John overhears the conversation in the conservatory. not want one or need it, really; the muslin-" "Muslin-that draggled old thing!" snaps Sally. "Bad cold; not feeling up to going, you say? Well, I don't believe a word of it-not a word; and the trouble I've taken about that dress for you." Oh, Sally, I know I told you not to," comes from the depths of an armchair, and the figure in the pink dressing-gown turns a distressed face to the window, where her cousin is standing in her blanket coat and toque, for it is snowing heavily and she has been out, She is now in Meg's bed room giving her "a bit of her mind," for Sally has a tongue longer than most women, her husband says. And Dick knows, for many a time he has had to beat a retreat to avoid "a scene" when he has ventured to express his opposition to some pet project or some particular course of action on the part of his venturesome spouse. Sally has another plan just now on which she has set her heart. "I'm not used to such fine dresses or so much outing, and I do feel tired and not well. My bones ache. I-I-I think it is grippe'," concludes Meg. ་་ "Oh, bother 'grippe!" says Sally; "you are as well as I am, and you know it; but, of course, if you are determined to be a fool, a perfect little fool, I wash my hands of you, that's all. Here is a man rich, handsome, with loads of money belonging to one of the best French families in the province, devoted to you. You have only to hold up your finger to get him. After encouraging him from the very first, I must say you will have treated him shamefully if you draw back now-shamefully." good time. In fact, I have been spoilt, my head turned with flattery and silly speeches, but my heart is in the right place still; I," slowly, "told John Anderson I would be true to him. I alA slight shudder and sort of horri- ways wear this little turquoise ring he fied cry came from the pinked-robed gave me, along with a bit of white figure in the big chair-her eyes are heather, which means constancy, you fixed on her cousin with a bewildered know. I," and a real sob comes now, and beseeching look. She is sitting "may have been weaned away a little bolt upright tiny bit from him. It may have been now, and the wrong to accept M. Duchesney's attenbook on her tions, but I know he has paid attenknee has fallen tions to many. John thinks only of to the ground me. Oh! Sally, do not try to make unheeded; her me forget what honour is; do not urge breath is com- me to break the heart of as true and ingquickly, but faithful a lover as ever girl had," and not a word es- the sob ends in a torrent of tears; and capes her lips. Sally's arms are round her pretty Sally, relent- cousin, soothing and pacifying her. less, continues But Sally is very worldly, in spite her harangue of other good qualities, and she has -blind to pale face and beseeching looks: "I'd have been afraid to have behaved so, and all because you fancy yourself engaged to some poor, obscure, out-at-elbows, half-starved law student called Anderson. Ugh! The name even-so common, so plebian; he "Stop, Sally!" comes at last from the silent listener, and the voice, though low, has a determined ring in it which brings Sally to a full stop. "Leave John's name out of the question altogether, please. You, you have been all that is kind and generous to me; oh, don't think I am not grateful! I," with a little laugh and the shadow of a sob; "have had a real no intention of for away" upon this poor, plain, unknown (as she thinks) John Anderson. We'll have tea," she says brightly, and Meg's tears cease, and she is petted and fussed over. "But mark my words," says Dick's wife, afterwards, to him; "just a little pressure in the right direction, and some good advice, and that silly girl will get quite reasonable, and her love (romantic rubbish!) for that aggravating Scotchman will evaporate pretty quickly. She'll marry Duchesney, and live happy ever after." "Well," says Dick, "I'm fond of lit tle Meg, and, in my humble opinion, she isn't cut out for a Frenchman's wife. Why bother over the matter? Let her stick to the fellow across the sea, if she cares for him, and I'm pretty sure she does," says he, waxing bolder. "And, hang it! what does money count if one has enough to be happy, and buy food and drink, and-and 'baccy?"" watching the smoke curling up from his favourite meerschaum. CHAPTER V. "Three o'clock! Get on your hat, Meg; we go out driving at a quarterpast," says Sally. It is a lovely day, about the end of April. Mrs. Mackenzie has taken it into her head to take a trip to Toronto, and so we find them at the Queen's Hotel. Sally has important work on hand-the enchanting business of helping Meg to choose her trousseau. For Sally has carried the day, and the wedding is to be very soon. "Ready, Sally!" says Meg, and she looks fashionable in her pale grey mohair, and pretty, wide black hat with crimson roses; but she does not look So young, and bright and happy as she used to; and she seems taller and more slender. "Pretty girl, that," says one man to another, as the cousins pass out of the hotel to the "Scotch, I victoria awaiting them. believe, from her accent; looks melancholy; perhaps, she's left her heart behind her in bonnie Scotland." The victoria wends its way along King Street, where some shopping is done, and then up Jarvis. Meg is delighted with the cool-looking streets, so wide and clean, and the pretty trees. "What about those patterns we got to look at?" remarks Sally. "I think satin will be ever so much richerlooking than silk. And have the front all lace and orange blossoms." "Yes," absently answers Meg; "the short grey skirts look so comfortable, and the blouse and sailor hat suit them so well." Her eyes are fixed on a girl who is riding a bicycle. "I think it must be simply glorious, when you feel dull or out of spirits, to mount one of those steeds and fly through the air. See how happy they look," as a party of schoolgirls whizz past them, chattering and laughing. "Oh, Sally, let the wedding gown be of cotton, or anything, and let us spend the money on a bicycle. I want a stimulant of some kind, and that must be exhilarating!' Meg actually laughs a rare Occurrence with her now. Mrs. Anderson explains her hopes to Dick. "Duchesney will settle that with you," says Sally, playfully. "He comes to-morrow; have you forgotten that?" A frown quickly succeeds the laugh, Meg sinks back in the carriage; "forgotten?" she thinks, when only yesterday she had said to