THE first week of May had passed by, and Sir Francis Bendibow was sitting in his private room at the bank, with one elegant leg crossed over the other, and his hands folded over his embroidered waistcoat. He appeared to be meditating, with the placid gravity that characterized him, over the results of a well-spent and profitable life. At length, with a gentle sigh, he uncrossed his legs, took his watch from his fob, and consulted its enameled face. It wanted five minutes to three. Sir Francis might, with propriety, abandon business for the day, and betake himself to his residence in Great George Street. He was just on the point of touching a bell, and ordering his carriage to be called, when the servant came to the door and said that some one was without who desired to see Sir Francis.

“Some one?” said Sir Francis, mildly and interrogatively.

“A lady, Sir Francis,” explained the servant; and something in the way he pronounced the word induced the baronet to imagine that the lady was neither old nor ugly.

“What is the lady’s name?” he inquired, sitting more erect in his chair and settling his stock.

“She gave no name, Sir Francis; she said Sir Francis would receive her.”

“Hum! I was about to ask you to order the carriage, Catnip: you may order the carriage to be ready in ten minutes; meanwhile you may admit the lady—ahem!”

“Yes, Sir Francis.”

A minute afterward the lady was admitted.

Sir Francis’ intuition had not been at fault. The lady was young and lovely. She was five feet five inches in height—as the baronet had judged, and he was an adept in women—perfectly, and rather fully formed, with a foot and ankle worthy of Titania. Her right hand was ungloved, showing a small soft wrist, taper fingers with dimpled knuckles, and a long thumb. Her movement and bearing were those of a finished woman of the world, supplemented by just physical proportions and native grace. She was dressed richly, and in the fashion, yet with such subtle art, that one remarked that her attire suited her before remarking what it was. When she came in, her face was veiled; but the silken web was not so dense as to conceal the sparkle of a pair of dark eyes, while over her small ears and at the back of her neck were discernible some short locks of bright curling hair.

She advanced into the middle of the room, and there paused, while Sir Francis presented her with a grand obeisance.

“Your humble servant, madam,” said he. “May I entreat you to be seated?”

“Thank you, sir,” she answered, placing herself in the chair he handed to her. “I shall not detain you very long. I came to you on a matter of business.”

She betrayed a slight foreign accent in speaking; but there was something in the tone of her voice that attracted the baronet’s attention. It was a full, clear, and yet lightsome voice, varying easily through changing intonations, always harmonious and perfectly under control; it evinced self-possession and a musical ear. Sir Francis was already charmed, and summoned all his graces to confront the occasion. It was not every day that destiny brought to him such customers as this.

“I shall esteem myself fortunate in being able to be of any service to you,” he said, with a manner at once impressive and deferential.

“You are extremely good, sir.”

“I protest, madam—not in the least. May I inquire, madam, whether you are familiar with London?”

“I was in London a number of years ago, sir—I think it must now be ten years—”

“In that case, madam, you must have been very young—quite a child, in fact. The town may therefore have some novelty for you. Fortunately the season is just commencing, and—”

“Alas, sir, I am not in a position to avail myself of gayeties.”

“Indeed? Egad, madam, I protest you distress me.”

“It is because I have recently met with a sad misfortune.”

“You are too young, and—if I might be permitted to say it—too fair to be the prey of misfortune, madam. The misfortune is not, I trust, irremediable?”

“I fear it is, sir. I speak of the loss of my husband.”

Sir Francis was a little puzzled. Was this lady more or less of a woman of the world than he had imagined? Was there not after all something of the ingenue about her? To be sure, a widow cannot, as a general thing, be accurately described as an ingenue; but, practically, this widow might be so. For all her polished self-possession of voice and bearing—which might as well be the result of early education as of the training of worldly experience—for all this her mind and heart might be fresh and unsophisticated. There was a flavor of artlessness, almost of innocent appeal, in what she said. The baronet felt his benevolent heart expand. The prospect of relations—business relations of course—with a young lady at once so attractive and so unprotected, enchanted him. But it was necessary to be sure of his ground—to inquire further.

