Avis Manning's "Company" was one of the events of the season. She was a full-fledged young lady, and knowing she could have her choice of the young men of Salem, was rather difficult to capture. She and her brother-in-law were very good friends, but not lovers. And Laura, who knew where his fancy lay, counselled him to go slowly, though she was quite sure he would win in the end.

"You see, she is like a child to Mr. Chilian Leverett, and he is loath to part with her. But all girls do marry sooner or later, and he isn't selfish enough to want her to stay single. If he was not so much older he might marry her—they are not own cousins, you know."

"He marry her! Why, he's getting to be quite an old man," and there was a touch of disdain in his tone. "But there's half a dozen others——"

"It's queer, but she isn't a flirt. She's one of the sweetest of girls—she was, at school. And with her fortune she might hold herself high. They say the Boston trustee has doubled some of it that he invested."

"I wish she hadn't a cent!" the young man flung out angrily.

"Well, money is not to be despised. She'll get a little tired by and by, and long for a home and children of her own, as we all do. And if you haven't found any one else——"

"I never shall find any one like her;" gloomily.

"Oh, there are a great many nice girls in the world."

Avis knew all the best people in Salem, it was not so large, after all. And they came to the beautiful house and made merry, played "guessing words"—what we call charades, quite a new thing then—and it made no end of merriment. Of course, Cynthia was in them, was arch and piquant, and delighted the audience. Then they had supper and more dancing. One of the Turner boys, Archibald, hovered about Cynthia like a shadow. There was Ben Upham, but Edward Saltonstall warded them off to her satisfaction. But Bella Turner was shortly to be married, and Archie would have her for that evening surely.

She and Mr. Saltonstall were very good friends. He was a little older than the others, and grown wary by experience. But it was queer that half a dozen girls were pulling straws for him and here was one who did not care, would not raise a finger, but, oh, how sweet her smiles were.

"If you are a bridesmaid the third time, you will never be a bride," said some of the wiseacres.

Cynthia tossed her proud, dainty head and laughed over it to Cousin Chilian. He looked a little grave.

"Would you mind if I were an old maid? I wouldn't really be old in a long while, you know. And you will always want some one. If anything should happen to Cousin Eunice, how lonely you would be."

"Yes, if you went away."

"I don't care for any of them very much. I like Mr. Saltonstall the best. He isn't quite so young, so—so sort of impetuous. And the boys get jealous."

Then it was likely to be Mr. Saltonstall, after all! Was he going to be narrow and mean enough to keep her out of what was best in a woman's life? But he looked down the dreary years without her. He could not attach himself to the world of business as Cousin Giles did. Some of these young fellows might come into a sort of sonship with him—there was Anthony Drayton.

Why was it his soul protested against them? He did not understand the deep underlying dissent that made a cruel discordance in his desire for her happiness.

Mr. Saltonstall walked home from church with her and Miss Winn. And he came in one evening to ask some advice. He had cudgelled his brain for days to find just the right subject. That ended, they had a talk about chess—that was becoming quite an interest in some circles. There were several moves that puzzled him.

"Come in some evening and talk them over," said Mr. Leverett.

Edward Saltonstall wondered at the favor of the gods and accepted. Not as if he was in any vulgar hurry, but he dropped in, politely social, and asked if he should disturb them. Chilian had been reading Southey's "Thalaba."

"Oh, no. We often read in the evening," said Cynthia.

She was netting a bead bag, an industry all the rage then among the women. They really were prettier than the samplers. But she rose and brought the box of chessmen, while he rolled the table from its corner.

"Will I disturb you if I stay?" she asked.

"Not unless it interferes with Mr. Saltonstall's attention," said Chilian, then bit his lip.

"Oh, I do not think it will;" smilingly.

"You are very good to bother with a tyro. I'd like to be able to play a good game. Father is so fond of it, and Lynde seldom comes in nowadays—family cares;" laughingly.

They led off very well. Saltonstall was wise enough to try his best, though out of one eye he watched the dainty fingers threading in and out among the colored beads, and could not help thinking he would rather be holding them and pressing kisses on the soft white hand. Then he made a wrong play.

"We may as well turn back," said Mr. Leverett, "since the question at stake is not winning, but improving."

"You are very good," returned the young man meekly.

This time they went on a little further, but the result was the same. So with the third game.

"Of course, I could let you win," Mr. Leverett began, "but that wouldn't conduce to the real science of the game which a good player desires. But you do very well for a young man. I should keep on, if I were you."

"And annoy you with my shortcomings?"

"Oh, it will not be annoyance, truly. Come in when you feel like it."

"Thank you." Then he said good-night in a friendly, gentlemanly manner, and Cynthia rose and bowed.

