Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 21, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 June 1894 — UNITED AT LAST [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

UNITED AT LAST

MISS M E BRADDON

CHAPTER XIII. •AT MEBLIN’g VEIT THE WILT VIVIEN LAY. ” AU went merrily at Dave nan t during the brief days of November and December, though the master of the house was not without his burden of secret cark and care. That magnificent coal and iron producing estate in the north had not been yielding quite so much fiard cash as its owner expected from t lately. Strikes and tradeunionism had told upon Mr. Sinclair’s income. The coal market had fluctuated awkwardly. Belgium had been tapping the demand for iron. There was plenty of money coming in, of course, from Gilbert’s large possessions; but unfortunately there was also a great deal going out The Newmarket stables bad cost a small fortune, the Newmarket horses had been unlucky, and Gilbert s book for the last three or four seasons had been a decided failure. “The fact is, Wyatt,” he remarked, to that confidential adviser, one dull afternoon, over a tete-a-tete game at billiards, “I’m spending too much money.” “Have you only just found that out?” asked the solicitor, with a calm sneer. “The purchase of this confounded place took too much of my capital, and these strikes and lock-outs coming on the top of it " “Not to mention your vicious habit of plunging,” remarked Mr. Wyatt, parenthetically, taking a careful aim at the distant red. “Have very nearly stumped me.” “Why not sell Davenant? You don’t want such a big barracks of a place, and—Mrs. Sinclair isn’t happy here.” “No," said Gilbert, with a smothered oath; “the associations are too tender.” “I could get you a purchaser to-mor-row. ” “Yes, at a dead loss, no doubt. You fellows live by buying and selling, and you don’t care how much your client loses by a transaction that brings grist to your mill.” “I can get you the money you gave for Davenant, timber and all.” “Who’s your purchaser?” “I’d rather not mention his name yet awhile. He is a quiet party and wouldn't like to be talked about.” “I understand. Some city cad ’%ho has made his money in the zoological line.” “How zoological?" “Bulling and bearing. Well, if those beastly colliers hold out much longer, he may have Davenant and welcome. But he must take my new furniture at a valuation. I’ve paid no end of money for it." “What did you do with the old Jacobean oak?” “Oh, the old sticks are put away somewhere, I believe, in lofts and lum-ber-rooms and servants’ bedrooms.” i Some of Mr. Sinclair’s other guests dropped into the billiard-room at this juncture, and there was no more said about the sale of Davenant. Nobody—not even his worst enemy, and no doubt among his numerous friends he had several foes—could deny Mr. Wyatt’s merits as a guest in a country house. He was just the kind of man to keep things going—a pastmaster in all social accomplishments—and Gilbert Sinclair graciously allowed him to takp the burden of amusing everybody upon his shoulders, while the master of the house went his own way, and hunted or shot at his own plea-ure. Mr. Sinclair liked to fill his house with people, but he had no idea of sacrificing his own inclination to their en.ertainment; he thought he did quite enough for them in giving them what he elegantly called “the run of their teeth. ” and the free use of his second-rate hunters.

On Mr. Wyatt, therefore, devolved the duty of keeping things going—devising the day’s amusements, protecting the ladies of the party from the selfishness of neglectful and unappreciative mankind, arranging picnic lunchcheons in k jepers’ lodge?, at which toe fair sex might assist, finding safe mounts for those aspiring damsels who wanted to ride to hounds, planning private theatricals, and stimulating the musical members of the society to the performance of part songs in a busi-ness-like and creditable manner. He had done all these things last winter and the winter before, but on those occasions he had been aided in his task. Constance Sinclair had given him her hearty co-operation. She had played her part of hostess with grace and spirit—had allowed no cloud of hought or memory to obscure the brightness of the present moment. She had given herself up, heart and soul, to the duties of her position, and her friends had believed her to be the happiest of women, as well as the most fortunate. To seem thus had cost her many an effort, but she had deemed this one of her obligations as Gilbert Sinclair's wife. Now all was changed. Her husband had been obeyed; but that obedience was all which Constance Sinclair’s sense of duty could now compel She sat like a beautiful statue at the head of her husband s table, she moved about among her guests with as little part in their pleasure and amusement as if she had been a picture cn the wall—courteous to all, but familiar with none, she seemed to live apart from her surroundings—a strange and silent life, whose veil cf shadow even sympathy failed to penetrate. Mrs. Millamount, not unkindly, despite her frivolity, had tried to get Constance to talk of her bereavement, but the wounded heart was galled by the gentlest touch. “It's very kind of you,” she said, divining her friend's motive, “but I d rather not talk of her. Nothing can ever lessen my grief, and I like best to keep it quiet to myself.” “How you must hate us all for being here!” Sjid Mrs. Miilamcunt, moved with compunction at the incongruity between the houseful of company and the mother's de olate heart. “It seems quite abominable for us to be thinking of nothing but pleasure while you bear your burden alone.” “Nobody could divide it with me," answered Constance, gently. “Pray do not trouble yourself about my sor-

