A true aristocrat. A novel

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CHAPTER I. TAKEiq- AT HER WORD

I ' T T OWARD, you shall never demean yourself in any t , X A such way.'’^

\ I certainly have no intention of demeaning myself, \ as you express it, Helen.”

But you have just told me that you intend to marry

i Cecile Vavasour.”

A Montgomery never yet stooped to wed with a f beggar. ” f- ‘-'Helen!”

I do not care; I must talk plainly to you, or you ^ will ruin yourself and disgrace your family. A^ou need not think that you are going to transfix me with that stern look, nor by your dignified, imposing manner. If you marry that girl vou will be the talk of our whole set.”

The scornful curling of a pair of handsome lips dis- . closed a set of very white, even teeth belonging to the [, gentleman addressed by the above remark.

An angry flush mounted to the lady's brow as slie noticed it.

‘Tf you persist in your mad folly,” she cried, hotly, '‘you are henceforth no brother of mine; I will not recognize you; I will have nothing more to do with you or her.”

"Very well.”

> It was coldly, haughtily spoken.

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f Very well! ^ Does that mean that you still clefyj me — that you refuse to heed my wishes in this matter have no wish to ^defy^ you, Helen; but if you imagine for a moment that I am going to prove myself : the traitor I should be if I heeded you in this; if you think I am going back upon my truth, honor, and plighted word, you are very much mistaken. A Montgomery had much better wed with a beggar,^ as you are pleased to put it, than lower himself to commit the dastardly act which you propose.'’^

‘^Then I repeat you are henceforth no brother of mine, and don’t you ever dare to bring your beggar-bride into my 'presence.”

The place in which the above conversation occurred was a luxurious room in one of those palaces which adorn wide, handsome, aristocratic Fifth avenue; avast, lofty apartment, pillared with rose marble, hung with velvet, curtained with satin — a room fit for the gods! frescoed and carved in rich and delicate desig-ns, almost equal to the work of a Gibbons and a Vario; lighted by great spaces of French plate-glass; carpeted with the choicest productions of the far East, and ornamented wdth costly bric-a-brac, statuary, and paintings from almost every country on the globe.

The speakers were in perfect harmony with their surroundings.

One, a tall, willowy, graceful woman of perhaps twenty-five years; a queen of society, a thorough woman of the world; a brilliant, black-haired, black-eyed, rosetinted brunette, with all the fire, and pride, and haughtiness of a genuine Southerner in her nature, the best Kentucky blood in her veins, and a high-bred grace in every movement.

She looked like a picture as she stood there, tall, straight, haughty, and angry; a passionate gleam in her midnight eyes, a glow of ruddy fire on her olive-tinted cheek; like one of those rich, glowing conceptions of Titian or Murillo stepped down from its frame, in her trailing dress of violet velvet, with its rare and delicate laces, the massive cross of diamonds at her throat, and

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the cl aster of crimson buds in her hair. She looked like a queen — .'n olfended queen — proud, regal, resentful, but magnificently beautiful.

Such was Helen, only daughter of Fitzroy Charles Somerset Montgomery, a very wealthy Southern gentleman, who was foj*t unate enough to escape the ravages of war and save the bulk of his property.

Pie was a descendant of a proud old English family who had been one of the first to settle in the State of Kentucky, who were also intensely aristocratic and exclusive, priding themselves upon their vast wealth, position, and blue blood, but who had gradually died out until only two survived to preserve the dignity and glory of the family name and inherit their almost royal possessions.

AVhether it was the survival of the fittest,” and whether their pristine dignity and glory were preserved, are facts which will develop themselves in the future.

The other speaker referred to, the companion of this beautiful woman, was an equally handsome man; dark-browed, and darkly-crowned like his sister, Avith the same tall straight figure, the same clear-cut, high-bred profile, with the same complexion, the same courtl}^ grace and bearing, but possessing a character infinitely superior, although it was plainly to be seen that he was the younger of the two.

