enthusiastically that Rose caught the mood from him, and their happy faces, leaning towards each other, shone with the thought of the joy before them. For Antony’s desire—like all strong hopes—had fulfilled itself by its own energy. His love found its way to his face and to his gestures, made him expressive and impressive, and gave him that quality few can resist, which we call “presence.”

So they knew not how time went, until Mrs. Filmer came home, weary and cold and heart-anxious from a round of profitless shopping and visits. The first glimpse of the lovers was joyfully reassuring. She gave a little gasp of relief, and had some difficulty to preserve her usual equanimity. Indeed, she could not do so, when Antony, holding Rose’s hand, came to her and begged a little love for himself and a blessing on her daughter’s love for him. She was compelled to sit down and cry a little, but she said her tears were tears of happiness; and she was very gentle, and lovable, and sympathetic.

Then they went together to Mr. Filmer’s study. But this day he was neither reading nor writing; he was simply waiting the logic of events. And oh, how welcome were the intruders! for when the load fell from his heart, he knew by the release how heavy it had been. He rose and met them half-way; he kissed his daughter and his wife, and shook hands with Antony; and then, while the tears were in his eyes, and the smile on his lips, he said, with a little dramatic gesture:

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