Man's perfidy

To Archibald Rushford, sitting ruminant in his room, staring absently out at the dunes and the sea, his paper forgotten, there entered presently Susie—a rather subdued Susie, as he noted from the corner of his eye—who drew up a chair very close to his and sat down and propped her chin in her hands and looked up at him.

It came to him in a flash of revelation that, did she have a mother, it was to her she would have gone at this moment, and not to him, and his eyes were a little misty as he looked down at her. That she and her sister should have grown, motherless, to such sweet, triumphant womanhood struck him in this instant as a kind of miracle—he had never thought of it before. He had taken their beauty, their wit, their sanity, as matters of course; he had never looked at them, clearly, from the outside; he had never quite thoroughly appreciated them. They had come this far, guideless, in the journey of life, and had done well and bravely; but now Susie, at least, had reached a point in the path where she needed help and counsel. She had come to him for it and he must give her the best he had.

"Dad," she began, a little tremulously, "would you mind so very much if I should m-marry and live in Europe? Of course," she added, hastily, to break the force of the blow, "you would come over very often and stay with us, and we would go over very often to see you."

"So he has spoken to you, has he?" laughed her father. "He told me he hadn't."

"Spoken! You know about it? Oh, dad, what do you mean?"

"I mean that a certain William Frederick Albert, of Markeld—I believe that's his name—or most of it—was in here a while ago and had the impudence to ask me to give you to him."

"Oh!" gasped Susie, with flaming cheeks, and sank back in her chair and I dare say cried a little; but her father didn't see her, for his own eyes were full of tears. The moment passed, the tears were wiped away—"Tell me about it, dad," she said.

"Tell you about it? I have told you!"

"About what he said. How did he look?"

"I dare say he looked about as he always does—a little pale around the gills, perhaps, as one usually does when one's performing an unpleasant duty!"

"Dad!"

"You don't mean to say you think he enjoyed it?"

"They—they always have to do it in Europe," faltered Sue.

"So I understand. But he said he hadn't told you."

"He hasn't—he hasn't said a word."

"Oh—you just sort of scented it in the air, I suppose—sort of saw it coming."

"Every woman can tell when a man is in l-love with her," explained Susie, with dignity, but boggling a little at the crucial word. "What did you tell him, dad?"

"I told him to take you and welcome."

"Now, dad, you mustn't tease!"

"Well, then, I told him he'd better see you first, since you're the party principally concerned."

"But you like him?"

"Immensely!"

Susie's arms were about his neck, and her cheek was against his cheek, and a pearly tear plashed down upon his shirt-front.

"Oh, you dear dad!" she cried. "I knew you'd like him!"

"He seems a pretty straight sort of fellow," observed her father, "he looks clean, and he talks like a man."

"And you won't mind so very much?"

"Not if it makes you happy, my dear. All girls have to marry sometime, I suppose. You'll be rather farther away from me than I could wish, but I dare say the Prince will let me come over and stay in his castle occasionally, and eat at the second table—"

"Let you! Why, he'll beg you to. Why couldn't you come over and live with us, dad?"

"And die of ennui in a year? Not much. I'll go home and make some more money for you—you see, I'd never figured on having to finance a Princess!"

"Dad," very softly.

"Well, what?"

"Do you know, I don't believe he suspects I'm to have any money."

"Neither do I. That's one thing I like about him."

"But you really might come and live with us, dad."

"Oh, no, I mightn't. Besides, there's Nell—What!" he cried, interpreting the sudden pressure of her arms, "you don't mean that she's gone and done it, too!"

"I don't know, dad, but Lord Vernon has been very attentive to her. She hasn't told me anything; I'm only guessing."

Her father gave a long, low whistle.

"Well!" he said. "You've been hustling things up with a vengeance, I must say! There must be something in the atmosphere. It'll be a little lonely in that big New York house without you, Susie."

"I know it will, dear dad. And if you say the word, I won't leave you—not for a long, long time. It will be a long time anyway, you know—a year, at least—there will be so much to do."

"And a year is quite long enough to keep two lovers apart. Youth goes faster than you think, my dear. No, no; it'll be all right, Susie. You don't suppose I'm as selfish as all that!"

"No, dad; that's just what I'm afraid of; you're not selfish enough.
It's I who am selfish."

"Nonsense! Everybody in this world has a right to happiness, Susie; why, that's one of the foundation-stones of the Declaration of Independence. And, I take it, a woman's great chance of happiness is in marrying the man she loves. That's what every woman has a right to do, and nobody has the right to raise a finger to prevent her. I'll give you to Markeld with a clear conscience, my dear, when the time comes, and bless you both. That is, if you really love him."

"Oh, dad!" she cried and hid her face; there is one light in the eyes which none but a lover may see!

"Quite sure?" he persisted.

"Quite sure!" she said, softly.

"You're sure you're not jumping in the dark; it isn't the Prince you're in love with?"

"No, dad; it's the man. That seems an awfully bold thing for a girl to say, doesn't it? But he—he's such a nice fellow!"

"Yes, I believe he is," agreed her father.

"He's been telling me about himself, you know; about what he wants to do in the world," added Susie, looking up at him.

"Has he?" and her father laughed. "The same old game—effective as ever!
We all do it—why, I remember, Susie—"

He stopped suddenly, with a little tremor in his voice.

