Silent and true, or, A little queen : a novel

Front matter

POPULAR NOVELS.

By May Agnes Fleming.

1. -Ginr EARLSCOURT'S WIFE.

CHAPTER I. PAGB Per Steamer Hesperia 9 CHAPTER H

CHAPTER HI.

Longworth of the Phenix 39

CHAPTER IV.

The Story of the Stone House 54

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

Grandmamma's Granddaughters 69

CHAPTER VII.

Mrs. Windsor at Home 83

CHAPTER VIII.

Before 98

CHAPTER IX.

Noblesse Oblige 115

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

Longworth's Idyl 144

CHAPTER XII.

Delicate Ground 162

CHAPTER XIII.

" As the Queen Wills" 185

CHAPTER XIV.

The Embarrassment of Riches 194

CHAPTER XV.

" By the Sweet Silver Light of the Moon " 210

CHAPTER XVI.

" The Wooing O't " 223

Viii CONTENTS.

CHAPTER XVII. ,A<a *' The Very Best Thing iti all the World " 229

CHAPTER XVIII.

M. L€once Durand , 245

CHAPTER XIX.

"Silent and True" 257

CHAPTER XX.

"To be Wise, and Love, Exceeds Man's Strength" 270

CHAPTER XXI.

"The Rivals" 289

CHAPTER XXII.

" The Rivals "—On the Stage and Off 305

CHAPTER XXIII.

By the Garden Wall 317

CHAPTER XXIV.

Nightfall 332

CHAPTER XXV.

Two in the Morning 344

CHAPTER XXVI.

Another Day 354

CHAPTER XXVII.

Reine's Knight 365

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Marie Speaks 386

CHAPTER XXIX.

O'Sullivan Speaks 404

CHAPTER XXX.

" With Emptied Arms and Treasure Lost " 417

CHAPTER XXXI.

Durand 431

CHAPTER XXXII.

" After Long Grief and Pain " 439

CHAPTER XXXIII.

A Foregone Conclusion 454

A Little Queen

CHAPTER I.

PER STEAMER HESPERIA.

^'A^HT is a May day. If we did not take our weathef ^ffl on trust and tradition, as we take so many things, iMjf^yyMl we would certainly never find it out for ourselves.

Dropping down on the dock, amid the shivering throng of passengers, from some other planet, let us say, we might easily conclude we had alighted in the middle of March, so gusty, so bleak, so chill is this May morning.

The Cunard steamer will float away down the Mersey in something less than an hour, the little fussy, puffing tender is already waiting for her passengers and luggage, and snorting fiercely, as though in fiery impatience to be off. There is the customary crowd, cabmen haggling over fares, porters shouldering trunks and boxes, passengers hurrying wildly hither and thither, or mounting guard over their belongings, shrill voices of women, deeper tones of men, and now and then, in base growls, some of the strong words in which the nobler sex are wont to relieve their manly minds.

Overhead there is a dark, fast-drifting sky, that bodes anything but a pleasant first night on the ocean, and outside there is an ominous short-chop, and little, wicked white cays breaking the turbid flow of the river. And all around, from every quarter of the compass at once, there come sudden bleak blasts that chill to the marrow of your bones, and set you shivering and make you wrap your great coat or waterproof about your shrinking form never so closely.

Standing a little apart, if there be any apart in this madding crowd, leaning easily against the back of a cab, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, an amused look in his face, is a young man. A solitary large trunk beside him, bearing on its canvas back the big black initials " F. D.," is evidently his only property ; a very large and lumbering Newfoundland is evidently his only companion.

He is a tall, strongly-built, square-shouldered young fellow, of perhaps three-and-twenty, his beardless face not in the slightest degree handsome except with the good looks that three-and-twenty years' perfect health, boundless goodhumor, and a certain boyish brightness gives. He is sun-, burned and ruddy, he is buttoned up in a shaggy overcoat, and is taking life at present with a perfect coolness that is refreshing contrasted with the wild excitement depicted on most of the faces around him.

