The banker's daughter

Front matter

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CHAPTER 1. # “still willing to be an old man's darling."

The home of Lawrence Westbrook*^ New York banker, is one of the prominent houses on the avenue. Handsome without; elaborate, but elegant, within. The room where two girls sit talking and laughing bears evidence that nothing is lacking that money can buy, and good taste select, to make a home luxurious, comfortable, inviting.

Two girls talking and laughing as only two bright, happy girls of seventeen can talk and laugh. They had just entered the world, as it were, fresh from their school-books. and dolls, and to-day are talking over the men and women of the world much as they chattered .over their dolls a few years back — a few years that seemed so many days. Two girls to whom life so far is one long, sunshiny holiday. Two girls who, judging from their talk and simultaneous bursts of laughter, are one in spirit and feeling. Yet there is a vast difference between them, a difference that would fill a volume, though it can be told in a single word. A heart is the difference — and the girl with the yellow hair and baby roses in her cheeks has it. You can* see it in her eyes — wonderfully dark eyes with yellow hair — that look blue and gray in turn. Clear, bright eyes that never burn, but like two deep wells of crystal water reflect the flight of every bird of passage. A tall, lithe girl, bright, joyous with an airiness that springs from an innocent heart; and in this she differs from her companion, who is gay, but not joyous; airy, but it is the airiness of a butterfly — verily, this gay little brunette with her petite form, roguish eyes, feather-brain, perpetual laughter, and nonsensical chatter, is a butterfly. Her light little head has never been bothered with one serious thought of life or of death. She believes the world owes her happiness — else why is she, a butterfly, here? — and she is going to have it. Happiness to her means a series of dressing, gossiping, d»dving, party-going, and such like, flirtations, and

, 6 THE BA Inker’s daughter.

— above all— sensations. AVhen she figures as a heroine in some great sensation, she will have gained the height of all earthly bliss. Shallow, unstable, a daughter of Vanity Fair, with not a grain of common sense; yet, strange to say, she is not envious, entertains no ill will toward her neighbor — in a word, Florence St. Vincent is an enemy only to herself.

“ Yes, 1 think he is handsome, Lilian,^^ Florence is saying, meditatively; but there is a smile on her lip, and she rolls her eyes in a manner that makes Lilian laugh as she says:

“And amusing, Florence.

“Oh, yes, amusing! George Washington Phipps is highly amusing/’ says Florence, with a most gomical expression of countenance, and instantly a peal of laughter from both the « girls fill the room.

“ Florence, we ought to be. ashamed for laughing so; Mr. Phipps is really a nice gentleman — ”

“And who said he wasn’t? Of course we ought to be ashamed of ourselves for laughing at G. W. Phipps. I think he is perfectly splendid — only he hasn’t time, to make love to me. You know he has his time all laid out; he gives himself just so much — ”

“ I know all about it; I often have heard papa laughing over it.”

“ Well, he allows himself just so .much time to make love, and just so much time is altogether too short,” says Florence, with an air of profound knowledge; “ for time’s up before he has got anywhere near proposing.”

, ^ “ Which suits Florence St. Vincent beautifully;” and Lilian’s merry laugh rings out again.

“ No, indeed,” says Florence, with a toss of her head. “ 1 wish he would propose.”

“ So that you could cast aside that odious name St Vincent for the more beautiful name of Phipps,” says Lilian, trying to look grave.

“Mrs. Phipps!” and Florence raises her hands in horror.

“ The namd will forever forbid the publication of the bans. When I marry, it shall be to an Arlington, a Lorraine—”

“ My dear Florence,” and Lilian’s arms are around Florence’s neck, and her fair face, with its half-smiling, half-serious expression, is near the sparkling, dark one, “ when you love a man enough to marry him you will say, ‘ What’s in a name?’ ”

“ Oh! Will I, indeed? Lilian Westbrook, let me tell you something,” and now Florence winds her arms, her eyes dancing the while, around Lilian’s neck, and lays her peachy cheek

THR banker’s daughter.

close to the baby rose: “ I love George Washington Phipps as much as I will ever love any man.^^

“ Plorenee!^^ and the grayish-blue eyes open wide, and the expression of surprise and horror on the fair face is indescribable. Florence, seeing it, cries:

“ What have I said? What have I done?’^ and her gay laughter fills the room for a minute.

