It was a beautiful morning, warmer than May mornings usually are in Boston. But the warm sunshine that came into the drawing-room where Katie Archdale was seated was unheeded. Katie was still at her uncle's and that morning, as she had been very many mornings of late, was much occupied with a visitor who sat on the sofa beside her with an assumption of privilege which his diffident air at times failed to carry out well.

"Are you quite sure, Lord Bulchester?" she asked. And her voice had a touch of tremulousness, so inspiring to lovers.

"Sure? Am I sure?" he asked, his little figure expanding in his earnestness, his face aglow with an emotion which gave dignity to his plain features. "Sure that I love you?" he repeated wonderingly. "How could anybody help it?"

"Then its not any especial discernment in you?" Her tones had the softness of a coquetry about to lose itself in a glad submission to a power higher than its own.

"No," he sighed. "And, yet, it is some special discernment. For, if not, why should I love you better than anyone else does?"

"Do you?" The arch glance softened to suit his mood, half bewildered him with ecstasy. To the music of them the drawing-room seemed to heighten and broaden before his eyes, and to lengthen out into vistas of the halls and parks of his own beautiful home, Lyburg Chase, and through them all, Katie moved, and gave them a new charm. And, then, he seemed to be in different places on the Continent, among the Swiss Mountains, beside the Italian lakes, in gay Paris, and every where Katie moved by his side, and gave new life to the familiar scenes.

"Give me my answer to-day," he cried; "for to-day my treasure, you are sure of yourself, to-day you know that you love me."

Katie's face changed, as the sky changes when a rift of blue that promised a smiling day is swallowed up again in the midst of uncertain weather; whatever softness lingered was veiled by doubt. "I don't know," she said hesitatingly, "I'm not sure yet. I can't tell. Must you have your answer to-day?" And she looked at him half defiantly. An expression of bitter disappointment swept over Bulchester's face and seemed actually to affect his whole personality, for he appeared to shrink into himself until there was less of him. "You see," Katie went on, "between you I am driven, I am tossed; I don't even know what I feel. How can I? Poor Stephen, you know, has loved me all my life, and one does not easily forget that, Lord Bulchester. He does have a claim, you know."

"Only your preference has any claim," he answered in a voice of entreaty.

"Yes," she said, and sighed. The assent and the sigh completely puzzled him. Were they for himself, or for Stephen Archdale? Had she already chosen without being willing to speak, or was she still hesitating? In either case, the decision was equally momentous, the only question was of lengthening or shortening the suspense of waiting for it.

"Then take your time," he answered drearily, "and I will leave you, I will go and hide my impatience. You must not be tortured."

"No," returned the girl with a low sigh. At that instant she turned her face away from him toward the window, a knock at the door being the ostensible reason. But if anyone had seen the smile with which she received the assurance that she was not to be tortured, he would have believed that there was no imminent danger of it. Had it been a question of torturing,—that was another thing. When she turned a grave face toward Lord Bulchester again he had risen. "No, No," she cried. "Don't go, sit down, I would rather have you here, for a time at least. It's Elizabeth,—Mistress Royal." Her tones threw the listener from dreariness into despair. A moment since he thought he had her assurance that his own claims were seriously considered. And, now, what could give her manner this nervousness, but the fact that her attachment to Archdale was still in force? For Bulchester had learned from her that since her arrested wedding Elizabeth had always been associated in her mind with Stephen. She was so in his own also, for this reason, and another. The young man sat down again. It was not consistent with his feelings, nor his knowledge of affairs, and, still less, with his character to perceive that Katie's conscience troubled her a little.

Elizabeth had always found likable things in Lord Bulchester: and although she had been indignant at his taking advantage of the position of affairs to try to win Katie, she had owned to herself that he was not responsible for such position, and ought not to have been expected to feel about as she did. And now that Katie and Stephen Archdale were once more united, Elizabeth felt a deep pity for Bulchester, and believed that he was behaving well in being manly enough to have won Katie's respect and friendship. No shadow of doubt of her friend's loyalty to Stephen crossed her mind. And nothing gave her warning that out of this morning visit in which there would be said and done no single thing that would seem at the time of any consequence, would come results that would influence her life.