“Widowhood for the young and beautiful is indeed the most pathetic of all predicaments!” he exclaimed with feeling. “I should judge, madam, that you can’t have enjoyed the married state long?”

“Not very long; though it seemed long in one way.”

“Aye, and all too short in another, no doubt. Ah, my dear madam, I can sympathize with you; I have had my bereavements, egad! and my sorrows. These are terrible times, madam; though, thank God, that Corsican monster is safe at last: but he has made many widows, in this country and elsewhere. Your husband, perhaps, fell upon the field of battle?”

“No, sir. Perhaps I should have told you that my husband was a Frenchman.”

This reply embarrassed Sir Francis. It was his intention to be agreeable to the lady, and he had unwittingly disturbed her sensibilities. But a few moments sufficed him to recover his self-possession. Not for a trifle of consistency would he forfeit the good opinion of so charming a client.

“The French,” he said, “are a brave and noble people. Now that there is no longer war between us and them we can acknowledge it. Bonaparte, after all, was a great general, and a man of genius. No one can regret more than myself, madam, the necessity which has removed him to Elba.”

“Is that your opinion, sir?” returned the lady, coldly. “My husband was a monarchist. To him Bonaparte was an usurper and a tyrant.”

Sir Francis struggled not to appear put out of countenance. “Damn these French!” he said internally; “you never know where you are with ’em.” Aloud he said: “Your husband was right, madam, from his point of view. He was loyal to his convictions and to his traditions. Every one must respect them and him—no one certainly more than I myself, who am the loyal supporter of my own king. That such a man as your husband should be cut off in the prime of his youth is a calamity to his country,” concluded Sir Francis, feeling that at all events he was safe there.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” said the lady ingenuously.

“Your husband, I say, dying in the first flush of youth—”

“Oh, my husband was not a very young man,” interposed the lady gravely. “In fact, it may be said that he died of old age. He was only a little over seventy, it is true; but he had for several years past been in very infirm health.”

“Zounds, madam, you—you surprise me!” exclaimed Sir Francis, almost losing patience. Reflecting, however, that it was unlikely a wife so youthful should have felt any passionate attachment to a husband so ancient, he plucked up courage; the task of consoling the lady would be by so much the less difficult. She sat there very quietly, with her hands resting one within another in her lap, and her dark eyes sparkling through her veil. Sir Francis conceived a strong desire to see that veil lifted. But he would proceed cautiously.

“You are, then, alone in the world,” he remarked, compassionately. “Probably, however, you may have kinsfolk in England or France who—”

“Indeed, sir, I am very unhappy,” said the lady, with a melancholy simplicity. “Such few relatives as I possess are not, I fear, kindly disposed toward me.”

“Surely they must be very unnatural persons—ahem!” cried Sir Francis, indignantly. “But let me entreat you not to be downcast, my dear madam. Providence sometimes raises up friends to us when we least expect it. If I might speak of myself—”

“Indeed, you are very good,” said the lady softly, and with a little movement of one of her hands that seemed to indicate confidence and gratitude. Sir Francis moved his chair a little nearer. The lady continued: “My husband, you must know, has left me the entire control of his property, which I believe is very large. I think his income was what you would call, in your money, ten thousand pounds—is it not?—every year; but I may be mistaken: I am so stupid in those affairs: at least it was more than three hundred thousand francs.”

“In that case, madam, you would be rather under than over the truth in your estimate,” said the baronet, bowing with increased tenderness of manner, and bringing his chair so close to that of his visitor that she drew back a little, with a movement half-startled, half-coquettish. “We must speak low,” the baronet hastened to say; “this room is not quite so secluded as I could wish, and curious ears ... but to the point! This property—”

“I feel so helpless,” said the lady, leaning forward with an impulse of confidence. “I do not care for money: I do not understand its value, nor how to manage it. I am overwhelmed with this responsibility, which I would gladly have escaped. But my husband’s will was very stringent and precise in its terms, and I have no choice but to accept the burden he has laid upon me.”