Fragments of flurried conversation reach him on all sides as he stands, but he pays no particular heed to any, until a girl's voice, fresh and clear, but in accents of misery, reaches his ear.

Mon Dieu I Marie !" cries this despairing voice, in a composite mixture of French and English, " if that imbecile has not carried ofl" my box again. Here, you ! " a frantic little stamp ; " drop that directly. It is mine, I tell you. I told

A soft laugh is the answer. The young man turns round, and see two young ladies and a porter. One of the young ladies is seated quietly on a black box, the other is standing excitedly, trying to prevent the porter from carrying off a similar article of luggage, and trying in vain.

II

The owner of the dog, with the impetuosity of three-andtwenty, instantly comes to the rescue of beauty in distress.

** Hi ! 1 say you ! drop that, will you," he cries, authoritatively, and the porter yields at once to the imperious masculine voice what he has scorned to yield to the frantic feminine. " Don't you want your luggage taken on board the tender ? " inquires the young American gentleman, for such his accent proclaims him to be, lifting his hat to the young person who stands, and appears so greatly exercised over the fate of the black box.

" Thanks, monsieur," responds the young lady who has been talking French, in perfect English, but with a musical accent, " this is the second time that stupid man has tried to carry it off whether or no. Oh, yes, we want our luggage to go on board, but the captain, our very good friend, has told us to wait here until he comes."

" I see him coming now," says the second young lady, who has a very sweet voice and much fainter accent than -the first. " Look yonder. Petite. Ah ! he has stopped to speak to the stout lady, but he is coming for us."

" Small black box, large black box, one portmanteau, a bag, and a bonnet-box," says the first, rapidly and concisely, taking the inventory of her belongings. " Yes, everything is here. Ma foi, how I wish we were on board, and out of this jostling, noisy throng."

" Yes, it is very cold," replies the young lady called Marie, and she draws a large shawl she wears close about her, and shivers in the raw wind.

They are dressed alike, in traveling suits of dark gray tweed, and are apparently sisters. Monsieur F. D.," resuming his easy position against the back of the cab, looks at them critically, and on the whole approvingly, while they wait for their very good friend, the captain. He can look with perfect ease, for they are not looking at him, have apparently forgotten his proximity and existence. The one addressed

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as Marie interests him most, for the good reason that he cannot see her, so thick is the mask of black lace she wears strapped across her hat and face. But the voice is peculiarly sweet, the braided hair under the hat is a lovely gold bronze, and the form is so shapely, so graceful, that even the heavy disguising shawl cannot wholly conceal it. She stands up presently and he sees that she is tall — divinely tall, he says to himself, and no doubt divinely fair. In a general way he approves of tall, fair young women. The other is a little person, about eighteen, perhaps, with a dark olive face, and with no especial claim to beauty, except the claim of two large, brilliant brown eyes. Even if he had not heard her speak, he would have set her down as a French girl — her nationality is patent in her face.

The captain, brown faced, burly, and genial, makes his way to where they await him, with some difficulty, for friends besiege him on all sides.

"Well, my little ladies," is his greeting, " ready, are you, and waiting ? Here, my man ! " A porter approaches, and touches his cap. Bear a hand here, with these bags and boxes, and look sharp. Now, young ladies," here he presents an elbow to the right and left, " I'll take you under my wing, and consign you to the tender mercies of the tender."

It is a mild joke, but he laughs at it, and goes off with his fair freight. The owner of the sweet voice never looked back, but the owner of the pretty dark eyes casts one farewell glance and slight smile backward to the gentleman who came to the rescue of the black box. Mr. " F. D." lifts his hat, sees them vanish, and busies himself, for the first time, about his dog and his trunk.

Presently they are all on board the tender, and puffing down the stream to where, big, and quiet, and powerful, the Hesperia awaits her passengers. The number is very large ; (here is hardly standing room on the little tender's deck. It

PER STEAMER HESPERIA.

is rough, and raw, and cold, and supremely miserable. To make matters worse, a drizzling rain begins to fall, and umbrellas are unfurled, and ladies crouch under such shelter as tiley can find, and everybody looks blue, and sea-sick by anticipation, and most utterly wretched.