A noble man — a manly, chivalrous man was Howard Montgomery, full of fire and energy, of lofty principles and earnest purposes.

He Avas the only remaining scion to perpetuate the name of a noble house, the pet and darling of his sister, the most admired and courted of all the circle in which they moved, and honored and respected among his business acquaintances for his fair dealing, his unswerving rectitude, and almost princely generosity.

The brother and sister had shared equally in the division of their lathery’s large property, the half of Avhich was a handsome fortune in itself; but Helen had greatly augmented hers by marrying a second Avith Colonel AVilliam Everard Langley, Avhile Howard bade fair to double his shortly by successful business operations.

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Both were handsome, cultivated, rich, and both were imbued with an intense pride regarding their birth, family, and position, but — with a difference.

Helen was haughty, arrogant, and conceited on account i of her great wealth, and the position it gave her, while I Howard^s pride consisted in sustaining an unblemished character, scorning a mean act, a dishonorable purpose, | and the sacrifice of truth and self-respect. |

The subject of their present dispute, and indeed of the whole circle in which they moved just at this time, was Howard Montgomery's engagement to Cecile Vavasour, a lovely girl, who until very recently had moved in the same society, and been a much admired belle in le heau monde.

But a sudden and terrible railway accident had deprived her in a moment of time of both parents, thus leaving her not only an orphan, but absolutely friendless and penniless in, the world, as she had neither brother, nor sister, nor relative of any sort that she knew of, while it w’as discovered upon an investigation that Mr. Vavasour was so heavily involved in his business operations that every dollar of the property which he nominally held would not be sufficient to cancel his liabilities.

So beautiful Cecile Vavasour was suddenly hurled from the very pinnacle of affluence into the abyss of beggary; her honors dropped from her like the fairy robes of Cinderella on the stroke of the fatal hour of midnight, and like her she became a creature of yesterday, a bird shorn of its brilliant plumage, an outcast, and considered unfit to mingle longer in the charmed circle where once she had been courted, admired, and flattered.

But the knowledge of her poverty, when broken to her, scarcely seemed to move her.

It was nothing when compared to the loss of her father and mother, who had made her their idol, and thus far on life’s journey removed every obstacle from her pathway.

She was only seventeen, and a trusting, clinging little creature. She had never known a want or a wish ungratified; her whole life had been like an enchanted idyl, and poverty was but an empty word, a meaningless sound to her.

She had met Howard Montgomery more than a year previous. For six months she had been engaged to him, loving him with all the fervor of a first strong attachment, and believing him to be just what he was, a grand, noble, incorruptible man.

Now when her great trouble came upon her she had of course turned to him, trusting him, confiding in him, leaning upon him as she believed she had a right to do — as a woman should do, and feel, toward the man whom 1 she was to marry.

It had never occurred to her that the change in her prospects could make any difference either in his feelings or those of his many friends.

What mattered a little money?

I If she had none, Howard was rich, and as his wife she would never want for anything in the future any more than she had in the past. She believed he would do by her as she would have done by him had their positions been reversed; so she gave not a troubled thought to her poverty, although she was nearly heart-broken over the sad and tragic end of her parents.

But however she may have regarded it, poor Cecile^s misfortune in losing all her money did make avast difference in the feelings of her ^‘dear five hundred friends;^^ and the crash, when it came, crushed out almost every spark of love, admiration and friendship which they had ever entertained, or professed to entertain for her.

‘^HIow dreadful!’’ they cried, with faces of dismay. “^^Poor child, what will she do? Of course Montgomery wull never marry her now — it would be such a mesalliance,'^’ and bright eyes grew brighter, hopeless hearts became lighter, as calculating mammas and scheming maidens began to feel that the handsome aristocratic young Southerner might turn his attention in another direction now.