“ Oh, Florence, you are only joking; for a moment I thought you were in earnest. The idea of you or me thinking of men in such a light would be preposterous.^’

“ Such a light! Explain, please,” says Florence, demurely. “ Oh, you know what I mean, Florence,” and the roses in Lilian’s cheeks grow brighter. “ We should not think about men, about falling in love and marriage, for — well, for the next five years, at least. ”

Florence’s laugh rings out once more.

“ What a dear, innocent child you are, Lilian, or rather you pretend to be. To hear you preach just now one would scarce believe you had a score of admirers in your train last night,”

“ Had I, Florence?” and liilian"^ fathomless eyes are fixed on Florence’s face.

“Oh, this is too much!” and Florence laughs until the tears come into her black eyes; but Cilian does not join in the laughter this time. “ Don’t try to look serious, Lilian Westbrook; you can’t m^ke me believe that you do not know that you have admirers without number.”

“ But you will believe, Florence, that I treat them all alike, that I show no partiality,” says Lilian, earnestly; but, somehow, she can no longer keep her eyes on Florence’s face.

“ Yes,” says Florence, all smiles; “ so far you have treated all alike, so far you have been a sensible girl, but you are willing to make a fool of yourself, you are vyilling to show a preference — ’ ’

“ For whom?”

“ Harold Koutledge,” and Florence laughs aloud, and Lilian’s face is scarlet.

“ Now you think I’m a witch. You couldn’t see that G. W. Phipps is in love with me, and 1 with him? Don’t apologize,” as Lilian was about to speak; “ you can’t help your blindness; you’ll have to be ten years in society before you begin to know a tithe of what I do to-day. You see, my dear Lilian, this knowledge comes naturally to me. My mother died when I was very young, but 1 recollect that she was awfully fashionable— a leader. Now, Lilian, maybe you are

THE BAHKEK’s HAUGHTEB.

not aware of the fact that you are in love with Harold Routledge, and he is in love with you—

“ Oh, Florence, what nonsense!^’ and Lilian laughs now; but it is a composed little laugh. “ You know Mr. Koutledge has never paid any particular attention to me. ’’

“ But he would like to; take my word for it, my dear/^

“ Indeed you are mistaken, Florence.

“ Lilian, flirt desperately with some one else at the ball to-night, and you will see how quickly you will bring Harold Routledge to your feet,^’ says Florence, in a mysterious half whisper.

Lilian laughs merrily now at the look of profound wisdom on Florence's face.

“ And with whom do you recommend me to flirt.^’’ she says, lightly.

“ Oh, dear, you won’t have any trouble about that, there are so many ready for it. I would say the Count de Carojae; he is desperately in love with you.”

Lilian is her airy self once more. Her silvery laugh rings out as she looks at Florence’s earnest face.

“ My dear Florence, you will have all the men we know in love with me before 3^00 stop.”

“ To the most stupid observer it is clear the count is in love with Lilian Westbrook, so we will not argue that point, please. But, 1 was about to say, the count is a’ dangerous man to trifle with. He would hate the successful suitor, pick a quarrel with him, and give him his choice of swords or pistols, and you would be the ca,use of a duel. Oh, if it were I! What delight, what happiness it would give me!”

“ Now, Florence, you are romancing. Do come back to common sense,” says Lilian, laughing.

Florence St. Vincent is as earnest as ever she was in her life.

“Lilian, what do you call common sense? What ‘Fifth Avenue belle do you know that would not give a year of her life to create such a sensation? To have a French nobleman and an American artist fight a duel about me! To be the talk of Jihe avenue, the town, the whole country! Oh, it is too blissful to contemplate!” and Florence clasps her hands and rolls up her eyes.

Lilian laughs until the tears roll down her cheeks.

“ What are you laughing at?” asks Florence, as if she had just come back to earth.