rowa If 1 could hide them better, I would. Gilbert likes to be surrounded with pleasant faces, and I am very glad that he should be pleased.” “She’s quite too good to live,” remarked the sprightly Mrs. Millamount to her friend, Lady Loveall, that evening. “But do you know that I m afraid there’s something a little wrong here, ” and Flora Millamount touched her ivory forehead suggestively with the tip of her Wateau fan. James Wyatt was not a sportsman. He was an excellent judge of a horse, rode well, and knew as much about guns as the men who were continually handling them, but he neither shot nor hunted, and he had never been known to speculate upon the turf. These things were for his clients —a very pretty way of running through handsome fortunes and bringing their owners to the Jews —not for him. He could take his amusement out of other men’s follies and remain wise himself. Life to him was an agreeable and instructive spectacle, which he assisted at as oomfortably as he heard “Don Giovanni* from his stall in the third row; and when the foul fiend of insolvency whisked off one of his dearest friends to the infernal regions which bankrupts and outlaws inhabit, he felt what a nice thing it was to be only a spectator of the great drama. Not being a sportsman, Mr. Wyatt had a good deal of time to himself at Davenant, despite’his general usefulness. There were rainy mornings when the men were out shooting, and the ’bus had not yet started for the point of rendezvous with the ladies and the luncheon. These leisure hours Mr. Wyatt improved by strolling about the corridors, looking at the old pictures, for the most part in that meditative mood in which a man sees very little of the picture he seems to contemplate, and occasionally by a quiet flirtation with Melanie Duport. That ycung person had plenty of leisure for perambulating the corridors between breakfast and dinner. Mrs. Sinclair was by no means an exacting mistress, and Melanie s life at Davenant was one of comparative idleness. Her superiority of mind showed itself in a calm contempt for her fellow-servants, and she was rarely to be found in the servants’ rooms. She preferred the retirement of her own bed-chamber, and a French novel lent her by that goodnatured Mr. Wyatt, who had always a supply of the newest and worst Parisian literature in his portmanteau. On this dull December morning, a day of gray clouds and frequent showers, Mr. Wyatt stood before a doubtful Vandyck, smoking meditatively, and apparently absorbed in a critical examination of Prince Rupert’s slouched beaver and ostrich plume, when Melanie’s light, quick step and tripping French walk at the other end of the gallery caught his ear. He turned slowly around to meet her, puffing lazily at his cigar. “Eh, la belle, ” he exclaimed, “even an English December does not dim the luster of those Southern eyes.” “I was born in the Quartier Latin, and my parents were all that there is of the most Parisian, ” answered Meladie, scornfully. “Then you must have stolen those eyes of yours from one of the Murillos in the Louvre. What news, little one?” “Only that I find myself more and more weary of this great barrack. ” “Come now, Melanie, you must confess you have a good time of it here. ” “Oh, as for that, perhaps, I ought not to complain. My mistress is very gentle, too gentle; it gnaws me to the heart to see her silent grief. That preys upon my mind. ” Here Melanie squeezed out a tear, which she removed from her pearlpowdered cheek-a very sallow cheek under the powder—daintily with the corner of a hem-stitched handkerchief. “You are too compassionate, little one,” said Mr. Wyatt, putting his arm around her waist consolingly. Perhaps he had gone a little too far with these leisure half hours of flirtation. He had an idea that the girl was going to be troublesome. Tears augured mischief. “C’est dommage,” murmured Melanie; “I have the heart too tender.” “Don't fret, my angel. See here, pretty one; I have brought you another novel,” taking a paper-covered book from his pocket. “Belot?”

“No; Zola,” “I don’t want it. I won’t read it. Your novels are full of lies. They describe men who will make any sacrifice Kr the woman they love—men who will take a peasant girl from her hovel, or a grisette from her garret and make her a queen. There are no such men. I don’t believe in them,” Cried the girl, passionately, her eyes flasning fire. “Don’t be angry, Melanie. Novels would be dull if they told only the truth. ” “They would be very amusing if they descrined men of your pattern,” retorted Melan'e. “Men who say sweet things without meaning them, who flatter every woman they talk to, who turn a foolish girl's head with their pretty speeches and caressing ways, and then laugh at her folly. Yes, as yuu are laughing at me,” cried Melaine, exasperated by Mr. Wyatt’s placid smile. “No, my sweet, I am only admiring you,” he replied, calmly. “What have I done to raise this tempest?” “What have you done?” cried Melanie, and then burst into tears, real tears this time, which serious y damaged the pearl-powder. “I am sure I don't know why I should care so much for you. You are not handsome. You are not even young. ” “Perhaps not, but I am very agreeable,” said James Wyatt, complacently. “Don't cfy, ma belle; only be patient and reasonable, and perhaps I shall be able to prove to you some day that thei e are men, real, living men, who are capable of any sacrifice for the woman they love.” Melaine allowed herself to be apE eased by this rather vague speech, ut she was only half convinced. “Tell me only one thing,” she said. “Who is that lady I saw at Schoenesthal? and why were you so anxious to please her?” James Wyatt’s smooth face clouded at this question. “She is le ated to me, and I knew she had been used badly. Hush, my dear, walls have ears. There are things we musn’t talk about here.” “What is the lady’s real name?” “Mad me Chose.’ She comes of the oldest branch of the family—altogether grande dame, I assure you.” - “I wish she would take me into her service. ” “Why, you are better- off here than with her. ” “I don’t think so. I should see more of you'if I lived with that lady. ” “There you are wrong. I see Madame Chose very rarely. ” “I don’t believe you.” “Melanie, that’s extremely rude.” “I believe that you are passionately in love with that lady, and that is why "

“Not another word, - ' exclaimed James Wyatt; "there's the luncheon bell, and I must be off. You d better take Zola You’ll find him more amusing than the talk in the servants’ halL ” Melanie took the volume sullenly, and walked away without a word. “What a little spitfire!” mused Mr. Wyatt, as he went slowly down the wide oak staircase. “She has taken my pretty speeches seriously and means to make herself obnoxious. This comes of putting one's self in the powor of the inferior sex. If I had trusted a man—as I trusted that girl—it would have been a simple matter of business. He would have been extortionate, perhaps, and there an end. But Mademoiselle makes it an affair of the heart, and I dare say will worry my life out before I have done with her. *