“Very right, my dear madam: your sentiments do you every honor. ’Tis a responsibility, indeed, but one which, with good advice, you can easily support. I may say, without vanity, that my experience in matters of finance is as extensive—”

“Oh, sir, I am already convinced of it,” interposed the lady cordially. “Your reputation is as high on the Continent as here. A friend of my husband’s—known, I believe, also to you—counseled me to come to you and to put myself unreservedly in your hands. The name of the gentleman was Mr. Lancaster—Mr. Philip Lancaster, I think.”

“Lancaster! yes, yes,” said Sir Francis, genially. “I have seen Philip—a fine young fellow, though with a turn for poetry; but he is still young. The Lancasters, madam, as I doubt not you are aware, are kin to the Barons Croftus: it is the family name. They are relatives of my own through my late wife, who was a Lancaster. Philip is my nephew by marriage, though not by blood. In sending you to me he has placed me under a very heavy obligation—ahem!”

“You cannot expect me to believe, sir, that the management of a property like that of my late husband can be much of an object to one who is accustomed to lend money to empires.”

“My dear madam, you misapprehend me. The obligation has reference to yourself, not to your property. As to that, I trust you will not think so ill of me as to imagine that I would seek my own profit in any transactions I might be fortunate enough to carry out for you.”

“What you say, sir, persuades me that the English are the most genteel people in the world. And besides,” added the lady, looking down and turning the pearl and diamond ring upon the finger of her ungloved hand, “it relieves me from an embarrassment.” Here she looked up again, and Sir Francis felt the dark eyes meeting his own. He was by this time in a mood to exchange a great deal that financiers hold dear for something not more substantial than a draft upon the bank of sentiment. He had been open to romantic impressions in his youth, and his mature age was not entirely emancipated from occasional bondage of that sort. But never, he thought, in all his experience, had he encountered aught so bewitching in the shape of woman as she who now sat before him. There could be no doubt that she was already extremely well-disposed toward him; and his redoubtable heart, which had seen him through many a tough experience of more kinds than one, actually beat with anticipation as he pictured to himself the felicity that might be in store for him.

“Never!” he exclaimed fervently, laying his hand upon his heart, and allowing the ardor of his feelings to glow through the handsome dignity of his countenance—“never, madam, need you be a prey to any embarrassment from which the utmost of my humble endeavors may suffice to free you.”

“I am convinced of your kindness and goodness; but, dear sir, I am aware that matters of business cannot be controlled by the dictates of generous feeling. For my own part I should never have dreamed of making any stipulations; but, as I observed just now, the directions in my late husband’s will are painfully stringent. I must confess to you that it was not altogether in accordance with his wishes that I should reside in England after his death.”

There was a slight tremor in the tone in which she made this confession. Sir Francis leaned forward, devoured with tender curiosity.

“In fact, sir, he was opposed to it. But it had always been my dream to revisit my native land, for I am an Englishwoman by birth, though so long an exile. I therefore resolved, if it were possible, to overcome the obstacles which he had placed in my way. It rests with you, dear sir, to decide whether or not I am to succeed.”

“With me! my dear—my very dear madam,” cried the baronet, impulsively extending his hands and imprisoning one of hers between them. “Do I hear you say that it is my happy privilege to be so far the arbiter of your destiny? Oh, charming woman! command me! enlighten me! show me how I can prevent you from ever putting a greater distance between us than—ahem!—than—”

“You must not speak like this,” gently interposed the lady, as the baronet hesitated for a phrase. She withdrew her hand from his own, yet so that the deprivation seemed to convey more of regard than would the caress of another woman. “You make me regret my coming to you on this errand. It would be better, I think, if you could direct me to some other banker—”

“Some other! Impossible! How have I been so unhappy as to make you regret this interview?”

“It could be for only one reason,” said the lady, still more kindly. “You lead me to esteem so highly the value of your friendship that I cannot but regret it should be mingled with interests of a less elevated character. I could prize you so much as a friend that I am reluctant to think of myself as your customer.”