herself: "Oh, hypocrite that I am, must I carry on this miserable farce? I will-I will -I will show him I will not wear the willow, even though it breaks my heart to do it. But oh, John, how could you treat me so? How could you-and why did you? It seems strange, mysterious; but Sally always says we were not suited. Still, I am so unhappy; it is all wrong-wrong!" MRS. CARMICHAEL. That night she had the same thoughts again, and sobbed herself to sleep. The old proverb, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder," had been true in her case. She had cared more for her lover since leaving him than she had ever done before; or, rather, she had never really known the extent of her feeling for him till then. However, just after she had indignantly thrust aside the idea even of seriously accepting Duchesney's attentions, John's letters had suddenly ceased. In vain had poor Meg waylaid the postman morning after morning. "No letters, miss," he would cheerfully announce. Hope deferred maketh 66 the heart sick," but it also made our pretty Meg keep herself at her prettiest, dance her lightest, skate, toboggan and flirt to the best of her abilityand she was no poor hand at any of the three last-named accomplishments. When the winter was over she wore a sparkling hoop of diamonds, in place of the little turquoise ring, and was congratulated by all her friends on being "a very lucky girl." And if being miserable makes one lucky, then, indeed, she is. And John. Well, his landlady declares he is working himself to death. Motherly Mrs. Carmichael is sore distressed. With the penetration of her sex in a love affair she has noticed the non-arrival of letters directed in a round, feminine hand, and vows vengeance on the disturber of her young lodger's peace of mind. Indeed, she audibly gives vent to her anger one day when carrying "ben" ben" to the kitchen his scarcely touched dinner, by exclaiming: "Well, afore I'd be sae saft as let ony woman mak' me gang aff my meat like that, I'd "—and a whisk of her clean, starched print gown, and a clatter of dishes finishes the sentence, and John wonders what has put out his generally good-tempered landlady. And could that landlady see within a certain locked drawer in his desk a letter with a foreign stamp on it, and could she read that letter, the mystery as to what ailed" her young man would be solved. The handwriting is delicate and refined, the paper a soft, warm, creamy hue; but the words are cold and cruel, and briefly inform "Dear Mr. Anderson" that Miss Carnegie's feelings have undergone a change, which, in the interest of future happiness, it is better to acquaint him with; that she had mistaken a "fancy" for a deeper feeling, as is often the case with a girl as unsophisticated as "Dear Meg." "And always I am, SARAH MACKENZIE." And the sun shone, and the north winds blew, and the world wagged as usual. For whole hearts or broken hearts it still goes round. And John, poor John, is "is aff his meat."...... Duchesney, though fond of his brideelect in his own way, is undemonstrative and by no means an exacting lover. He is puzzled often by his fiancée's coldness, but attributes it to shyness and Scotch reserve. Still, he cannot understand. Meg was so bright and lively formerly, but now" Do all your young ladies in Scotland change as much after they wear an engagement ring?" he asks Dick one day. And Dick coughs and gives some evasive reply, and thinks, "If the poor beggar hasn't the sense to see that the girl does not care one straw about him, he must just do the other thing. He wouldn't thank me if I interfered, but I feel sure little Meg will give him his congé some day soon-and then, my goodness, won't Sally's tongue have hard work!" Dick had never chummed" much with Duchesney. In fact, he had rather a contempt for the " scented dandy," as he called him; besides, having heard of his many affairs of the heart before this, he rather doubted the sincerity of his affection for anyone but himself. To do Duchesney justice, he did not know he had had a rival in the field when he offered his hand and heart to bonnie Miss Carnegie, as Meg was called. He was a man of vast conceit, and Meg's indifference, and easy, friendly behaviour to him fired his ambition, lured him on and made him determined to win her. The idea of a refusal never occurred to him. Indeed, after a somewhat noisy champagne supper one evening, he had confided to his male friends that the charming demoiselle was on the qui vive for his declaration, and would suit him admirably. His wealth and position tempted Sally to aid (as she fancied) her cousin "to be off with the old love before being on with the new." Alas! what a wreck does this worldly-mindedness often make of true happinessand that was just Sally's besetting sin; ambition and love of money were fast spoiling a kind and generous nature, and an unselfish one, because she really imagined she was benefiting Meg-securing her a brilliant future, instead of seeing her sacrifice herself to a "nobody." One evening shortly after the visit to Toronto, some friends had been dining at the Mackenzie's, at one of those informal recherché little affairs they were fond of giving. Dick, who is rather an erratic being, suddenly announces that there is to be a good concert in the Music Hall that evening, and proposes they should adjourn to it. Cloaks and shawls are quickly donned, and a merry party sets forth. Somehow, Mrs. Mackenzie's parties are always merry. The programme is not very attractive; a few hackneyed songs are sung, and the sad and touching "Sands o' Dee" meets with great approval. Then a painfully shy young man entreats his hearers to "Come back to Erin," a confident young woman crashes through the Marseillaise, another young man, with a really good tenor voice, gives "John Peel," always a favourite old English hunting song, and after these a sweet, ladylike girl rather nervously advances to the front of the stage, and in a fresh mezzo-soprano delights the audience with "Kathleen Mavourneen," which is vehemently encored. The voice is beautiful, and has a plaintive ring in it. She hesitates; the people are still demanding another song. A moment later, and the simple old Scotch air of "John Anderson, my Jo," is floating through the hall. A curious hysterical feeling comes over Meg, who is, of course, sitting beside Duchesney. Her heart seems to be throbbing and beating all out of time, and what is that horrid choking sensation in her throat? |