After that she gathered up her work and said good-night. Chilian sat and thought. Edward Saltonstall was a nice, steady young fellow; that is, he neither gamed, nor drank, nor went roystering round in the taverns jollying with the sailors, as some of the sons of really good families did. He would not have all his fortune to make, and his father's business was well established. The sons would take it. The two daughters were well married. What more could he ask for Cynthia? She was not so young now and would know her own mind.

Yet it gave his heart a sharp, mysterious wrench, a longing for what he was putting away, the essence of the solemn ideals of love that run through the intricate meshes of the human soul. He knew that he loved her, that he wanted her for his very own, and his conscience told him it was not right. Of all her admirers he liked this one the best. Under other circumstances he would have considered him an admirable young man.

Saltonstall dropped in now and then, not too often. He did not mean to startle any one with his purpose, but to let it grow gradually. Still, at the last assembly of the season, his attentions were somewhat pronounced. It was partly her doings, she was sheltering herself from other rather warm indications.

A few days later she went over to Polly Loring's with her work. Polly's bag had somehow gone wrong. Cynthia had to cut the thread and ravel out a round. The baby was to be admired as well as the chair seat Polly had begun in worsted work, which was the new accomplishment. And they talked over various matters: who had new gowns, new lovers, and new babies. But every time she came almost to the subject so near her heart, Cynthia made an elusive detour. Then she ventured out straight with her question.

"Cynthia, are you going to take Ed Saltonstall?"

Cynthia's face was scarlet.

"He hasn't asked me, he hasn't even asked Cousin Chilian," but her voice was not quite steady.

"How do you know? It was talked of at the assembly—the two men were a good deal together. And if you don't mean anything, Cynthia, you'll get yourself gossiped about, and you'll spoil some lives," declared Polly spiritedly. This thing had been seething in her mind, and she was going to have it out at the risk of breaking friendship.

"I don't want to spoil any one's life. And I've never really kept company with any one."

The keeping company was the great test. When the young man came steady one night in the week, to Sunday tea, and went to church with the girl alone, the matter was as good as declared.

"But—well, I don't know how you've done it, but they hang about you and it does upset them. First it's one, then it's another. You ought to know. You ought to settle upon one and let the others alone."

Polly had acquired a good deal of married wisdom, and she really did love Cynthia. Ben loved her, too.

"But suppose I didn't want any of them?" and Cynthia tried to laugh, but it was a poor shadowy attempt.

"Oh, nonsense! You don't mean to be an old maid. No girl does. But it is time you stopped playing fast and loose with hearts. Now there's Ben. You know he's loved you this long while. And we all like you so. Last fall he quite gave up and went to see Jenny Willing. She'll make a good wife and she's a nice girl, though she hasn't your fortune. Mother's been trying to make him believe that you are looking higher."

"Oh, Polly—I never scarcely think of my fortune," Cynthia interrupted, her face full of distressful color.

"Well, I'm not saying that you do. Ben's getting along first-rate. He has a college degree and father isn't poor. I know several girls who would jump at a chance for him. Of course, we would all rather have you. Then at Avis Manning's party you gave him the sweetest of your smiles, and lured him back."

Oh, she recalled it with a kind of shame. It was to keep off Archie Turner and Mr. Saltonstall. And then for a while he had grown troublesome. If they could be merely friends!

"The thing is just here, Cynthia. I know I'm speaking plainly and you may get angry. If you don't want Ben, let him alone. A young man begins to think of a home and a wife of his own, and when he likes a girl very much—yes, I will say it, she can make or mar. She can take him away from some other nice girl. And people now are beginning to say you are a flirt. I think Jenny will make Ben a nice wife, and if you don't want him——"

"Oh, Polly, I don't want any of them. You can't think how delightful life is with Cousin Chilian. I couldn't be as happy anywhere else, or with any other person. I can't make myself fall in love as all of you girls have, and think this one or that one perfect. Something must be wrong with me. And I'm very sorry. I'm not a bit jealous when they take to other girls. Why, I'd be glad to be Jenny's bridesmaid if she wanted me to."

Cynthia paused and mopped the tears from her cheeks. Polly was a little subdued. Cynthia was taking this so meekly. But she said rather spitefully, "You had better marry Mr. Leverett."

Ah, Polly, it was a dangerous seed to fling at a young girl. And it dropped on a bit of out of the way fruitful soil.

Cynthia rose quietly. She was very pale. She began to roll up her work.

"Now I think you can go on with it," she said. "If you get in trouble again, let me know."

Then the two friends looked at each other until the tears came into their eyes.

"I'm very sorry," murmured Cynthia in a broken voice.

"But you see——"

"Yes. I understand. I hope Ben will be very happy."

Afterward Polly sat down and cried. She knew Ben loved Cynthia so. They had counted on having her in the family. But she felt quite certain now that Ed Saltonstall would get her. And he was a flirt, going with every pretty girl, every new girl for a little while.