The conversation, after ranging about a little turned upon the quiet that had settled down upon the city, now that the excitement of fitting out the expedition was over. Elizabeth said that it seemed to her the hush of anxiety and expectation, for it was felt that the fate of the country hung upon the issue. Whether New England were still English in government or became French provinces depended more upon the fate of Louisburg than anybody liked to confess.

"I don't believe there's any danger of our being French provinces," said Katie.

"I ought to have put it that we fight the battle there or in our own home," said Elizabeth. Then as they went on to speak of the soldiers, she said suddenly to Bulchester: "What does your lordship do without Mr. Edmonson?" The latter shifted his foot on the floor uneasily.

"I suppose you think that I ought to have gone too," he said half in apology, "but—," He looked at Katie and his face brightened: she was not a woman to blame him because his love for her had kept him at home. He did not linger upon the other part of the truth, that he was not fond of war in any event. "I have helped in my small way," he said. "Don't believe me quite without patriotism." Elizabeth looked surprised.

"I did not mean that at all," she answered. "I was not thinking of it, but only that you had been so much with Mr. Edmonson, that you must miss him."

"I don't know," answered Bulchester. After a moment's hesitation he added, "I see you look surprised: the intimacy between us seemed to you close?"

"Why, yes, it did," assented Elizabeth, "very close. But I don't see why I should say so, or how it should be any affair of mine."

Bulchester looked uncomfortable. "All the same," he answered, "you are judging me, and thinking me disloyal, and that it is a strange time to forget one's friendship when the friend has gone to peril life for his country."

"Perhaps something like that did come to me," confessed Elizabeth.

"You can't judge," pursued the other eagerly, speaking to Elizabeth, but thinking of the impression that this might be making upon Katie. "There are things I cannot explain, things that have made me draw away from Edmonson. It is not because he has gone to the war and I have found reason to stay at home. There are impressions that come sometimes like dreams, you can't put them into words. But without being able to do that, you are sure certain things are so. No, not sure." He stopped again. It was impossible to explain.

"Don't stop there," cried Katie. "How tantalizing. Either you should not have begun, or you ought to go on. You must," she insisted with a gesture of impatience, while her eyes met his with a smile that always conquered him.

"I've nothing to say,—that is, there is nothing I can say. One doesn't betray one's friends. But Edmonson—" He halted again.

"Yes, but Mr. Edmonson," she repeated, "is a delightful man when one is on a frolic. What else about him?"

"Oh—nothing."

The girl frowned. "Very well," she said. "Everybody trusts Mistress Royal. I understand it is I who am unworthy of your confidence. As you please."

"You!" he cried. "You unworthy of my confidence!" There was consternation in his tones. "You?" he repeated, looking at her helplessly. The idea was too much for him.

"Certainly. Or you would at least tell us what you mean about Mr. Edmonson, even if your former friendship for him—that is supposing it gone now—prevented you from going into details." She spoke earnestly and wondered as she did so why she had never felt any curiosity before as to the break of the intimacy between Edmonson and his friend, for, evidently, there had been a coolness, something more than mere separation. As Elizabeth sat looking at his perturbed face, an old legend crossed her mind. "Mr. Edmonson has lost his shadow," she thought; and it seemed ominous to her.

"There are no details," answered the earl. "Nothing has happened. If you imagine I have quarrelled with him, you are mistaken. Nothing of the sort. There were reasons, as I have said, to keep me at home, and he had no claim upon me to accompany him. Besides, there's a something, that as I said, I can't put into words, and I may be entirely wrong. But Edmonson is a terrible fellow at times. One day he—." Then Bulchester stopped abruptly, and began a new sentence. "I know nothing," he said. "I have nothing to tell, only I fear, because if he wants anything, he must have it through every obstacle. When he takes the bits between his teeth, Heaven only knows where he will bring up, and Heaven hasn't much to do with the direction of his running, I imagine. Sometimes one would rather not ride behind him." As he finished, his eyes were on Elizabeth's face, and it seemed as if he were speaking especially for her. But in a moment as they met hers full of inquiry, he dropped them and looked disturbed.

