May Leonard

"We know nothing of to-morrow: our business is to be good and happy to-day."

—Sidney Smith.

A day in December, two years previous to the beginning of my story.

"Dolores, uncle Dick is going into the town; do you care to go?"

Dolores is reading a long home letter from Zoe, full to the very edges, beside being crossed and recrossed with all the latest sayings, doings, and prospective to be done, ending up with the ardent wish and longing to be with her darling Dolores, in beautiful, bright, sunny Italy.

"I am so sorry, Blondine, but I must write to father this morning; so, you see, to go would be impossible."

Beautiful Blondine Gray, a distant cousin of the Litchfields, opens her brown eyes in horrified astonishment.

"Why, my dear, bury yourself in the house to write a letter on such a day as this! Come, don't talk so nonsensical; get your largest umbrella, for the sun is scorching. You can write this afternoon."

But no persuasions, either on the part of Blondine or uncle Dick, can move her, and they leave her in disgust. She watches them go down the road. Blondine walks with the ease, grace and quietness of a born native of Tyrol. Dolores admires Blondine's style of walking very much; it is a pleasure just to watch her movements; so different from uncle Dick's roll. A regular sailor's swing and roll of a walk did uncle Dick Gray possess. He was major in the army, and of course very portly, as majors are somehow, generally. But he had retired some years since with high honors. Blondine, his brother's child, being left an orphan, he considered it his duty to provide her a home; so before settling down to house-keeping, a trip abroad was considered just the nicest idea. Blondine was sick of school, so uncle Dick sent for Dolores to go with them on their journey.

After reading Zoe's letter over twice, to make sure there was nothing skipped, Dolores takes her pen, ink and paper out on the piazza. The day is like June; the waves, dancing and sparkling in the sunlight, are as blue as the heavens above them. The little boats rock from side to side as they float, now in, now out, from their moorings, and far out a white sail glistens in the glimmering sunlight. On shore children, dark eyed, red lipped little rascals, are selling flowers—roses and orange blossoms, with quantities of violets. Little groups are sitting or loitering about, their chief object seemingly to see who can produce the largest and gayest parasol. Dolores takes in all the details of the surroundings. Probably uncle Dick and Blondine are having some fun in town; they will sit on the promenade, after they have made their purchases, and rest themselves. They would be back by afternoon sometime; then Dolores would go with them to the Casino, see the people and hear the band. Suddenly her attention is attracted by a child, somewhere near, crying. There was never an animal or child yet that Dolores failed to sympathise with; now she looked about for the object of her awakened feelings.

"Don't go, mamma; don't go an' leave Roy alone."

A carriage is standing at the door, and a tall, handsome woman is getting in, a woman with a proud, cold face. A tiny boy, in a white frilled dress, is vainly trying to get away from the nurse girl, who is in her turn vainly trying to keep him out of sight, until his mother gets away.

"Take the child away, Hester, and do try to stop that terrible crying. Gracious! what a pest some children are." This is addressed to the young lady who comes down the broad steps to take her place by her friend's side. Mrs. St. James, with Rea Severn, are going to spend the day at Villafranche, and no foolish whim of a child's was going to interfere with their pleasure.

The carriage goes off, and Dolores tries her charms on the little man left behind. She goes over and talks to him; he is instantly fascinated by the lovely lady, consents to sit on her lap, listens to the ticking of her watch, and finally falls asleep, with his dark curly head pillowed on the train of Dolores' dress. She wrote her home letter, and did not forget to mention her latest gentleman admirer.

Walking back and forth, in one of the garden avenues opposite, there is a gentleman who has been a witness of all that has taken place; a tall fair man, broad shouldered, and with a noble face—a face possessed of everything good, kind and generous—a thorough gentleman. There are a great many "men" in the world, some great, some small, but the "gentlemen," of them it is to be regretted there are too few. Sir Barry Traleigh was here at Nice on business. He was very wealthy, but he was always employed by his business affairs. He believed in a man, whether rich or poor, having something with which to occupy his mind. Not an idle life did Sir Barry, the genial owner of Castle Racquette, beside many broad acres of land, lead. Castle Racquette was one of the finest estates in all Glengarry, Scotland, and very pardonable was the pride which Sir Barry entertained for his ancient, luxurious home. Now as the sun steals slyly under the large Panama hat and turns his short pointed beard, worn after the style of a Venetian, to a golden shade, Sir Barry is a very fine specimen of a nineteenth century Scotchman. From his promenade he watches Dolores; and Dolores, did she know who was watching her? Why certainly not. Well then, how was it a few minutes afterward, as Sir Barry came past the piazza, Dolores looked up, and their eyes met, Sir Barry's full of respectful admiration; why did Dolores blush and droop her eyes? It is truly wonderful how much can be said in a look. The next instant Dolores is ready to call herself a silly simpleton. What does she know of this man, that she should care to know who he was? Probably she would never lay eyes on him again. And yet Dolores could not help acknowledging, rather reluctantly to her own conscience, that a handsomer man she had never seen.