Cynthia went home in a very sober mood. Why had they all cared so much about her? They had nice attractive qualities, but why could they not look at her just as she looked at them! She did not know very much about men and that with them pursuit often merged into the strong desire for possession, which she did not understand. But she did not want to be blamed. She would have none of them. Cousin Chilian was more to her. If he seldom danced and was never very gay, there were so many other requirements to life; there was something in his nature to which hers responded readily.

Then suddenly she seemed to have lost the clue. She experienced a season of bewilderment. Was Cousin Chilian meaning she should take Mr. Saltonstall for a lover? He surely gave him opportunities he had given no other. Sometimes he excused himself and went out. There were some difficulties with the mother country that men were discussing. She really felt a little awkward at being left alone with Mr. Saltonstall. Not only that, but it awoke a strange terror in her soul that he should come so near; it was as if her whole being rose in arms.

Occasionally Chilian spoke of her marriage—he had always said she was too young, in a protesting manner. So on one occasion she gained courage.

"Do you mean—that is—you would like to—have me married, Cousin Chilian?"

Married! It was as if she had given him a stab. And yet was not that just the thing he had been thinking of?

"Why, you see, Cynthia," he made his voice purposely cold, "I am much older than you. I may die some day. Cousin Eunice will no doubt go before me, and you would not like to go on alone. Then Giles is older even than I. One has to think of these things. Yes, it would be nice to know you were happily settled."

"And why couldn't a woman live alone as well as a man? I could have Miss Winn, and a housekeeper, and a man——"

"It's a lonely life for a woman."

"But why not for a man?"

"Oh, well, that is different. Only a few men do. And they grow queer and opinionated."

A fortnight ago she would have protested and said, "You are not old, you are not opinionated," in her eager, girlish manner. Now she was hurt, and she could not tell why; so she kept silent.

And she began to note a change in him. The delightful harmony in which they had lived fell below the major key into minors, that touched and pierced her. He did not come so often to listen to her music, to ask her for a song, to watch while she painted some pretty flower, to go around with her training roses, or cutting them for the house. She put a few of them everywhere; she did not like great bunches, only such things as grew in clusters, lilacs and syringas and long sprays of clematis. She missed the little walks around, and the dear talks they used to have.

She felt somewhat deceitful in planning adroitly. She made Miss Winn go to church with her, and when they came home with Mr. Saltonstall they sat on the porch together. A girl thinking of a lover would have asked him in. Then she went down to Boston, and Anthony came over as often as he could. Surely there was no danger with him.

All this time Chilian Leverett was having a hard fight with himself. He was really ashamed of having been conquered by what he called a boy's romantic passion. He could excuse himself for the early lapse; he was a boy then. His honor and what he called good sense were mightily at war with this desire that well-nigh overmastered him. True, men older than he had married young wives. But this child had been entrusted to him in a sacred fashion by her dying father; he must place before her the best and richest of life, even if it condemned him to after-years of joyless solitude.

For it was not as a father he loved her, though he had played a little at fatherhood in the beginning. She was so companionable, they had so many similar tastes. He was so fond of reading to an appreciative listener, and even as he sat in the darkness, when she did not know he was alone in the study, he could see her lovely eyes raised in their tender light. He thought this her unusual wisdom and discernment, never dreaming it had been mostly his training and her receptiveness. And to think of the house without her! Why, going out of it in her wedding gown would be almost as if she had been laid in her shroud and shut away. Of course, he could not have her here and see her love another.

Giles Leverett's dream was much happier. In his mind he saved her for his favorite. When Anthony was through—and he was putting in law, with the classics—he would take him in his office, where he would find much business made to his hand. The house was big enough for them all, and he had grown curiously interested in young people. Anthony was very fond of his sweet, fascinating cousin—they all were. He did not know whether there was any one in Salem quite good enough for her. Saltonstall was a rather trifling fellow, whose fancies were evanescent.

But Mr. Ed Saltonstall had a good friend in Mrs. Stevens, and she counselled him not to be too ardent in his pursuit. She said pleasant little things about him without any effusiveness. She considered his friendship with her very charming—young men were not generally devoted to middle-aged women. Once she shrewdly wondered why he had not made some errand down.

Altogether it was a pleasant visit, though Cynthia kept revolving her duty, if such there was in the case. A blind, mysterious asking for something haunted her, something it would be sad to miss out of her life.

Then she came home alone in the stage. There was a property dispute going on, where Mr. Leverett was an important witness for a friend. When the stage stopped, Rachel and Jane both ran out and gave her a joyful welcome.

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Cousin Eunice, "we are so glad to get you back. You are the light of the house, isn't she?" glancing at the other. "Even Chilian has been mopey, though I think he isn't well. He is getting thin, too, and goodness knows he had no flesh to lose. Oh, my dear, I hope you will never go away again while I live;" and she gave a long sigh as the girl left the room.