"You are frightfully mysterious," cried Katie.

"Not at all," he entreated. "There is no mystery anywhere. I never said anything about mysteries. Please don't think I spoke of such a thing."

"Yes, you are very mysterious," she insisted. "Nobody can help seeing that you know evil of your friend, and don't want to tell it. I dare say it's to your credit. But, all the same, it's tantalizing."

Not even her commendation could keep a sharp anxiety from showing itself on Bulchester's face. "I have said nothing," he answered, "it all might happen and he have no concern in it—, I mean," he caught himself back with a startled look and then went on with an assumption of coolness, "I mean exactly what I say, Mistress Archdale, simply that Edmonson does not please me so much as he did before I saw better people. But I assure you that this has no connection with any special thing that he has done."

"Or may do?" asked Elizabeth.

"Or that I believe he will do," he answered resolutely. But it was after an instant's hesitation which was not lost upon one of his listeners who sat watching him gravely, and in a moment as if uttering her thought aloud, said,

"That is new; he used to please you entirely."

Bulchester fidgetted, and glanced at Katie who had turned toward the speaker. There was no need, he thought, of bringing out his past infatuation so plainly. In the light of a new one, it looked absurd enough to him not to want to have it paraded before one of his present companions at least. But Elizabeth had had no idea of parading his absurdities; for when he said apologetically that one learned in time to regulate his enthusiasms, she looked at him with surprise, as if roused, and answered that the ability to be a good friend was the last thing to need apology. Then she sat busy with her own thoughts.

"What, the mischief, is she after?" thought the young man watching her as Katie talked, and there must have been strong reason that could have diverted his mind in any degree from Katie. "Is it possible she has struck my uncanny suspicion? If she has, she's cool about it. No, it's impossible; I've buried it fathoms deep. Nobody could find it. It's too evil a suspicion, too satanical, ever to be brought to light. I wish to Heaven, though, I had never run across it, it makes me horribly uncomfortable." Then he turned to Katie, but soon his thoughts were running upon Elizabeth again. "She's one of those people," he mused, "that you think don't notice anything, and all at once she'll score a hit that the best players would be proud of. I can't make her out. But I hardly think Edmonson would have everything quite his own way. Pity he can't try it. I'd like to see it working. And perhaps some day—." So, he tried to put away from him a suggestion, which, dwelt upon, gave him a sense of personal guilt, because, only supposing this thing came that Edmonson had hinted at, it would be an advantage to himself. He shivered at the suggestion; there was no such purpose in reality, he was sure of it. Edmonson only talked wildly as he had a way of doing. The very thought seemed a crime to Bulchester. If he really believed, he ought to speak. But he did not believe, and he could hardly denounce his friend on a vagary. Still, he was troubled by Elizabeth's evident pondering, and was glad to have the conversation turned into any channel that would sweep out thoughts of Edmonson from their minds.

As this was done and he turned fully to Katie again, a new mood, the effect of her sudden indifference, came over him. A few moments ago she had been almost fond, now she was languidly polite. Hope faded away from all points of his horizon. An easterly mist of doubt was creeping over him. His egotism at its height was only a mild satisfaction in his social impregnability and was readily overpowered by the recollection of personal defects to which he was acutely alive. In the atmosphere of Katie's coolness, he forgot his earldom and thought disconsolately of his nose. He was disconcerted, and after a few embarrassed words took his leave. It never occurred to him as a consolation that his tones and glances were growing a little too loverlike to be safely on exhibition before Elizabeth who had not noticed them in the moments that Bulchester had forgotten his caution, but who, as Katie knew, might wake up to the fact at any glance. Elizabeth bade him farewell kindly, she pitied his disappointment, and thought that he bore it well. But as she watched his half-timorous movements, she believed that even had her own marriage ceremony turned out to be a reality. Lord Bulchester would have had no chance with a girl who had been loved by Stephen Archdale whose wooing was as full of intrepidity as his other acts.