To be sure the fair unfortunate was just as pretty, just as pure, just as intellectual and accomplished as she had

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ever been; but the almighty dollar — that golden god | who hitherto had paved her pathway with pleasure, an 'j surrounded her life with a halo of glory — had proved* fickle, taken unto himself wings and fiown away, an«|l fortune's petted darling was found to be only a thing o common clay after all. |

Helen Langley, who should have been most sympad thetic, most tender, comforting and considerate, was bit 1 terest of all. '

Poverty was the worst, the unpardonable sin of all iC' her catalogue of crimes, and Oecile, perforce, had be^^ come a sinner past all forgiveness or absolution.

For a moment or two after she had uttered that last bitter, passionate sentence, her brother stood regarding her with a stern, searching look in his dark eyes ; then his handsome lips slowly curled again.

Helen," he began, coldly, but with a decision which, there could be no mistaking, ^‘if you were a man, I would not have given yon breathing space after thosd^ last odious words; but since you are a woman, and — mj f sister, I suppose I must endure them and let you go unJ | scathed. Let me tell 3^011, however, that you have great- I ly mistaken my character, if you imagine that I am go-^ ing to prove recreant to my vows, simply because the girl I love has become the victim of misfortune. I have ' won her affections; I have wooed her from the beginning with the intention of marrying her; and, putting myself and my love for her entirely out of the question, do you suppose I am going to break her heart now, simply because her fortune has taken wings? What was her monev to me? Did you think it was simply that I wanted when I asked Mr. Vavasour to give me his daughter? Have I not enough and more than enough? Her troubles have not changed her nature, except to make her cling to me more fondly, and to love me more devotedly than before. She is the same pure, true-hearted girl that she has always been, and whom you have professed so to admire and love. Without me she would be utterly friendless and desolate, and this change in her circumstances will not make the slightest difference with my intentions regarding her."

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Yon are determined, then — yon will not listen to reason — yon are bound to marry her!"^ Mrs. Langley cried, with a flash of anger in her eyes.

‘‘Most certainly I shall marry Cecile Vavasonr. I have never thought of such a thing as breaking my engagement with her until yon proposed it to me to-day.'’^

“Where is yonr pride?’’ she cried, scornfully.

“Good Heavens, Helen! have you no consideration for me 9 Do yon think it would cost me nothing to give up my promised wife, and do yon think I can cast her aside like a worn-out garment? I tell yon my whole life would be blighted, all my hopes crushed — destroyed, if anything should happen to alienate Cecile’s affections from me. She is dearer to me than all the world besides; name, fortune, position would be nothing without her,” he returned, with an earnestness which proved the truth of his words beyond a doubt.

“You ai’e too sentimeirtal for anything, Howard,” Mrs. Langley retorted, impatiently.

“Call it what you will — I do not care; but 5^011 cannot move me a hair’s breadth. I shall use all my eloquence, too, to hasten our marriage, for the poor child will have no home when her father’s creditors are satisfied, save the one I shall offer her.”

“Well, Howard Montgomery, you know what I have said,” Mrs. Col. Langley retorted, in icy tones, her face white and set as that of a marble statue.

“Yes, Helen, and if such is your verdict — that I am to be no longer regarded as 3mur brother — that you henceforth ostracize me from your heart and home — so it must remain, I suppose, although it is a very unjust and cruel one,” the young man returned, sadly, adding, with a slight quiver in his under lip: “You and I are all that are left of our father’s family, and it will be very hard to walk in separate paths when all our lives we have been so united. But if you will allow a false pride to so warp your affection and sympathies, and build this barrier between us, I cannot feel that I am in any way responsible. I will not shame my manhood — I will not

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do violence to my love^ and spoil both my life and CecileX even though my only sister demands \i.”

Howard, you are an incorrigible fool!^^ Helen Langley cried, angrily, and thrown into a white heat of passion by his words.

Howard Montgomery stepped forward to the table near them, and took his hat.

His fine face had grown very pale, and the welt of flesh which lay between his teeth w^as nearly bitten through with the effort he made to restrain himself, and there was a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

His sister had not inherited all the fire of her race by any means, nor as much of their self-control either, as would have been well for her.