“ I’m laughing, Florence, for 1 know that you do not mean a word that you sa}^”

“ Lilian Westbrook, I never was more in earnest in all my

THE BAIs^KER’S DAUGHTER.

says Florence, in a tone of disgust. “ What a taste you have, what strange ideas —

“ Never mind, Florence; I shall educate my taste up to a sensation."’^

“ Don’t make fun of me, please. Now, to go back from whence we wandered. If you are afraid to flirt with Count de Carojae, I’ll think of some one else. Ah, and I have him instanterl He likes you — I know he does — and I like him — I think he is perfectly grand. And I must confess I’m just a little afraid of him. He keeps me at a distance, and yet he is always very pleasant to me. I tell you to flirt with him, but I would not dare attempt it myself.”

There is no knowing how long Florence would go on in this strain, only Lilian, whose curiosity is aroused, interrupts her.

“ Whom are you talking about, Florence?”

Florence laughs as she begins:

“ ‘ Handsome and tall, with command in his eye,

The sweetest of smiles giving sternness the lie;

His soldierly bearing keeps foemen at bay;

His hair is dipped close in the orthodox way;

His nose has a curve from the bridge to the tip;

A statue might envy his short upper lip.’

How did I ever come to think of that verse? Happy thought, indeed. It is a most perfect portrait; do you recognize it, Lilian?”

Lilian laughs and shakes her head.

Florence looks provoked as she* says:

“ You don’t know—”

“The short upper lip a statue might envy? No; all the handsome men that I know have their lip nicely hid away under a mustache. There, don’t get angry! I’ll try to guess — ”

“You’ll try to guess? How very stupid you are, Lilian! I am sure my verse put John Strebelow as plainly before you as if he were standing there in the flesh.”

“ John Strebelow! Why, yes, if you had not mentioned a flirtation in connection with him, I would have recognized the portrait at once. Your verse is, indeed, a perfect description of him.”

“ Thank you. Now, then, you must flirt with John Strebelow— he isn’t dangerous for you— if you want to bring Harold lioiitledge to terms.”

“ Flirt with John Strebelow!” and Lilian raises her hands with a movement that says she can not entertain such a thought.

“ Dear, handsome John Strebelovv! he is one of the best of men — ”

“ Oh, what gush!”

“ Florence,” says Lilian, not heeding this interruption, “ I was his sweetheart once.”

“ You! you John IStrebelow’s sweetheart! Why, when— where — where was I when you were his sweetheart?” cries Florence, all excitement.

“ 1 don’t think you were very far away, Florence, ‘when John Strebelow used to take me on his knee, and 1 would nestle my head on his bosom, and — ”

“ Lilian Westbrook!” cries Florence^ shocked.

“ It was some years ago, Flprehce, when I was a young lady of ten summers, or thereabouts.”

“ Oh, dear, that spoils it! I thought it happened lately,” says Florence, as Lilian laughs in her horrified face. “ Well, I’m sure John Strebelow has never had a sweetheart since. He has never fallen in love, and a silver hair is beginning to peep out here and there among the black ones. He is the handsomest man and best catch in our set to-day. I would say to you, set your cap for him, only he is too young.”

“ Too young! Florence, I look upon John Slrebelow as an elder brother; he is fully fifteen years older than L. Ah! I see you are only talking nonsense. ’ ’

“Not a bit of it. John Strebelow is too young for you by thirty years; Harold Routledge, by forty years. Don’t make a fool of yourself, Lilian Westbrook, by marrying a young man. He’ll tyrannize ov-er you, he’ll be jealous of you, or you will be jealous of him. Nice life you’ll have of it, either way. Do as 1 shall do, my dear girl; marry a man old enough to be your grandfather; that is the man who has the millions. Catch me to marry a po'or artist like Harold Routledge! Every one knows you are a rich heiress; how do you know but he is after your money? Marry a man, my dear Lilian, who has one leg already in the grave; he’ll get the other one in in a very short time, and then you’ve been married; you are independent; you are. rich; you are a charming young widow— and, oh> what a time you can have!”

“ 1 know you are joking, Florence, but. you make my blood run cold all the same,” says Lilian, with a smile and’ a little shiver.

“ You know I’m only joking! Now, if that isn’t provoking. 1 tell you I am awfully in earnest. Don’t you remember when we played with our dolls, I always tokl you that 1 would like to be an old man’s darling?”