"Well! What are you thinking of?" asked Katie meeting her earnest gaze.

"Do you want me to tell you?"

"Yes."

"I was wondering why you tortured him. Why don't you send him away at once, and forever?"

Katie laughed unaimiably. "He seems to like the torturing," she said. Then she looked at Elizabeth in a teasing way. "Some girls would prefer him to Stephen, you know," she added.

"You mean because he has a title? You can't think of any other reason."

"Oh, of course I don't, my Archdale champion. How strange that you trust me so little, Elizabeth!"

"Trust you so little, Katie? Why, if any other girl did as you are doing, I should say she was playing false with her betrothed, and meant to throw him over. I never imagine such a thing of you. I only feel that you are very cruel to Lord Bulchester."

Katie cast down her eyes for a moment. "Some things are beyond our control," she answered.

"Not things like these," said Elizabeth. "Since you have suffered yourself, I don't understand why you want to make other people suffer."

"Don't you?" returned the girl. "That's just the reason, I suppose. Why should I be alone? But I shall be done with playing by and by, Elizabeth."

"Yes, I know, Katie," the girl answered. "I trust you."

Again Katie looked down for a moment, looked up again, this time into the face of her friend, and sighed lightly. "Don't think me better than I am, Betsey," she implored, the dimples about her mouth effectually counteracting the pathos of her tones. And at the words she put up her lips with a childlike air to her companion. Elizabeth's arms folded impulsively about her, and held her for a moment in an embrace that seemed at once to guard, and caress, and brood over her. Then she drew away, and sat beside her with a quietness that seemed like a wish to make her sudden evidence of strong feeling forgotten.

"Betsey, my dear," said Katie softly, "you're so good. I have seemed different to you sometimes. You must not expect me to be like you."

"I should not have done half so well," said Elizabeth hastily.

Katie smiled. After this they sat and talked some time longer; it was the first free interview that they had had since their estrangement was over, and Elizabeth's voice had a happy ring in it. After a time, Katie began to give an account of some gathering at which she had been present. At the sound of Lord Bulchester's name, among the guests, Elizabeth's attention wandered. She began to think of the young's man's strange reticence respecting Edmonson, and evident uneasiness about something connected with him. Why were they not friends still? Was it on account of this unknown something? All at once the light of conviction flashed over her face. She perceived at least one cause of the separation. Bulchester's attentions to Katie were distasteful to Edmonson, for he wanted Katie to marry Stephen Archdale, because he feared lest Elizabeth should grow fond of him, lest Stephen should come to find a fortune convenient. Elizabeth's unaided perceptions would never have reached this point; but in Edmonson's anger at her second refusal of him he had dared to intimate such a thing, so darkly, to be sure, that she had not seen fit to understand him, but plainly enough to throw light upon the estrangement of the two men. "Distasteful," was a light word to use in speaking of anything that Edmonson did not like; his feelings were so strong that he seemed always ready to be vindictive. Her feeling toward him for this intimation had been anger which had cooled into contempt of a nature like his, ready to find baseness everywhere. The suggestion was no reproach to her, for she had had no thoughts of disloyalty to Katie. As she sat there still seeming to listen, suddenly, it seemed to her, for she could not trace its coming, a picture rose before her with the vividness of reality. She saw Archdale and Edmonson standing together on the deck of the same vessel bound upon the same errand, always together; and she remembered Edmonson' muttered words, and his face dark with passion over all its fairness.

She went home full of secret trouble, trouble too vague for utterance. Besides what she knew and felt there had been something else that she had not got at, and that disturbed Lord Bulchester. The rest of the day she was more or less abstracted, and went to bed with her mind full of indistinct images brooded over by that vague trouble, the very stuff of which dreams are made. And more than this, out of which the brain in the unconscious cerebration of sleep, sometimes, drawing all the tangled threads into order, weaves from them a web on which is pictured the truth.

5 (return)
Copyright, 1884, by Frances C. Sparhawk.