The American Senator

very unlike others on whom she had played her arts. None of her lovers, or mock lovers, had been serious and stern and uncomfortable as he. There had been no other who had ever attempted to earn his bread. To her the butterflies of the world had been all in all, and the working bees had been a tribe apart with which she was no more called upon to mix than is my lady’s spaniel with the kennel hounds. But the chance had come. She had consented to exhibit her allurements before a man of business and the man of business had at once sat at her feet. She had soon repented⁠—as the reader has seen. The alliance had been distasteful to her. She had found that the man’s ways were in no wise like her ways⁠—and she had found also that were she to become his wife, he certainly would not change. She had looked about for a means of escape⁠—but as she did so she had recognized the man’s truth. No doubt he had been different from the others, less gay in his attire, less jocund in his words, less given to flattery and sport and gems and all the little wickednesses which she had loved. But they⁠—those others had, one and all, struggled to escape from her. Through all the gems and mirth and flattery there had been the same purpose. They liked the softness of her hand, they liked the flutter of her silk, they liked to have whispered in their ears the bold words of her practised raillery. Each liked for a month or two to be her special friend. But then, after that, each had deserted her as had done the one before; till in each new alliance she felt that such was to be her destiny, and that she was rolling a stone which would never settle itself, straining for waters which would never come lip high. But John Morton, after once saying that he loved her, had never tired, had never wished to escape. He had been so true to his love, so true to his word, that he had borne from her usage which would have fully justified escape had escape been to his taste. But to the last he had really loved her, and now, on his death bed, he had sent for her to come to him. She would not be coward enough to refuse his request. “Should he say anything to you about his will don’t refuse to hear him, because it may be of the greatest importance,” Lady Augustus whispered to her daughter as the carriage was driven up to the front door.

It was then four o’clock, and it was understood that the two ladies were to stay that one night at Bragton, a letter having been received by Lady Ushant that morning informing her that the mother as well as the daughter was coming. Poor Lady Ushant was almost beside herself⁠—not knowing what she would do with the two women, and having no one in the house to help her. Something she had heard of Lady Augustus, but chiefly from Mrs. Hopkins who certainly had not admired her master’s future mother-in-law. Nor had Arabella been popular; but of her Mrs. Hopkins had only dared to say that she was very handsome and “a little upstartish.” How she was to spend the evening with them Lady Ushant could not conceive⁠—it having been decided, in accordance with the doctor’s orders, that the interview should not take place till the next morning. When they were shown in Lady Ushant stood just within the drawing-room door and muttered a few words as she gave her hand to each. “How is he?” asked Arabella, throwing up her veil boldly, as soon as the door was closed. Lady Ushant only shook her head. “I knew it would be so. It is always so with anything I care for.”

“She is so distressed, Lady Ushant,” said the mother, “that she hardly knows what she does.” Arabella shook her head. “It is so, Lady Ushant.”

“Am I to go to him now?” said Arabella. Then the old lady explained the doctor’s orders, and offered to take them to their rooms. “Perhaps I might say a word to you alone? I will stay here if you will go with mamma.” And she did stay till Lady Ushant came down to her. “Do you mean to say it is certain,” she asked⁠—“certain that he must⁠—die?”

“No;⁠—I do not say that.”

“It is possible that he may recover?”

“Certainly it is possible. What is not possible with God?”

“Ah;⁠—that means that he will die.” Then she sat herself down and almost unconsciously took off her bonnet and laid it aside. Lady Ushant, then looking into her face for the first time, was at a loss to understand what she had heard of her beauty. Could it be the same girl of whom Mrs. Hopkins had spoken and of whose brilliant beauty Reginald had repeated what he had heard? She was haggard, almost old, with black lines round her eyes. There was nothing soft or gracious in the tresses of her hair. When Lady Ushant had been young men had liked hair such as was that of Mary Masters. Arabella’s yellow locks⁠—whencesoever they might have come⁠—were rough and uncombed. But it was the look of age, and the almost masculine strength of the lower face which astonished Lady Ushant the most. “Has he spoken to you about me?” she said.

“Not to me.” Then Lady Ushant went on to explain that though she was there now as the female representative of the family she had never been so intimate with John Morton as to admit of such confidence as that suggested.

“I wonder whether he can love me,” said the girl.

“Assuredly he does, Miss Trefoil. Why else should he send for you?”

“Because he is an honest man. I hardly think that he can love me much. He was to have been my husband, but he will