Sir Francis positively blushed, and it was some moments before he recovered himself. “Do not think of yourself as my customer!” he then exclaimed, yielding himself completely to the fascinations of this veiled enchantress; “think of me as yours—as the customer who applies to you for all that renders his existence a blessing to him—for your friendship, your favor, your....”

“Oh, sir!” murmured the lady, rising in confusion.

“Charming creature!” supplicated the baronet; “be to me what you will, but do not rob me of the gift of your presence! Do not distrust me—I am all gentleness and veneration. I am impulsive; but a look, a word, restrains me. Come, we will speak of business; business shall be the lowly yet honorable route by which we may in due course travel to better things. But, business first! How can I be of service to you? Is it your desire to make any deposit? Is there any negotiation ... but pray, honor me by resuming your seat.”

“I blame myself for detaining you so long; but I will try to be brief. It amounts to a question of the rate of interest. I am so little acquainted with money matters, sir, as to be ignorant of the current rate in England.”

“Your ignorance does you no discredit, madam. The fluctuations in the money market have of late years been great; at present, happily, confidence is being restored, and interest is lower. Six per cent, would I think represent a liberal—”

“Six per cent.? Ah, I understand now the full potency of the conditions my late husband imposed upon me. It would be useless for me to attempt to contend against them. I must return, then, to France.” In saying this the lady repressed a sigh, and made a movement as if to close the interview.

“But, for pity’s sake, explain yourself, dear madam!” cried Sir Francis.

“It would humiliate me to reveal to you the severity—I must not call it the unkindness—of which my husband.... No, indeed, sir, you must excuse me—”

Sir Francis interrupted her by an eloquent gesture, as much as to say, “At least, trust me!”

“If I must speak, then let it be as to a friend, and in the confidence of friendship,” said the lady, uttering herself with an apparent effort. “My husband’s instruction was, that in case of my living in England, the property was to be intrusted to an English bank of unquestionable solvency, at an interest of twenty per cent. If this rate were not allowed by the bank, the property was not to be deposited in England; and should I still persist in residing here the whole of it was to go to a blood-relative of my husband. I have to choose, therefore, between being a beggar and remaining an exile. Were I a man I should not hesitate to select the former alternative, trusting to myself to earn an honest livelihood; but, as I am a woman....” Her voice faltered, and she paused.

“As you are a woman, and the most adorable of women,” said Sir Francis, gravely, “it shall be my happy privilege to defeat your husband’s unjust purpose, and to bid you remain where your own inclination and the urgency of your friends would place you. Consider the matter settled. Nay—do not reply. I claim—I may even affirm that I possess—the right to impose my wishes upon you in this respect. I am the head of the house of Bendibow; and permit me to add, dear madam, that in the course of a long experience I have never been engaged in any transaction which promised me advantages so great as the present.” Sir Francis concluded this speech with a bow that was in keeping with the dignity and magnificence of his sentiments. In fact, he could not but be conscious of the grandeur of his act, and his manner uplifted itself accordingly. But the lady shook her head.

“Were the soundness of your reasoning as unmistakable as the goodness and nobility of your heart,” she said, “I should have no ground for hesitation; but you offer me what it is impossible I should accept. How can I consent to receive a yearly sum from you equal to the amount of my present income? It would be indistinguishable from a gift. I thank you from the bottom of my soul; but it cannot be.”

“Madam, you wound the heart that you pretend to honor. But that is not all; you infinitely exaggerate your profit in the transaction. Although twenty per cent. is considerably in excess of the average rates of interest, it would be easy for me so to arrange matters that the bank’s loss would be practically nil.”

“Ah, if I could believe that....” murmured the lady, half to herself.

“You may believe it implicitly,” said Sir Francis, who had taken a sheet of paper and was writing rapidly upon it. In a few moments he finished the writing with a flourish, and handed it over to his visitor. It was an agreement, signed and dated, to pay interest at the rate of twenty per cent. upon all moneys which she might deposit in the bank. “My only regret is, that the obligation on your side is so trifling as to be merely nominal; I might otherwise have ventured to hope for some return—”

“You do me injustice, sir,” interrupted the lady warmly, “if you imagine that I would yield to your pecuniary liberality what I would refuse to—to other considerations. You do yourself injustice if you regard your personal worth as not outweighing in my eyes all the bullion in your bank. You must, indeed, have misunderstood me, to think otherwise.”