She came down presently in a cheerful light frock and began to tell Cousin Eunice and Jane what she had seen and heard. She was in the full tide of this, eager, bright, and flushing when Chilian entered. He greeted her rather languidly. Yes, he had grown thinner, and Cousin Giles was putting on too much flesh and growing jollier. Chilian did not look well and an ache went all over Cynthia's body, every nerve being sympathetic. He was not silent, however; he asked questions, but she thought he was hardly paying attention to the answers. He remained down in the sitting-room and read his Gazette, now and then making some comment, or answering some query of Cousin Eunice. It was not nine yet when he rose and said, "He was very tired; if they would excuse him, he would go to bed."

They all went presently. She was glad to be alone in the room, glad there was no moon, and she turned her face over on the pillow and cried softly. After all, life was a riddle—two ways and not knowing which to take, both having a curiously lonely ending. Could she not bear it better alone? If he should go away as her father had done, if she should stay here in the old house, and then Cousin Eunice would fold her hands in that silent clasp, Rachel would slip into old womanhood, Jane would marry, she was keeping company now. There would be other Janes and she——

On the other hand would be love, marriage, children maybe, a pleasant home. Living along side by side, as other people did.

She did not try to shut out either vision. Which should she take? Was life just for one's self?

She was not morbid. It was only in religion that people took out their very souls and examined them for lurking sins; the days' duties were what must be accomplished, whether or no. She knew she was not very religious, the deep things seemed beyond her grasp. And there was a certain joyousness in her love for sunshine, flowers, people, and all the attractive things of life. She was deeply grateful, she raised her heart in thankfulness to God for every good gift. And now she took up the daily duties cheerfully. It was not their fault the shadow had fallen over them.

Some days afterward she was rambling around aimlessly, when she met a girl friend, and they chatted about various matters.

"Oh," exclaimed the friend, "there'll be another wedding in the autumn, and Betty Upham is keeping steady company. I used to have an idea that you and Ben would make a match——"

"It's Jenny Willing," she interrupted. "And I am heartily glad."

"You were all such friends;" looking puzzled.

"And I hope we will go on being friends. I have always liked Jenny."

"She was awfully afraid you'd cut her out. You know he did fancy you first. I think she would have been very unhappy if she had missed him. I don't see what there is about you, Cynthia;" studying her intently. "You are pretty, but there are some handsome girls in Salem. And they run after Ed Saltonstall as if there was no other man in town. And my advice to you is to seize on him, for I think your chance best. He's an awful flirt, though. I think good-looking men always are."

Cynthia flushed. Why should these things be profaned by foolish gossip.

Polly came over one afternoon. She had accomplished the bag and was proud enough of it. And she announced Bentley's engagement.

"They will be married in the early fall; they are not going to build, but have part of that double house of Nelsons'. She'll make a fine, economical wife, and that is what men need who are trying to get along. Assemblies and all that are not the thing for prudent married people."

"And one gets tired of them." She had a feeling just then that she should never want to dance any more.

Cynthia was glad to have him settled, glad Jenny Willing had the man she loved.

And the last time he had come back to her she had held up her finger to him thoughtlessly, to shield herself from some other pointed attentions. It had been a mean thing to do. But she had only meant it for that evening, and he had gone on importunately. She was ashamed of it now. Yes, she had better marry; then no one would be pleading for favors, mistaking a simple smile for deeper meaning. Was her smile different from that of other girls?

She watched Cousin Chilian narrowly. Was the old dear freedom between them gone? He seemed rather abstracted. He did not call her into the study, he went out oftener of an evening. Mr. Saltonstall would pass by, then turn and walk up the path and sit down on the step. This would occur several times a week. He asked her to ride with him, but she shrank from that. She went over one evening on special invitation, when Chilian was to play chess with the father. Mrs. Saltonstall took her in quite as if she was one of the family, and really was very sweet to her. And the old gentleman was fatherly.

That seemed to settle it for her, rather the fact that sank deeper in her mind every day that Cousin Chilian wished her to marry and that this young man was his preference. She allowed him to come a little nearer, to hold her hand, to take nameless small freedoms, and he was always delicate.

Would he be satisfied without all she could not help withholding? Would it be right to give him a half love? But then how could she help loving Cousin Chilian, who had been so tender to her in childhood? She would be gladly content to stay without any nearer tie between them; of course, that other could not be thought of.

One night Mr. Saltonstall asked her in a manly fashion. And suddenly a great white light shot up in her heart, and loving one man she knew she had no right to deceive another, to live a deception all her life long, to cheat him—yes, it was that. Better a hundred times to live out her flawed life alone.

"Oh, I cannot," she murmured. "I—I"—she choked down the strangling sob.

"My little darling, give me the opportunity to teach you what love really is. You do not know."