Presently little Roy wakes up, and Dolores and he have dinner brought up to Dolores' charming parlor, and all his mother's unkind neglect is forgotten. They have a right royal feast; and when Hester comes to take him, Roy goes, with the promise of again taking luncheon with his pretty Dolly. To all his nurse's entreaties to call Miss Litchfield by her proper name he refused; to him she was his pretty, kind Dolly; so Dolores, with a kiss, tells him laughingly he shall call her whatever he pleases, and the child goes for his walk perfectly satisfied.

"Come girls, come, don't be all day fixing yourselves; come on. Hello! there is that—no, it can't be—Traleigh!"

Uncle Dick, issuing forth on the way to the Casino, adjusts his gold eye-glass quickly, and forgets for the moment his anger at Dolores and Blondine, who hurry after him, secretly praying that their veils are on all right, for of all the fussy men in the world uncle Dick is the fussiest.

"Yes, but it is Traleigh in the flesh, and more than delighted to see Major Gray."

Dolores' handsome man of the morning is shaking uncle Dick's hand heartily. And uncle Dick, delighted to see his friend, turns and calls in his usual quick, blustering fashion—

"Say, girls, this is Traleigh, that I have told you so much about. Traleigh, those are the girls who have been toting me around from pillar to post for the last year or more. We are going to the Casino, so come on, and go with us. But there is a fellow over there I must speak to; you all go on, and I will catch up with you."

Uncle Dick dives through the crowd of people, leaving Sir Barry to make himself agreeable to the ladies. It is evident he has heard of them before, as each girl was called by her proper name. Dolores remembers this morning, and hopes he did not see her make a fool of herself over little Roy. Sir Barry is pleased to know the young lady whose looks he admired so much. As for Blondine—well, Blondine was always pleased to make herself pleasant to no matter whom she was with, from the humblest to the highest; it was always the same with her. She rather resents Dolores' cold, commonplace answers, and secretly wonders what has come over gentle, merry Dolores. Well, when they get back to the hotel she will give Miss Litchfield a bit of her mind.

The Promenade des Anglais is visited, and Blondine goes in raptures over the magnificent horses, the jaunty equipages, and elegant toilettes. The Casino is packed; they espy uncle Dick frantically indicating with his arm that, as the crush is so great, he cannot get to them now, but will get in their vicinity as soon as it is possible. Sir Barry does his best to do his duty toward the two ladies thrown upon his tender mercies. He and Blondine talk, while Dolores listens to the music of the band, for music in Italy is worth listening to.

"Dolores, for Heaven's sake let us walk."

Blondine has nudged Miss Litchfield several times, but no notice being paid to her efforts, she has been obliged to speak. Blondine declares something ails her foot, a cramp, or asleep, or something, she cannot just decide which. Sir Barry clears the way, and they go, to be presently met by uncle Dick and two ladies. Sir Barry lifts his hat courteously as uncle Dick presents Mrs. St. James and Miss Severn. Mrs. St. James says they were caught in a shower on the way to Villafranche, and when they had hurried back found the sun shining most gloriously. Blondine bows and smiles—when does Blondine not smile?—and Dolores? Dolores deliberately turns her back; of course it is most unpardonably rude. Uncle Dick never notices anything wrong, he never does, poor deluded man, but goes on talking about one thing, then another. Blondine is shocked; the warm blood surges up in her face, covering her ears and throat. It is the first time she has ever had cause to feel ashamed of pretty, gentle Dolores. Poor Blondine ponders and worries; what has come over Dolores? she must certainly be ill to act so strangely. Sir Barry looks surprised as well as pained, but does his best to make things pass off as smoothly as possible. The walk back to the hotel was anything but pleasant. If there had been no gentlemen present Rea Severn would have been sullen or sulky; her manner now, however, was something betwixt and between the two. Mrs. St. James received the "direct cut" from Miss Litchfield with cool self-possession and indifference. If she noticed the insult offered to her she made no sign. A clever nineteenth century woman was Arial St. James.