She had risen as she spoke, and so also had Sir Francis. He saw the error he had committed, and recognized the necessity of correcting it on the instant. He went down upon one knee before her, as majestically as the lack of suppleness which sixty years had inflicted upon his joints permitted.

“I shall remain here, madam,” he declared, “until you have consented to condone a fault for which the imperfection of my language, and not the intention of my heart, is to blame. Lovely—irresistible woman, why should I longer attempt to disguise my feelings toward you? Why should I speak of the respect in which I hold you, the honor, the admiration, when there is one word which comprises and magnifies them all? You know that word; yet, for the easing of my own heart, it shall be uttered. I love you!”

“Love?... Oh, sir—you mistake—that is not right—it cannot—”

But Sir Francis had possessed himself of her hand, and was imprinting ardent kisses upon it. The lady trembled; she seemed to be agitated by some strong emotion; with her free hand she pressed her veil over her face. Sir Francis rose and attempted to enfold her in his embrace. But she eluded him, and spoke breathlessly.

“If you really have any regard for me, sir, you will restrain yourself. Let us—ah—let us speak of other things—this paper. Nay, I entreat you ... what would you have me say? Is this a time or a place for me to confess that you have inspired me with a sentiment—oh! have pity, sir. Come to me to-morrow—this evening if you will—but not here, not now.” ...

“You give me hope, then? Divine creature, do you grant me an interview—”

“Yes, yes—anything! indeed, you may command me but too easily: only, if you love me at all, have consideration for my position—for—”

“Enough! I am obedient, and I am mute, save as you bid me speak,” cried the baronet, almost bewildered with the immensity of his own good fortune, and physically much out of breath besides. He sank into his chair, panting. “We understand each other!” he sighed out, with an impassioned smile. “Till this evening! meanwhile—”

“This paper, then? Is it a legal form? Are you serious in making such a contract with me?”

The baronet nodded profoundly. “It bears my signature: it is complete, and irrevocable!”

“But my own name is not written here. You have left a blank.”

“For you to fill up, dearest creature! How could I write your name, when you have not told me what it is?”

“How, sir? You do not know my name?” exclaimed the lady, with an accent of surprise.

“Positively, I have not a notion of it. The servant did not announce it.”

“And you enter into this contract with one of whom you know nothing?”

“’Tis yourself, fairest of your sex, not your name that has importance for me,” panted the baronet complacently. “But you will tell it me? and lift that veil that obscures so much beauty?”

“Apparently, Sir Francis, it has obscured more than my beauty,” returned the lady dryly. She approached the table at which he sat, and added, “Give me your pen.”

Somewhat startled at the abruptness of her tone, the baronet complied with her request. She held the paper upon the desk with her left hand while she wrote a name in the blank space which Sir Francis had left for that purpose. His eye followed the swift movement of the pen, and when the writer laid it down, he read out the name mechanically—

“Perdita, Marquise Desmoines.”

Sir Francis leant back heavily in his chair, and his arms fell loosely at his side. He stared at the charming figure in front of him with a sort of vacant consternation. She threw back her veil.

The face that was thus revealed was certainly not one to disappoint the most sanguine expectations. In shape it was a full oval, the nose delicate and pointed, with the tip mobile to the changing play of the lips in smiling or speaking. Her chin was firm, her throat solid, round and white. It was the face of one capable alike of luxurious indolence and dangerous energy; endowed with dimples for mirth and with clear-cut lines for resolute purpose. Sound sense and accurate memory dwelt in the broad brow; good temper in the curve of cheek and eyelid; passion in the full lower lip. From the movements of the features and the poise of the head upon the neck might be divined that she was proud, generous, or implacable, as the whim suited her; but the dominant expression at present was one of archly mischievous amusement.

“You don’t seem glad to see me, Uncle Francis!” she exclaimed, making a moue of lovely irony.

No answer from the baronet.

“You wanted to kiss me just now; come—I am ready.”