That is something that I can allow no one to say to me with impunit}^'’^ he returned, in an inflexible tone.

Good-morning and good-by, Helen/^

Without waiting for any reply, and before his sister could recover from her surprise enough to realize what she had done, and that she was being taken literally at her word, he had left the room and the house.

A mUJS AMISTOCBAT.

Chapter II. Plaistning For Their Future

H oward Montgomery went directly from

Col. Langley^s elegant residence to the no less luxurious abode of his affianced wife — Cecile Vavasour.

Out of respect and sympathy for the young giiTs deep trouble, her father’s creditors had postponed the despoiling of her beautiful home as long as possible.

But it could not be delayed much longer, and her lover knew it — knew that the aristocratic residence, with all its wealth of adornment, must come under the relentless hammer of the auctioneer.

He had therefore determined to urge their immediate marriage, that Cecile might at once be surrounded by his love and protection, and that she need know no change in her mode of life; and it was the declaration of this determination to his sister, the elegant and fastidious Mrs. Langley, which had caused the disagreement recorded in the preceding chapter.

Howard found his betrothed sitting, sad and alone, in her boudoir, her face pale and wistful, her air weary and dejected.

As the door opened and he entered, she sprang to meet him, with a glad cry, her countenance lighting up with a glow of tenderness that told him at once of whom she had been thinking, and how entirely her heart was his. How shall I describe Cecil Vavasour?

How can I do justice to her delicate beauty — her wondrous loveliness?

She was slight of figure, of medium height, and most exquisitely formed.

Her features were delicate, her complexion of remarki able clearness and brillianc}^; her eyes were deeply, darkly, beautifully blue, and fringed with lashes a sliade darker than the fluffj^ golden hair which crowned her small head, and seemed, as one has expressed it, like woven sunshine,^^ so brightly did it gleam with every graceful movement. Her cheeks were round and daintily tinted, her lips seemed only for smiles and kisses, and the prettiest and most bewitching of dimples nestled in their corners.

But above and beyond all this mere outward beauty there was something so pure, and innocent, and sweet about the fair young girl’s nature that every heart was won before it was aware of the fact; her loveliness, her guileless nature, and her gold brought scores of admirers to her feet, and her friends were numbered by the legion.

But of how little real value all this admiration and friendship was she began to realize only when she was left alone, poor and desolate, in the world.

Cecil Vavasour was as unconscious as a child of her loveliness; or, if not wholly unconscious of it, slie at least was not vain. She could not help knowing that she was beautiful — she had been told of it too often not to realize it — she had smiled back at her own exquisite reflection in her mirror time after time, but it was only with a feeling of gladness and pleasure^ such as she would have -experienced on looking at beautiful flowers, or in beholding some lovely work of art that gave delight botli to herself and others.

There was not a spark of vanity or frivolty in her nature.

Some people regarded her with indulgent smiles, calling her a pretty plaything — a doll — something to be prettily dressed, petted, and caressed, and taken about for shov/; but as for her usefulness, her character, and intellect, they were doubtful if anything could be said in her favor; and when at length her sad misfortunes overtook her, her wide circle of friends shrugged their aristocratic shoulders, smiled with indolent compassion, and murmured with indiflerent sympathy.

What a pity that she must lose fortune, too — a baby like that can never take care of herself, and of course

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Howard Montgomery, with his splendid talents and his immense wealth, will never marry a nonentity/^

Howard Montgomery knew her differently, although even he did not realize until years after the strength of character, the energy and steadfastness of purpose which lay latent beneath her childish beauty, her sweet, clinging, gentle ways.

He was six years her senior, and he had met many lovely women during the years that he had spent in society, but no one had ever so impressed him with truth, purity, and artlessness as Cecile Vavasour had done.