The Newfoundland and his master hoist no umbrellas ; they stand and look, on the whole, as if they rather enjoyed the misery of those about them, and were perfectly warui, and cozy and comfortable themselves. The young man looks about him for the dark eyes, and the tall, slight, graceful figure ; but the captain has stowed them away somewhere, and he speedily forgets them, and is sufficiently amused by the rest. Then they are on board, and he gets one more glimpse of "my little ladies," as, wing-and-wing with the captain, they go to the cabin. Only a glimpse, for he has his own cabin to look after, and his dog to consign to the proper authorities. And then a gun fires, and there is a parting cheer from the tender, and Liverpool lies behind them and the wide Atlantic before.

Luncheon hour arrives, and as no one has had time to become sea-sick, there is a rush for the long saloon. Among them is the owner of the dog, whose appetite, afloat or ashore, is all that the appetite of hearty, hungry three-andtwenty should be. As he carves his chicken, he glances about for the owner of the veiled face — a pretty face, he has made up his mind- — but she is not there. The other is, however, seated near her good friend, the captain, still wearing hat and jacket, and her interest apparently pretty equally divided between the contents of her plate and the men and women around her. She catches the eye of the preserver of her box, and smiles a frank recognition — so frank, indeed, that when they rise, he feels warranted in approaching and addressing her.

*' Are you coming on deck ? " he asks, rather eagerly. She is not precisely pretty, but she is sufficiently attractive to

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make him desire a better acquaintance— the eyes are lovely, and the smile is winning. " You had better," he urges, ** keep on deck as much as you can, if you want to avoid sea-sickness."

But it is raining, monsieur," she says, hesitatingly. She accepts his advances with the unconventional readiness with which people ignore introductions and talk to one another on shipboard. She has all the ease of manner of one who has traveled a good deal, as Mr. " F. D." sees, and bears about her unmistakably the stamp of "the world."

*' It has ceased raining ; it was nothing but a passing drift. It is quite pleasant on deck now."

*' Not cold nor rough ? " she asks, dubiously.

Not at all cold, he assures her ; that is to say, no colder than it was on the dock, not so cold even in some sheltered nooks he knows of ; and finally mademoiselle takes his arm, and ascends with him to the deck.

" The other young lady is not surely sea-sick so soon ? " says this artful young man, for he is curious to see that other young lady, with the silvery voice, and graceful figure, and vailed face.

" No, only getting ready," she answers, and laughs. My sister is always sea-sick — the very sight of the sea turns her ill. She will be ill from now until we land. I am sorry for her, you understand, but I have to laugh. Now I am sea-sick scarcely at all. I have crossed the Channel many times, and unless it is very, very rough, I am not ill a moment. But for Marie — ah ! she is fit to die before she reaches Calais."

From this artless speech, the artful young gentleman learns many things. First, that Marie is my sister — well, he had surmised that much ; that the " little ladies " are certainly French ; that they had crossed the Channel many times ; that this one may be his compagnon de voyage to New York ;

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but that it is more than doubtful if the other appears at all. This is so disappointing that he hazards a question.

I am really very sorry for your sister. Surely she will not be obliged to keep her cabin all the way across."

*' All the way, monsieur," answers the owner of the dark eyes, with a pretty French gesture of eyebrows and shoulders. " She will just lie in her berth, and grow whiter and whiter every day, and read a great deal, and munch dry biscuits, and sleep when she is neither reading nor munching, until we land at New York. Do you belong in New York, monsieur ? "

" Not exactly, mademoiselle. I belong down South, but I have seen a good deal of New York off and on. If you will permit me " — he produces a card with a bow, and a slight boyish blush. The dark eyes rest upon it and read " Francis Dexter." Before she can make any acknowledgment, or return, as he hopes, the confidence, the captain suddenly approaches, and reads the pasteboard over her shoulder.