Sir Francis was still speechless.

“Why, uncle, how unsympathetic you are grown all of a sudden! Don’t you love your poor widowed niece, whom you haven’t seen or heard of for ten years? You were so complimentary and affectionate a moment ago! And so generous, too, uncle,” she added, holding up the signed agreement between her white forefinger and thumb. At the sight of this the baronet’s countenance became ghastly, and he emitted a groan.

Perdita, Marquise Desmoines, threw back her head and laughed with all her might—a laugh full of liquid music. “You are a most incomprehensible man, uncle,” she declared, when she had recovered herself. “When my veil is down you call me fairest of my sex, dearest creature, and sweetest of women; you go down on your knees to me, devour my hand, and pay me ten thousand a year to live in London. You were so delightfully impetuous, in short, that you almost frightened me. Who would have expected such ardor from a man of your age? Then, when the veil is lifted, you sit as silent and impassive as a bag of guineas; you glare at me as if I were a gorgon. I hope you will be more agreeable when you come to see me this evening? We understand each other, you know—don’t we?—eh, uncle?” And she laughed once more.

“Well, well, Perdita,” said the baronet at last in a feeble voice, “you are a monstrous clever girl, and you may have your laugh out. As for that paper, you may as well return it me at once. You have your jest; that was mine.”

“If all your jests are worth ten thousand a year, I should like to engage you as my court-jester, uncle. You will be worth your weight in silver if you made no more than six jests in a twelvemonth.”

“Well, well; but give me the paper; seriously, I insist—”

“You insist! Oh, uncle! Because the uncle is a jester, it does not follow that the niece must be a fool. Besides, you have owed me this for ten years.”

“Owed it you? What the deuce—”

“Ah, uncle, you are growing old—you are losing your memory. Didn’t you marry me to my poor marquis without a dowry? and didn’t you say you would make it up to me when times improved? Well, in five or six years perhaps I may give you this paper back; but to do so now, dear uncle, would be discourteous; it would be denying you the privilege of doing an act of justice.”

“Upon my life, madam,” exclaimed Sir Francis, plucking up some resolution, “you may keep the paper or not as you see fit; but the engagement is not worth the ink it’s written with; and that you shall find out!”

The marquise regarded her exasperated relative with a charming gleefulness. “But it is only for twenty per cent. you know, uncle,” she said; “and you are able to put out money at double that rate—and more, I dare say.”

“Zounds, ma’am, I protest I am ignorant of your meaning!” cried the baronet indignantly.

“I mean Raffett’s,” was Perdita’s reply.

Sir Francis changed color and countenance at that word, as if it were a spell that threatened his life. “You don’t mean ... I don’t know....” he began.

“Come, uncle, we are people of the world, are we not?” said the marquise, with a rather comical smile. “We have all made our little mistakes; I don’t mean to annihilate you; but I happen to know all about Raffett’s, and have a fancy to make you pay my dowry; not that I need the money, but because I dote upon abstract justice. Let us be good friends. ‘Birds in their little nests agree;’ and so should uncle and niece. You may come and pay your respects to me to-morrow, if you like—if you can control the impatience that was consuming you ten minutes ago! I have several things to talk over with you. I have taken a house in Red Lion Square for the present; London will not hear of me until next winter. I am only just become a disconsolate widow, and mean to behave accordingly.”

Sir Francis sighed, with the air of a man who resigns himself to the rigor of fate.

“And you are really going to remain in England?” he said.

“As long as it amuses me. Paris is dull without the emperor. Besides—but you shall hear the rest to-morrow.” She rose to go.

At this juncture Catnip tapped at the door and put in his head.

“A gentleman to see you, Sir Francis.”

“What is his name?”

“Mr. John Grant, Sir Francis.”

“Who?”

“Mr. John Grant, Sir Francis.”

“I don’t know him,” said the baronet. “However, let him enter.”

The Marquise Desmoines, going out, met Mr. John Grant in the passage, which was narrow. He ceremoniously made room for her to pass; glanced after her for a moment, and then went into the baronet’s room.