She had twined herself at once about his heart with her frank, confiding manner, and he always turned from the vain and fashionable belles, who hovered about him with such inviting admiration, to this fresh, sweet girl, with a sense of rest and refreshment that charmed and won him.

Every hour spent in her society only served to bind him more closely to her, and he soon learned that that pretty shining head contained more of wisdom and knowledge than many an older person possessed.

She was light-hearted and gay, and while she dearly loved society and excitement, yet a portion of every day was given to thorough, systematic study.

‘^Oh, Howard she cried, as she went forward to meet him now, ^^the day has seemed like a month; I am so glad you have come!'’'' and she clasped her two small white hands about his arm, and clung to him in a way that told him how very dreary she had been.

He looked down upon her very fondly; she seemed doubly fair to him in her dusky robes wliich contrasted so vividly with her clear, pure complexion, and with the subdued, pensive air which had hung about her ever since the death of her parents.

^^My darling, I know that you have been lonely, and I should have been here earlier had I not been planning some way to make your life less sad,'’ he replied, tenderly, and folding his strong arm about her light figure, he led her to a sofa and drew her down to a seat beside him.

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^‘^You were planning something for me, Howard?^^ she asked, nestling her bright head against his shoulder.

Yes, Cecile, I have been trying to arrange for, and I have now come to consult with you about our immediate marriage.’’^

^^Oh! Howard, you do not mean that, and papa and mamma only just laid away in Greenwood!^'’ the young girl cried, in a pained tone, while a burning blush suffused her face and lost itself among the feathery gold that lay low upoii her forehead.

Tears sprang to her eyes and a grieved look settled about her mouth.

How could she bear to think or talk of her own happiness while her dear ones lay so cold and silent in their newly made graves? It seemed almost like sacrilege to her.

Howard Montgomery drew her yet closer to him.

Dearest,^'’ he said, gravel}^ I know that you trust me fully, and you will know that whatever I plan for you will be according to my best judgment. You must not think me unkind if I talk business to yon for a little while, and tell you just how affairs stand. You already know something of the financial trouble that has swept away your father’s property, and now it becomes necessary that his creditors should be satisfied. They have considerately waited several weeks already, feeling a delicacy about disturbing you in your grief; but, Cecile, t])is great house is no place for you with only servants for companions.”

“I know it is not, Howard, and I can never tell you how very lonely 1 have been; I would have been glad to go away before if — if there had been any place for me to go,” she said sadly, and Howard Montgomery’s face grew hot with shame and anger, that his sister should not have come forward at this trying time, and offered the sympathy and shelter which this poor lonely girl so much needed.

There will be no trouble about that in the future,” he answered, as he brushed back the soft locks from her forehead and touched it gently with his lips, and you

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shall live just where you prefer. I will do just as you say about the house — if you will be happier here than anywhere else, I will pnrdiase it and all it contains, and it sV ‘dl be your home still. But — it must be mine, too; your own good judgment will tell you that I could not do this for you except under the protection of my name; and Cecile, I kiiow that your father and mother would approve. You have no friends to whom you can go for a home; you are not fitted to take care of yourself; you are my promised wife; you intend to marry me sometime; why postpone the event when we shall both be happier together? and I^m sure you diO not care any more than I what the world may say regarding the proper period for isolation and mourning.-’^

‘‘No, Howard, Cecile answered, thoughtfully, but with downcast eyes and flushed cheeks, “whatever you might deem right and proper for me, and my own conscience approved, I should not ask the world to decide for me.^^

“Then, dear, may I ask you to waive your prerogative, and let me name the day for our marriage ?^^ her lover asked, smiling.

Cecile sat erect, and turning to him with something of solemnity in her manner, laid her hands upon his shoulders, and raising her earnest eyes to his, said:

“Howard, I am very young — six years younger than you. I have never been taught to depend upon myself, hardly to choose for myself upon any important question; I do not even feel that my education is complete; I have much to learn yet, and sometimes I think that my character has not developed fully, I have such strange thoughts, aspirations and feelings. You are far beyond me in intellect, education and years, and I am afraid

“Afraid of what, my darling?^'’ the young man asked very tenderly, as she faltered.