Well, my little lady," he says in his jovial voice, how gOQs mal-de-mer ? None yet? That's a good girl. Mr. Dexter, good-afternoon to you, sir. I saw you on the deck a while ago, but hadn't time to speak. My little friend, Mademoiselle Reine, Mr. Dexter, going to New York in my care. If you can hel^) to amuse her on the passage, I shall take it as a personal favor. How is Mademoiselle Marie ? Not sick, surely ? Oh ! I am sorry to hear that. I'll call upon her presently, when I get time."

The captain bustled away.

Mademoiselle's dark eyes regard her companion. . *' You know the captain ? " she inquires.

Oh, very well ; crossed with him when I came over— an out-and-out good fellow, one's beau-ideal of a jolly sailor. It is more than a year since we met, but he seems to have a good memory for faces. I didn't suppose he would remember me."

i6

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" You have been traveling a whole year ? " she asks. *' All Americans travel, do they not ? They all go to Paris once at least in their life, I am told."

*' Or if not in their life, they go if they are good when they die," responds young Dexter, laughing. " Paris is a particularly jolly paradise, alive or dead. I spent two months there, and could hardly tear myself away to do Brussels, and Vienna, and all the rest of 'em. I think I have gone over the beaten track of travel pretty well in my year, although a man could spend half a dozen years very comfortably knocking about Europe, and not exhaust the sights. But with the year my leave of absence expires, and I am obliged to return."

" Ah ! monsieur is in the army "

" Not at all. Leave from the powers at home, I mean. My uncle — I am his property, made over to him absolutely — orders me about at will. ' Take a run over to Europe, my boy,' he says to me ; * only don't make it over a year. You can see sights enough, and spend money enough in that time, and if it takes away a little of that puppyish self-conceit I see you are developing so fast, it will neither be time normor ey wasted.' Such is the frank and ingenuous style of my uncle. So I packed my valise, and came, and now the year is up, and I am returning."

He tells this with an off-hand cheeriness that is a part of his character ; and, by the way, what a good gift a frank, cheery voice is ! He is prepared to give mademoiselle his whole biography, since he first went into roundabouts, if she cares to listen, but she does not seem to care. She smiles, and is silent for a while ; then she asks suddenly : " Monsieur, have you seen Rouen ? "

" The Manchester of France, as they call it — place with the grand cathedral, and Louis de Breze's wonderful statue, and Diane de Poictiers kneeling on the tomb, and where Joau of Arc made a noise in the world, and Corneille and

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Fontenelle were born, and where there is Notre Dame de Bon Secours, beautiful as a vision," he says, with voluble discon^ nectedness. " Oh, yes, mademoiselle, I have seen Rouen."

Her face lights, her eyes shine, her lips pout eagerly. She is about to speak — then suddenly some thought checks the words upon her lips, the light fades out of her face, and she leans over and looks silently at the dark flowing water.

"You know Rouen, mademoiselle?" Dexter asserts, his folded arms on the bulwarks, his eyes on her face.

" I know it well, monsieur, better than well. I was born in Rouen."

She stops abruptly, recollecting, perhaps, that this cheery, boyish, bright young fellow is a total stranger. Indeed, most people are apt to forget that fact, after ten minutes of Mr. Dexter's society. He sees a shadow fall on her face, he hears a faint sigh, or fancies he does, but the brown eyes do not lift from the white-capped and angry-looking little waves.

"Ah! awfully jolly place to be born in, I should say," is what Mr. Dexter remarks sympathetically ; " so old, and historical, and all that. Makes one rub up one's knowledge of French history and Agnes Sorel, and Diane de Poictiers, and * La Pucelle d' Orleans,' as they call her there, and all the other lovely ladies who had their day and made themselves immortal in that old town * across the hills of Nornnandy.' Now, / was born in Boston, and anything more unromantic than Boston the mind of man has never conceived."

"But generations yet unborn will proudly point it out as the birthplace of Frank Dexter. My dear boy, turn round, and let me see if those dulcet tones really belong to you."