THE BANKER^S DAUGHTER.

“ Child’s talk, Florence, and it’s the same to-day.”

“ Nothing of the kind. I’m still willing to be an old man’s darling, and I have my eye on two or three retired millionaire men who are very young. They came into this wicked world as late as the beginning of the present century. ”

“ Florence!”

“ Don’t begin to preach; haven’t time to listen,” says Florence, rising with a shrill little laugh. “I have stayed here so long that I won’t get through my list to-day,” consulting her visiting tablet, “ and now, my dear, you know why I can’t marry G. W. Phipps, though, poor fellow, I love him very much.”

“ Why can’t you marry him? you haven’t told me.”

” What a little stupid! Of course I have told you. Because he is too young; but I really believe if he had old Davidson’s or old Brown’s money, 1 would be tempted to overlook his youth. By-by, dear; I’ll see you at the ball to-night; and be sure that you take my advice.”

CHAPTER II. THE banker’s daughter

“ Well, Florence has queerer notions every day she lives. I wonder if she really means what she says? What a silly question I 0^ course she doesn’t. ”

Lilian says this as if it settled it to her own satisfaction, yet she rests her cheek on her little hand, and falls to thinking over what Florence has been saying. She has no idea that she has been sitting nearly an hour where Florence left her, until a voice says:

“ Well, my little daughter, what means that serious face?”

The voice belongs to the banker, Lilian’s father, who has entered the room without attracting his daughter’s attention.

A man of half a century, in robust health, who seems perfectly satisfied with himself and all the world. One of the solid men of New York — people say— one of the lucky ones whose every speculation is a gold mine. He has a pleasant, ruddy face, framed with thick, iron-gray hair, and the voice that says: “ My little daughter, what means that serious face?” is full of tenderness.

I have had serious thoughts, father. I’ve been trying to be serious,” says Lilian, smiling, as she rises to meet her father, and catching both of his hands, looks up in his face.

“ You have been trying to be serious! Well, judging from n

THE banker's daughter.

your face vvlien I came in, 1 think that 3mu succeeded. But isn't this a new departure, Lilian?" says the banker, smiling down at the lovely face.

“ Father, I believe you and Aunt Fanny make such a big baby of me that it keeps me from being a bit wise."

Lawrence Westbrook laughs as he says: '

“ Poor Lilian! so you think you are not a bit wise?"

“ It's no laughing matter, father. Florence says 1 don't begin to know what she does; and I’ve been thinking, and I know 1 don't," says Lilian, her words earnest, but her eyes smiling.

“ And I know you don't," says the banker, laying his hand on the golden head; “ and may Heaven preserve my little girl from Florence St. Vincent's worldly wisdom! I think Aunt Fanny and myself will have to continue making a big baby of 3^011, Lilian," concludes her father, laughing.

“ Oh, no, you won't, father!" she cries, quickly, with a look half serious, half smiling. “ Yesterday I was a child, to-day I am a woman."

What!” cries the banker, in smiling surprise, as he scrutinizes the fair face. “ Yesterday a child, and to-day a woman ?"

Lilian laughs gayly and nods her head.

“ Then, my dear, 1 have made a discovery."

“ A discovery, father?"

“ Yes-: when the girl of seventeen suddenly discovers that she is no longer a child, there's a man in the case; she is in love."

The banker spoke in a half whisper, then burst out laughing at the look of dismay on his daughter's face.

“Father!" and the roses in Lilian's cheeks spread untii they touch the roots of her golden hair.

“ Ah, that's a tell-tale blush, Lilian. Take my advice, little one;" and- the banker takes the rosy face between his palms: “ Do not give an extra thought to any one particular man for the next three or four 3'ears."

“ For the next five years, father; and you are wrong, altogether wrong, in that discovery of yours," says Lilian, earnestly.

“ Am 1 ?" and the banker laughs. -

“ Oh, I know by that laugh that you don't believe that you are; but you are wrong, father."

“ Of course I am, as time shall tell;" and the banker laughs again. .

“ Father, you are bent on teasing me to-day. 1 won't talk to you any more;’"’ a'nd Lilian turns away, with a laugh that denotes anything but anger.