"Yes, dad," very softly.

She was leaning forward on his knee, looking up at him. He put his arm around her and drew her close.

"You're like your mother, Susie," was all he dared trust himself to say, his arms tight around her.

They sat so a moment, lost in memory, until a knock at the door brought
Susie to her feet. A page handed in a little package.

"For Mademoiselle Rushford," he said.

"Thank you," said Susie, and closed the door. "For me?" she repeated, as she turned back into the room. "What do you suppose it is?"

"The quickest way to find out is to open it, my dear," suggested her father, drily.

Susie ripped the paper off in an instant, and disclosed a little book bound in flexible red leather.

"'Who's Who,'" she read, looking at the title, and just then a card fell out. She stooped and picked it up. "Why, it's from that odious French detective! Listen, dad—'With the compliments of M. AndrÉ Tellier, who is sure of Mademoiselle Rushford's gratitude.'"

"Send it back to him," said her father. "Or here, give it to me—I'll go down and smash his face with it. I ought to have kicked him out of the house yesterday—I'd have done it but for Pelletan."

"Wait a minute, dad; here's a page turned down. Maybe there's something he wanted me to see. Oh, yes; it's about Lord Vernon—he meant the book for Nell—I'll call her," and she started toward the open door into the inner room.

"Wait," said her father, instantly. "What about Vernon? Read it."

She stopped, struck by the tone of his voice.

"What do you mean, dad?" she asked, paling a little. "Surely, you don't mean—"

"Read it," he repeated, sternly.

She opened the book with hands suddenly tremulous.

"'Vernon, fifth earl of (created 1703),'" she read, in a low voice. "'George Henry Augustus Gardner, K. G., K. T., P. C., F. R. S., F. S. A.; baronet 1628; Viscount Vernon, Baron Dalberry, 1710; Viscount Cranford, 1712; Baron Vernon, 1829; trustee of Imperial Institute; born tenth of May, 1859; son of Lord Henry Augustus Gardner, M. P., son of fourth Earl and Mary, daughter of Richard Chaloner, Boston, U. S. A.; married, Catherine—'"

"Married!" cried her father, and then restrained himself, though his face turned crimson. "But go on—perhaps she's dead."

"No, she isn't dead!" said Sue, reading a line or two farther. Then she closed the book. "I don't understand," she said, dazedly. "I can't understand. He didn't seem that kind of man at all, dad!"

"No," said a hoarse voice from the door. "No, he didn't."

"Nell! Nellie dear!" cried Sue, and in an instant her arms were about her.

"It—it doesn't matter," said Nell, steadying herself against the door, striving to still a sudden convulsive shuddering. "I was a f-fool to think he—he cared. Of course he—he was only amusing himself!" and then her self-control suddenly gave way, and her head fell forward upon her sister's shoulder. But only for a moment; that high queenliness was not on the surface, merely, but in the heart, as well. "I think I'm getting tired of Weet-sur-Mer, dad," she said, quite steadily, with a wan little smile. "I seem to be hungering for New York again; wouldn't you like to go home?"

"We'll go, of course, at once, dad," commanded Sue. "That's the only thing to do. Oh!" she cried, her eyes flashing, "I could murder such a man—cut him to pieces, inch by inch—and gloat over the deed!"

Rushford was very pale and his hands were trembling a little as he started for the door.

"Yes, I'll order the trunks packed," he said, incoherently. "I'll have to hurry—I'll try to—"

Something in his voice caught Susie's ear; she turned her head and looked at him.

"Dad!" she called.

He paused with his hand on the knob.

"Dad, come here."

He came back reluctantly.

"We're to go away quietly, you know, without telling any one; there's to be no fuss—we couldn't bear that—"

A tap on the door interrupted her. Rushford opened it. A man stood without, a German with complexion like mahogany. He bowed silently and handed in a note. Rushford took it and closed the door.

"It's from Markeld," he said, looking at the crest; "thought he hadn't made his case quite emphatic enough, I guess," and he glanced at Susie's blushing face and smiled. "Of course, we'll have to tell him," he added, as he tore open the envelope and unfolded the sheet of paper it contained. "He has a sort of right—"

He stopped.

Susie saw his face turn gray again…. A great fear fell upon her heart—a cold, still fear that gripped her and left her shivering.

"What is it, dad?" she asked quietly, through clenched teeth.

"Nothing," answered her father, looking at her vaguely. "It's nothing.
It's—it's merely a matter of business, Susie."

"Come, dad," she said, still quietly, "don't try to deceive me. Tell me—no matter what it is, I can bear it. Do you think I haven't any pluck, dad?"

"Yes, I know you've got pluck, Susie," he said. "We've simply made a mistake, my dear, in believing these blackguards honourable men. Let's think no more about them."

"Read what he says, dad."

He hesitated still, but her eyes compelled him, and he read:

"'The Prince of Markeld begs to withdraw his proposal for the hand of
Miss Rushford.'"

"And that is all?"

"That is all, Susie."

"It couldn't be!" she said, a little hoarsely. "His aunt is here—Monsieur Pelletan told me—and she has pointed out to him the folly of it! I was silly to think it could come true! But, oh—" and she dropped sobbing into a chair.

Her father stood for a moment watching the heaving shoulders. Then, with a face hard as iron, he opened the door and closed it softly behind him.