A Romantic Young Lady. Grant Robert

myself to them, or rather the time had slipped away before I realized it.

      There was some ground after all for my father's reproof. It was possible that my neglect and apparent disregard of his wishes had led him to speak severely of Mr. Dale. The thought comforted me and brought sleep to my eyes. I rose early, and spent an hour before breakfast in reading the Annual Report of one of the Railway Companies in which I held stock; and I went downstairs with a confused mind, but with a sense of awakened virtue. I was cheerful and animated at table, and asked several questions concerning mortgage bonds and sinking funds that brought a pleasant expression to my father's face.

      The reason why I felt so buoyant was not merely the light-heartedness of repentance. My romantic spirit had conceived a scheme for convincing my father that he had unjustly sneered at Mr. Dale's business capacity. I was resolved to consult him as to my investments, and I felt sure that the profits accruing from his sage advice would plead his cause more eloquently than any words of mine. Let but my father perceive my admirer's sterling qualities, and I knew that he would be eager to make amends for his injustice by pushing him forward in business. The idea took strong possession of me, for ever since hearing Aunt Helen speak of Mr. Dale's lack of means I had been eager at heart to assist him. I would gladly have asked him to put my money into some commercial venture, and have insisted upon his keeping a portion of the gains; but to that I felt he would never consent.

      And yet I did not believe that I was in love with Roger Dale. The thought never occurred to me. I was ready to have our relations continue indefinitely as they were. But I was not able to regard the hostility of my family without impatience that added a spice of martyrdom to my interviews with him. The very fact that others thought ill made it all the more incumbent upon me to be steadfast and undoubting.

      IV

      Before I had an opportunity to broach the question of investments to Mr. Dale, Aunt Agnes added her quota to my sense of wrong. One evening when she came to dinner I divined, from the intense rigidity of her posture at table, that she was offended with me. To tell the truth, I felt a trifle guilty. My visits to her during the winter had been spasmodic and hurried. What was worse, so greatly was I carried away by my social success, that whenever we did meet I prattled on about fashionable frivolities regardless of her frown. But though I was conscious of not standing in her good graces, I felt tolerably secure from comments on the score of Mr. Dale, for the reason that as she never went anywhere she would know nothing of my intimacy with him unless Aunt Helen or my father were to make her a confidant; and this I did not think likely. Therefore, when she introduced the subject while we were alone together in the drawing-room after dinner, I was a little disconcerted.

      "Who is this Mr. Gale whose name I see connected with yours?" she asked severely.

      "With mine?"

      "Yes, with yours. Don't beat about the bush! You know perfectly well whom I mean."

      "Excuse me, Aunt Agnes, there is no Mr. Gale among my acquaintance. I know a Mr. Dale."

      She frowned, and began to fumble in her pocket. "The principle is the same whether it is Gale or Dale or Tompkins. I never expected to learn of my niece's engagement from the public press. I am confident the notice said 'Gale.' Ah! I thought so. Plain as the nose on your face," she added, producing from her porte-monnaie a newspaper cutting and reading aloud: "'It is rumored that the engagement of the beautiful and accomplished daughter of Augustus Harlan, the Railway Magnate, to Mr. Roger Gale of this city will soon be announced.'"

      "It is not true, Aunt Agnes," I cried indignantly. Needless to say I was startled at this bit of information, coming too as it did from such an unexpected source. My aunt's knowledge of it seemed fully as remarkable to me as the fact of the publication.

      "I trust not," she replied with emphasis. "I did not seriously suppose my own niece so far lost to all sense of propriety as to take such a step unbeknown to me. But it seems to me, Virginia, you must have been behaving in a, to say the least, very peculiar manner, to get your name into the newspapers. Where there is so much smoke there is apt to be a little fire. Who is this Mr. Gale?"

      "His name is Dale, Aunt Agnes."

      "Well, Dale then. You won't put me off by quibbling. If you want your father to know of it, you are taking just the course to make me tell him."

      "My father knows all there is to know. Mr. Dale is a friend of mine and comes to the house by permission. There is no possibility of an engagement between us."

      "An engagement! I should hope not. Do you consider yourself qualified to enter upon the cares and responsibilities of married life?"

      "I have already said that I have no intention of getting married."

      "Getting married! Why, the child is crazy. You talk of matrimony as if it were as simple a proceeding as changing your dress or going to a party."

      "Some people would appear to find it so," I answered, goaded to impertinence.

      But Aunt Agnes apparently did not perceive my innuendo. "I dare say," said she with asperity. "That is because there are so many fools in the world."

      We sat in silence for some minutes. My aunt was so much excited that I could see her hands tremble as she put the obnoxious cutting back into her porte-monnaie. All of a sudden she looked at me over her glasses and said, —

      "I am willing to give you one more chance, Virginia."

      I waited for her to continue.

      "If you choose to take advantage of it, well and good. If not, you must go your own ways. I am not going to make my life a burden over you any longer. If you prefer to be giddy and foolish, let those take the responsibility who have encouraged you to become so. No one shall blame me."

      "You know, Aunt Agnes, I wish to be nothing of the sort."

      "Very well, then. I propose to pass the summer in Europe, and it strikes me as an excellent opportunity for you to cut adrift from the objectionable associations you have formed during the past few months. With a fresh start, and surroundings calculated to inspire in you a desire for self-improvement, it will not be too late to hope for better things. I have every confidence in the natural stability of your character if you are once put upon the right track. I blame your advisers more than I blame you."

      I listened to her words with some disquietude. I had never crossed the Atlantic, and at any ordinary time would have jumped at the chance. But I had already other plans in store for the summer that I did not feel prepared to relinquish, even for the pleasure of a trip to Europe.

      "It is very kind of you to think of me," I said.

      "No, it isn't. It's only natural," she answered shortly. "You are my brother's child, and let alone any affection I may have for you, it is my duty to save you from harm if I can."

      "Who else is going?" I asked out of sheer cowardice; for I had already made up my mind to decline the invitation.

      "Who else? Nobody. If a woman at my age has not learned to travel without an escort, it is time she did. I suppose that's what you're driving at. Well, what do you say? Go, or remain at home as you like. Only I shall regard it as a choice once and for all."

      "Aunt Agnes," I answered with an endeavor to express in my tone and manner the affection and gratitude I felt, "I thank you with all my heart for your kindness. Whatever you may say, it was extremely kind of you to offer to take me abroad with you, and I wish I could go."

      "What is there to prevent your going?" she inquired sharply.

      I hesitated an instant, and then boldly spoke the truth, though I knew it would operate like a two-edged sword: —

      "I have already promised to spend the summer at Tinker's Reach with Aunt Helen, and she would be disappointed if I failed her at the last moment, for all her plans are made on that understanding."

      "Ah! That is it," she replied with bitter calmness. "Very well, I disclaim all further responsibility. You act with your eyes open, and must take the consequences."

      There was so much pain and concern in her expression that for an instant I hesitated, and thought of changing my mind. I went to her and knelt down beside her chair.

      "Aunt