“ A letter for you, Miss Westbrook, says a servant.

“ The seal of Oouht de Carojae,^’ says Lilian, as she holds the letter in her hand.

“ AVhat has the Count de Carojae to say to my daughter?^^ asks Lawrence Westbrook.

“ Pll tell you in one moment, father,’^ and Lilian breaks the seal and reads the contents. “ An invitation for a drive to-morrow!” cries Lilian, with a gratified smile.

“ Lucky girl,” says the banker, good-humoredly. “ I think I am safe in saying that there are a hundred young ladies, if there is one, in the upper part of this city, to-day, looking for that invitation. Now, own up, Lilian: douT you feel just a little pleased at being the chosen one?”

” Well, yes, father, I do,” says Lilian, her eyes dancing. “ I feel honored, delighted; -for Florence says that there are young ladies fairly dying for a smile from this French nobleman.

“ Poor things!” and Lawrence Westbrook laughs heartily.

Lilian joins in his laughter as she says:

“Of course it is very silly, father; but girls are girls, you know, and one doesnT see a real count every day.”

“ Very true, my dear. How you will be envied to-morrow — ”

“No, father,” says Lilian, slowly. “ I doiFt think that I shall accept — ”

“ Lilian, I thought you were delighted?” says her father, elevating his brows.

“lam delighted. 1 could waltz around the room because I am the chosen one, but — ”

Lilian hesitates, and a smile plays about her lips.

“ But what?” says the banker, who regards her curiously.

“ Oh, 1 don’t know,” with a little nervous laugh. “ Now that I have his invitation, I do not care anything about it.”

“ Now that you have, you don’t care! Ah, Lilian, you are a spoiled, pampered child. Nothing but what is beyond your reach delights you. You must get over that, .my dear — ”

“ You dear, kind father, stop lecturing. I don’t like Count de Carojae, and I will not drive with him to-morrow. Ah, some one is coming!” and Lilian darts over to the window, and pretends to be impatiently w^atching the street.

The door opens, and Mrs. Holcombe, the banker’s widowed sister, enters. Mrs. Holcombe is a refined, motherly woman, who has been at the head of the banker’s household, and a mother to his daughter, since the death of his wife, eight years ago.

Fanny,” says the banker, “ our little, girl has received an invitation to drive to-morrow with no less a personage than a real live count!” and the father smiles meaningly at his sister as he nods his head toward the window.

“ The Count de Oarojae, I suppose,” says Mrs. Holcombe.

Lilian starts with a little cry of surprise as her aunt speaks, but it is not her aunt’s voice that startles her. She saw a lady and gentleman driving by behind a stylish team. The lady was Helen Geurney, an acquaintance; the gentleman was Harold Routledge; and looking up at the window, he saw her, and with an indifferent look, raised his hat. They dash by as Lilian gives that little cry, and she hears her father saying to her aunt :

“ Yes, the Count de Carojae; but she is going to decline the honor. What do you think of that?”

“Oh, no, I’m not, father; I’m going to accept the count’s invitation, with your permission,” says Lilian, turning quickly around; and seeing her aunt, she gives a hysterical little laugh, and rushes over and flings her arms about that lady’s neck.

“ Oh, Aunt Fanny, won’t it be glorious to drive out with the count to-morrow and — and spite somebody?”

“ Lilian!” says Aunt Fanny, reproachfully, and she tries to look in her niece’s face. “ Who is somebody?”

Lilian throws up her head and laughs airily.

“ I mean to spite everybody, aunt. Have I said anything so very terrible? if I have. I’ll run away and look over my ball toilet, and give you and father a chance to talk it over;” and with another laugh, Lilian trips out of the room.

Mrs. Holcombe sighs and shakes her head at the banker.

“ You have given her too much of her own way, Lawrence. ”

“ Nonsense,” says the banker, with a smile. “ She’s a wild young thing, but her heart is all riglit. Lilian is the sort of girl that makes a very good woman. ”

Lilian does not look over her ball attire at once. In her own room she sits with her hand under her chin.