The voice that says this is a woman's, and Mr. Dexter and Mademoiselle Reine, turning round simultaneously, see the speaker. They see a lady whose best friend cannot call her young, whose worst enemy dare not stigmatize her as old. A lady who has rounded the Rubicon — thirty-five — and gone a i8

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step or two down hill towards forty, tall, commanding, of fine presence and fine face, dark and well tanned, and lit up by a pair of brilliant dark gray eyes.

" Miss Hariott for a ducat ! " cries Dexter, almost before he has seen her, and then he has seized her hand and is shaking it with an energy that people of his type invariably throw into that performance. " I knew you were abroad, and used to search the hotel registers in every place I came to for your name."

" I don't believe you ever thought of me once, from the moment we parted until the present," skeptically retorts the lady.

*' Oh ! upon my word I did ; kept a lookout for you everywhere, on the top of Mont Blanc, and in the Hospice of the Great St. Bernard included. But you never turned up, I need hardly say. Better late than never, though. Delightful surprise to meet you here. How was it I didn't see you on the dock this forenoon ? "

" Because you were better employed gazing elsewhere, I suppose. But, my dear boy, you are really looking very brown, and nice, and healthy, and good-natured. It is quite a pleasure to see you looking so well."

" My dear Miss Hariott, do I ever look anything else ? "

" I had a letter from Laurence last month," goes on the lady ; "he was asking for you — saying you ought to be returning about this time, and that if I met you he hoped I would take care of you and fetch you home."

"Ah!" Dexter says, laughing, "Longworth is an old lover of yours, I know. I've a good mind, since he so kindly committed me to your charge, to let you take care of me as far as Baymouth. I should like to see the dear old boy again."

" Do," says Miss Hariott ; " there need be no hurry going down South, and Baymouth will be looking its loveliest by

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the time we get there. I think, on the whole, I prefer it tc Italy."

" Rank blasphemy to say so. Miss Hariott, let me make you acquainted with — Mademoiselle Reine."

An older man, a wiser man (which Frank Dexter is not), a man of the world (which Frank Dexter never will be), might have thought twice before introducing two ladies in this free and easy way, without the consent of either, and in profound ignorance of the name of one. But if Frank Dexter were that older, wiser, more polished man, he would not be the well-liked young fellow that he is.

The little Norman girl, whose dark eyes are the chief charm of her olive face, looks up and smiles, Miss Hariott looks down with that kind and half wistftil glance young Dexter has seen often in her eyes, when they look on fair and youthful faces.

"Thank you, Frank," she says. was wishing you would. Now, like a good boy, if you will run for a chair — ■ not a camp-stool, I beg. I weigh one hundred and fifty-seven pounds, Mademoiselle Reine, and tremble whenever I intrust myself to one Ah ! thank you, my dear," to Frank

returning with a substantial arm-chair. " Now we can talk and be comfortable — as comfortable, at least, as it is ever possible for sane human beings to be in a ship. Praise the sea, but keep on land — no truer axiom than that anywhere, my dear Frank."

*' Sorry I can't agree with you, Miss Hariott. *A wet sheet, and a flowing sea, and a wind that follows fast,' is about my idea of perfect earthly felicity. Do you know what I mean to do in Baymouth ? "

" Nothing good, I am perfectly sure ; the particular sort of evil I am unable to specify. You said to see Laurence Longworth."

*' Well, partly that, and to enjoy your society, of course ** (Miss Hariott looks severe); *'but my chief object is to have a yacht biilt. They know how to do that sort of thing in your little New England town, and it is about all they do know, except to make pumpkin pies — "

" Pumpkin pie is the national dish of my country. I have eaten nothing to equal it on the whole continent of Europe* Speak of your nation's institutions with respect, young man, or forever hold your peace."

" Well," goes on Dexter, " I mean to build that yacht. I wish I might name it after you, Miss Hariott, but we will settle that later, and 1 shall spend (D. V.) the next five years of my life cruising about between Boston Bay and the Gulf of Florida. Til take you and Larry every time you both like to come, for I know it would be cruel to part you. You ought to be a pretty good sailor by this time, I should think. And, if Ma'amselle Reine is anywhere within a hundred miles, we will be more than happy to call for and take her too." i

Mile. Reine has been sitting all this time watching the rough, dark water, tossing so restlessly all around them. But she has been Hstening also. Since the word Baymouth was spoken, a quick interest has awakened in her quiet face, and she has sat attentive to every word. But if Dexter, artful once more, wished by this well directed hint to discover her destination, he does not discover it. Mademoiselle laughs and answers too, with perfect seeming frankness.

