  They sent for the detective and confided the whole story to him, knowing that he was both clever and trustworthy. Mr. Landon was pleased when he heard that beautiful Floy was St. George’s chosen bride, and he was confident that he could find her again. But he did not judge it expedient to keep his promise to Floy any longer—the promise to shield Otho Maury. So he said to the anxious lover: “You have a dangerous rival.” “You mean Otho Maury?” “Yes.” “Floy hates the villain.” “Yes, and he knows it. That makes him all the more dangerous, because he is determined on revenge for her “That man will bear watching,” he said. “Then watch him for me, and if he harms one hair of my darling’s head, his life shall pay the forfeit!” cried the angry lover. It hurt him bitterly that he was not strong enough yet to join Landon in the search for his darling; but still, he had every confidence in the detective’s ability, so he prepared to wait with what patience he could for tidings. Meanwhile, his heart was filled with a great, glad joy at the news that she was living. She was living, his beautiful darling, and she loved him still! He knew it in his heart that she loved him still. Such love as theirs could not change or falter from its allegiance. Their hearts had met in a love that could not change or die. It was only a little misunderstanding that had come between them—a little misunderstanding brought about by pride—that could easily be explained away once they met again. “And I shall scold her just a little for doubting my faith,” he resolved, thinking that Floy’s belief in him should have been absolute even through absence and estrangement. “And yet I know, past all doubting, truly— A knowledge greater than grief can dim— I know as he loved, he will love me duly; Yea, better—e’en better than I love him. “And as I walk by the vast calm river, The awful river so dread to see, I say, ‘Thy breath and thy depth forever Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me.’” Meanwhile, the very thought that Floy was alive was like the very elixir of life to him. It did him more good than all the doctors in the world, with their pills and potions, could have accomplished. “I shall get well now; I feel stronger already!” he exclaimed, gladly. Several days passed without news from the detective, but he would not permit himself to be cast down. “She will soon be found, my little love, my blue-eyed darling! I will be patient; I will wait; for when I find her again, we shall be parted no more, save by death itself!” he exclaimed. They had talked it all over, and agreed that when Floy was found, St. George should persuade her to marry him at once. She was friendless, homeless, and the sooner she became one of the family, the better. There would be a nine-days’ wonder over the marriage, of course. But no matter; they were prepared to risk it, in their eagerness to make up to the young lover for all the pangs he had suffered. Alva made him welcome in the studio, where he spent more than half his time. The picture of Cupid, and the half-finished one of Maidenhood charmed him, and beguiled the long hours of waiting for Floy to be found. He was surprised one day to receive a letter from Maybelle Maury. She knew that he had come home at last, but she did not know that Floy had been hidden in his home all those weeks, so she hoped that the hapless girl had dropped out of all their lives forever. Perhaps she had committed suicide, after all? The very madness of love and longing drove Maybelle into a most unwomanly act. She fancied that by thrusting herself upon the young man’s notice she might reawaken in his heart the tenderness she had fancied was dawning there just before his meeting with Floy. She wrote a tender and pathetic letter, in which all her heart was revealed. “You are home at last,” she wrote. “Oh, how glad I am to know it! Need I tell you how cruelly I suffered when I heard that you were ill far, far across the sea? I longed for the wings of a bird to fly to you, and hover near you all unknown. Would I have been welcome if you had guessed I was there? Ah, St. George, once I believed I might be all in all to you, but a cloud came between us. It was the last day of the picnic, and I have never understood why you left us so strangely that night, “Maybelle.” She thought she had written a very crafty letter, and that he could not have the hardihood to doom her to despair. He would believe that Floy was lost to him forever, and be willing to go back to the old fancy. At any rate, she knew that St. George was too honorable to betray her secret to the world. Whether he accepted her love or not, he would never reveal to any one that she had proffered it to him unsought. He did not belong to the low type of manhood that goes about with coat-pockets bulging with silly love letters from silly women, reading them aloud to whoever will listen, and boasting of his conquests among the fair sex. Such a contemptible poltroon makes a high-minded person exclaim with Shakespeare: “Oh, for a whip, To lash the rascal naked through the world!” St George was the soul of white-handed honor. He burned Maybelle’s letter to ashes, and no soul ever heard from him that she had stooped from her pedestal of womanly reticence to write such words. And he wrote back, courteously: “I am sorry that you have misunderstood me, but your brother was right. I never had any serious intentions toward you, and thought it understood on both sides that we were engaged in a very harmless flirtation. Need I remind you that I never sought you, and that my brief visit at your home was as your brother’s friend, and at his repeated solicitation? “I thank you for the regard you have expressed for me, but I hope you will withdraw it and bestow the treasure of your love on one more able to reciprocate the gift. It may be best for me to own that my heart is irrevocably given elsewhere, and that I shall soon lead a bride to the altar.” And so with cruel kindness St. George strove to pluck the thorn of love from Maybelle’s heart. “For love is often a thorny flower, It breaks, and we bleed and smart; The blossom falls at the fairest, And the thorn runs into the heart.” The thorn had pierced deep in Maybelle’s heart, and it almost drove her mad, that letter. She sought Otho with it, and confessed the failure of her scheme. “He despises me. I can never—never win him. And “Let him go. There are others as well worth winning,” he said, angrily. “But how am I to win them?” she cried, bitterly. “Listen, Otho: do you know that papa will surely fail next week? The panic has ruined him, and we shall be beggars. Mamma told me all to-day, and she said she had hoped I would have caught a rich husband before now. I could not tell her how hard I have tried and failed. And how cruel it will be to be poor! I would rather die!” Otho looked at her closely. He had a pale, nervous look, and his eyes gleamed with a sullen fire. Leaning close to her, he whispered: “I have a plan to get money, Maybelle. Would you be willing to help me?” “What could I do?” “You would have to run a terrible risk, be sure of that. But my nerves are strong as steel, and yours, too, are they not?” “Yes—yes; I am no baby. Tell me your plan, Otho. “There is no danger for us, I am sure,” he repeated reassuringly to himself; then in low, whispered words he told her his story. |
|