Harold Routladge and Helen Geurney out driving, she thinks; and how coolly Harold, bowed to her. Well, what need she care whether he was pleased or displeased at the sight of her? Was he angry because she teased him last night, by always being engaged to some one else when he asked her to dance? Of course not. How could he know that she tried to .tease him, or what does he care? But Florence said that Harold loves her! Ah, Florence is wrong — of course she is wrong!

THE banker's daughter.

and it’s just as well. What does she, that isn't going to think of any particular man for the next five years, care for Harold Routledge, and who wants him to care for her?

“ I think anything of .Harold Routledge!” and she springs up, giving her skirts a shake that places them in their proper fold, and her head a disdainful little nod.

“ ‘ Free as the blossom that hangs on a bough —

1 never have given a tlmuglit to a man,

And why in the world should I give one now?’ ”

Chapter III. At The Ball

It is the season in New York when those who wish to be thought fashionable must attend a ball, party, theater, opera, or something of the sort, every night. The season

“ When cards, invitations, and three-cornered notes FI}’- about like white butterflies — gay little motes In the sunbeam of fashion.”

To-night the ball is at Blaisdale's — the ball Florence mentioned to Lilian to-day. A carpet is laid from the aristocratic doorsteps down to the curbstone, where carriage after carriage rolls up and deposits its load of richly attired men and women. A goodly share of the wealth of New York is represented here to-night, for Blaisdale's door

“ Is barred with gold, and opens but to golden keys.”

The Blaisd ale saloon and rooms adjoining are all light, and not a shadow to be seen lingering anywhere. The air is heavy with the odor of the floral decorations, and there is music and dancing, and talking and laughter, all at once; for elderly folks must talk, and young folks must dance, else where is the enjoyment? A number of celebrities is here to-night, but the number is lost sight of for one. Every eye is turned — when we say every eye we mean curious eyes, envious eyes, eyes of marriageable daughters and the all-seeing eyes of their mammas — toward a spot in the bright saloon where two men are standing in conversation. Which is the observed? One is very tall, carrying his handsome massive head above every man in the room, and his well-knit frame is splendidly proportioned. The other is below the medium height, thin and wiry. The face of the tall man is a passport to any Iionest man's cojifideiice. A fair face glowing with health, and lighted with a

THE BANKEK^S DAUGHTEll.

pair of dark eyes that beam with tenderness, a face whose perfect features bear the imprint of candor, frankness, and generosity. The face of the other is sharp, sallow, with eyes small, black, and vindictive. There is a charm about the easy, elegant bearing of the tall man; the other talks with his shoulders, his hands, his eyebrows. The tall man—but why say another word in his praise? He has a magnificent physique, a handsome, honest face, a graceful bearing, but he is only plain John Strebelow, American gentleman, and pales into uttter insignificance by the side of the man whose head does not reach the tips of his broad shoulders — Count de Carojae, French nobleman, the observed of all observers.

How stupid of the count, when a hundred hearts in that room are beating for him, only to stand there talking to John Strebelow! DoesnT he intend to talk to anybody else to-night? Why does he not ask some one to dance? Who is he waiting for? Ah! he loses all interest in his conversation at last, and he turns to leave John Strebelow as a buzz runs through the room over some new arrival.

The arrival is the banker^s daughter, and instantly a hundred hearts beat jealously, for the count has lost no time in making his way to her side. John Strebelow^s eyes have followed him; for a moment they linger on Lilian; then he turns away, and is soon engaged in conversation elsewhere.

“ Good-evening, Mees Westbrook.

“ Good-evening, Count de Oarojae,^^ says Lilian, gayly.

“ I have not danced to-night. I was waiting for you. I thought you would never come. '^

As the count spoke Lilian happened to raise her eyes, and standing a' few feet from her is Harold Routledge with a group of young men. Harold Routledge is of medium height, has a pale, handsome face, and beautiful dark-gray eyes, which are fixed on Lilianas face now with a look of sad entreaty. There is a look of defiance in her eyes as they meet his for a moment, and she gives the count a bright smile as she says:

“ You were waiting for me, count?^^

“ Yes, Mees Westbrook.

“ AVhat dance do you want?’^ says Lilian, holding up her card for him to write his name.

“ I shall take the next dance, and as many more as Mees Westbrook will give me.^’