“ Afraid that as I am now I am not quite fitted to become your constant companion,'’^ she answered, leaning back upon his shoulder with a sigh; “I love you — with my whole heart I love you, Howard — in that I could never change; but I fear sometimes that I cannot keep pace with you, and — and I could not hear that you should be disappointed in me'. I had hoped that the year we were to have waited would help me to grow stronger in character, more mature and more womanl}^, and more companionable for you, who are so mucli wiser than

And why cannot you mature and develop — why cannot you achieve all that you wish as my wife?’^ her lover asked, half wondering, half amused at this new phase of her character, this sweet, thoughtful gravity, in which she was very lovely.

I slionld try just as hard, certainly, only

Oecile's confusion, as she hesitated and glanced shyly up at him, was very charming.

Only what?'^

She hid her eyes upon her breast, as if half ashamed to tell him her doubt.

Only if I should not succeed, and you should be disappointed in me after all, there would be no help for you — you would be obliged to put up with me all your

Howard Montgomery’s handsome face gleamed with amusement at the confession, but it was very fond and tender withal, as he wound both his arms about the lithe black-robed figure, and drew her almost convulsively to his breast.

‘‘Oh, my devoted darling! to think that you should plan to put yourself upon probation like that for me! I3id I not tell you that I loved you, and did you suppose that it would be possible for me to change anymore than for you? I want you just as you are; I cannot wait for what you will be by and by. I had no idea that you were thinking so deeply, so gravely — that your aspirations were so high. I shall have to look after my own laurels, or you will be outstripping me yet, and then the disappointment will be reversed. But, Cecile, if these are all your objections, we will be married to-morrow.”

“ Oh, no! not to-morrow,” she interrupted, earnestly, yet half smiling; “ to-morrow will be Friday, and al-

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though I am not superstitious generally, I do not think I would quite like Friday to be my wedding-day/^

^•1 had not thought of its being Friday to-morrow/^ Howard answered, with luminous eyes, as he saw that she was yielding; ^^but will your ladyship object to Saturday?

“Really, Cecile,^^ he added, as he saw the blood rush in a torrent to her blue-veined temples, “something will have to be done about the house next week/^

Cecile’s beautiful eyes Avandered about the loA^ely room in which they AA^ere sitting, and a wistful expression stole into them. It was hard to think that all those treasures that had been so dear to her must be cold and scattered in every direction.

She sighed heavily; then looking up into her loveFs face she said, quietly, but Avith lips that quivered slightly:

“Howard, it shall be just as yon say.^^

“Bless you, my own, you have taken a heavy burden off my heart. It shall be Saturday, at eleven, then, and we will be married here in your own home very quietly, Avith only a feAV of our real friends to Avitness the cei-emony — you shedl choose Avho they shall be, Cecile,” HoAvard said, feeling much relieved to have gained her consent so readily.

“ They Avill indeed be very few*, Howard, and I shall have little difficulty in naming them,"^ Cecile answered, lifting her head someAvhat proudly.

“Do you suppose,'^ she continued, as she met her lover’s questioning glance, “ that I do not realize the diffei*ence betAveen Oecile Vavasour of to-day and a month ago? Why, Howard, I have received less than a dozen letters of condolence, and no one save Helen and dear Mrs. Carrol, Emmie and Hattie, has come to sympathize vvith me in all my trouble. I knoAv that it is because I have lost fortune Avith father and mother, but the loss of such friends cannot harm me; they are not Avorthy the name, and nothing could make me Avholly wretched while you are true to me.”

Cecile, you did not doubt me — ^you did not fear that

I would be untrue?” Howard asked^ bending to look into ber eyes.

He had winced as she spoke his sister’s name, but he would not hurt her by telling her of her fierce opposition to their marriage.