" I am a tolerable sailor as girls go," she says, " but I share Miss Hariott's aversion for the sea, and I don't think I should fancy yachting. Are we going to have a rough night, monsieur ? A prospective sea-captain ought to be weather-wise."

" Well — a leetle dirty weather," replies Mr. Dexter, casting his eye in a skipperish manner to windward ; merely a little. Nothing to signify — nothing to be afraid of."

"Who's afraid?" retorts Miss Hariott, indignantly. "A little travel is a dangerous thing for a boy of your age. Master Franky. I never liked precocious children, and if I had been near that uncle of yours when he proposed the trip, I should have strongly recommended him to keep you in the nursery a few years longer. Not that I think the old gentleman should be spoken to as a rational being, for what sane man would ever have disinherited Laurence Longworth for a siJly boy like you."

" Now, my dear Miss Hariott," says the young man, rather uneasily, "don't get on that exciting topic, I entreat. It always carries you away. And it wasn' t my fault. If Larry chose to be a fool "

"There! change the subject," exclaims Miss Hariott, rubbing her nose in a vexed way. "As you say, it's a thing that upsets me, and also, as you say, it is not your fault. Mademoiselle, is this your first trip across the Atlantic ? "

"Yes, it is mademoiselle's first ocean voyage ; but she has crossed the Channel six times, and that is a tolerable test of sea-going qualities."

"You are French, my dear," pursues the elder lady. " I knew it before I came up and spoke to Frank. You have a thoroughly French face. But how perfectly you speak English, with scarcely even an accent."

Mile. Reine smiles again. That dusk, French face, which one would hesitate before pronouncing even pretty, lights vividly whenever she smiles, and the smile is in the bronze brown eyes before it reaches the lips. Miss Hariott, no mean judge of faces, a shrewd and keen observer of the men and women she meets, but withal one of the most tender-hearted and impulsive maiden ladies on earth, falls in love with her on the spot.

"Mademoiselle was born in Rouen," says young Dextei, who is a talker or nothing. " You went to Rouen, Miss Hariott, didn't you, and went out of your senses as I did over Notre Dame de Bon Secours^ and said your prayers before one of those lovely altars every day, as I didn't. I wish I had been born in Rouen, or Versailles, or Verona, or

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Venice, or any of those old romantic, historical places, where I feel a man of my caliber ought to have been born."

" Frank, my dear," says Miss Hariott, resignedly, " what a dreadful deal of nonsense you talk. I was asking mademoiselle how she comes to speak English so perfectly. Please don't say anything for the next five minutes if you can help, and give your fellow-creatures a chance."

The rebuke in no way disconcerts Mr. Dexter, and the soft eyes of the little mademoiselle look up at him with that pleasant smile, as if she found his honest boyish face good to look at. But she addresses the lady.

" I was born in Rouen, and have lived there nearly all my life \ but I knew many English there " — she hesitates a second and the smile dies quite away — my mother was American."

" American ! " repeats Miss Hariott, delightedly. " Ah ! that accounts. Why, my dear, you are almost a compatriot."

Almost is a wide word. 1 am nothing at all of an American. Will I oftend you very much if I say I Hke neither America or Americans ? "

Frank reddens. For a moment Miss Hariott does look inclined to be offended. There is a little embarrassing pause.

But, my dear, your mother "

" My mother is dead."

" I beg your pardon. I was only about to say how was it possible for you to dislike your mother's people ! Have you known so many disagreeable Americans ? "

" I never knew any."

"Then how is it possible for you to judge whether you like them or not ? Perhaps you read the books English literary people — Sala, Dickens, Mrs. TroUope — have written to make money and caricature us ?"