Chapter 33

LITTLE BROWN PARTRIDGES.

May 20.

I wonder if I couldn't _earn_ money. For the last week--nothing but trouble. No check from Father. Hugh Bellmer I have not seen. Strathay has really gone, spirited away by that superior cousin.

And Mrs. Whitney has deserted me--oh, if it were not for money troubles, I wouldn't mind that, cruel as was the manner of it!

Of course the newspapers soon learned that Strathay had left town. Trust them for that; and to make sensational use of it! The first I knew of it, indeed, was when one day Cadge came bursting into the room.

"Isn't it a shame?" she began in her piercing voice; as ever at fever heat of unrest, she waved at me a folded newspaper.

"Emphatically; but what is it?"

"That fierce tale of the _Echo_; haven't seen it? We couldn't print a line. Big Tom says the chief has put his foot down; won't have stories about women in private life, you know--without their consent. But why didn't you--why can't you give us a whack at it?"

"Because there isn't a word of truth in the whole disgusting--what does it say?"

I had seized the sheet from her hands and rapidly glanced over the staring headlines. Eagerly she interrupted me:--

"Oh, isn't it the worst ever? But I see how it happened. They must have sent out a leg man to get facts, and when no one would talk, they stirred this up in the office. But--not to print, now--what _are_ you going to do with His Lordship? Honest, Princess?"

"Nothing; there's absolutely nothing between us. He's a nice fellow, and I like him, and we're good friends; that's all. I--I knew he was going; fishing."

"Well, I'm glad of that. But so must I be going."

And she whisked out of the room, leaving in my hands this astounding outrage upon truth and decency:

BY EDWARD PEPPER.

Helen Winship is the most extraordinary woman living;

The most beautiful woman in the world;

A scientist of national repute;

She has just passed through a tragedy which has left an impress upon her whole life;

Most wonderful of all, she is the only American girl who has ever refused a titled lover.

This is her life story, told for the first time:--

_Chapter I.--Death:_

A woman's scream of agony!

A strange scene, like an alchemist's den, the light of falling day reflected from test tubes and crucibles, revealing in dark corners uncouth appliances, queer diagrams, strange odours. Upon the floor the inert figure of the foremost of New York's chemists; above his prostrate form, wild-eyed with horror at seeing his dramatic death, a beautiful woman, the most beautiful in the world.

This was the end of Prof. Carl Darmstetter;

This was how the legacy of science came to Helen Winship.

To carry it out, she has refused a title.

_Chapter II.--Love:_

Born upon a Western farm, Helen Winship's father is a yeoman of the sturdy stock that has laid the world under tribute for its daily bread.

Early she made the choice that devotes her life to science. She was the confidant of the dead chemist, whose torch of knowledge she took up firm-handed, when it fell from his nerveless fingers.

She is vowed as a vestal virgin to science.

Strange whim of destiny! Across this maiden life of devoted study came the shadow of a great name which for two hundred years has been blazoned upon the pages of England's history.

In the loom of fate the modest gray warp of Helen Winship's life crossed the gay woof of a Lord of high degree, and left a strange mark upon the web of time.

Love came to her--many times; but came at last in a guise that seldom woos in vain.

_Chapter III.--Sacrifice:_

Who has forgotten the memorable scene in the Metropolitan Opera House, when the beautiful Miss Winship took the vast audience by storm, causing almost a panic, which was exclusively reported in these columns?

It was followed by a greater sensation.

Rumour ran through the ranks of the Four Hundred, and the rustle of it was as the wind in a great forest. For one of the proudest titles from beyond the sea, before which the wealth and fashion of the city had marshalled their attractions, had passed them by to kneel at the feet of the lovely scholar.

The Earl of Strathay is the twelfth Earl of his house. He is twenty-one years old. His mother, the Countess Strathay, famous as a beauty, has been prominent in the "Prince's set."

Witley Castle, his seat, is one of the show places of England, though financially embarrassed by the follies of the late Earl.

It was Lord Strathay's intention, upon landing in New York to go West in a week; but he looked upon the fair investigator, and to look is to love.

He laid his title at the feet of the lovely daughter of Democracy, but with that smile whose sweetness is a marvel to all men, she shook her beautiful head.

She was wedded to learning.

Fretted by the pain, he plunged into the wilderness to hide like a wounded deer.

What shall be said of this beautiful woman, for whom men sigh as for the unattainable? That she is lovely as the morning? All New York knows it. That her walk is like a lily's swaying in the wind, her voice is the sweetest music that ever ravished ear, her hair a lure for sunbeams? It is the commonplace of conversation at every smart house.

For this lovely woman of science is no ascetic. She moves by right of beauty and high purpose, in the best society. This farmer's daughter walks among the proudest in the land, and none there is to compare with her.

Like the Admirable Crichton, no art is to her unknown, no accomplishment by her neglected. Her eager soul, not satisfied with dominion over the realm of beauty and of love, would have all knowledge for its sphere.

Amusing, isn't it?--to one who is not the heroine of the tale! The tragedy of Darmstetter revived, my scientific attainments--but oh, the worst--the worst of all--is the wicked lie that I am in the "best society."

Why, the very day before, we had been "at home," Mrs. Whitney and I, and hardly a soul that counts was here. Mrs. Van Dam had a convenient headache; I haven't seen her since Peggy's wedding. If she had not been so very civil--she and Mrs. Henry--I might think that even then she suspected that Strathay--

There were a few correct, vapid young men in gray trousers and long frock coats among our guests that day, but none worth serious attention. And the women!

One creature tucked tracks under the tea cloth, whereat Mrs. Whitney's pinched nose was elevated. Ethel saw the action--in spite of her mother and sister, the poor girl clings to me; I suppose it's natural that _she_ should love beauty--and hopping round the table at the first chance, she pulled out one, chuckling mightily.

"'Favour is deceitful and beauty is vain,'" she quoted in undertone; "oh, Nelly, take your share of the unco guid and the riders of hobby horses, and be thankful it's no larger."

Ethel doesn't know how great it is. There was the woman who insists on gloating over me as a proof of the superiority of her sex; the woman who had written a book, the woman who would talk about Karma, and the woman--there was more than one--who would talk about the Earl.

After they had gone, Mrs. Whitney's disgust was as plain as her horror of their appetite for cake and other creature comforts. But the storm broke in earnest a day or two later, after the last reception we shall ever hold together.

I can't describe it. I don't understand it. Women are fast leaving the city; it was too late for an "evening."

But that made no difference; I do not deceive myself. I am pressing with my shoulders against a mountain barrier--the prejudice of women--and it never, never yields. Active opposition I could fight; but the tactics are now to ignore me. In response to cards, I get "regrets," or women simply stay away.

Men--ah, yes, there are always men, and many of them like as well as admire me. But there is a subtle something that affects every man's thought of a woman of whom women disapprove. They don't condemn me--ah, a man can be generous!--they imagine they allow for women's jealousies; but deep in their hearts lies hid the suspicion that only women are qualified judges of women. They respect me, but they reserve judgment; and they do not wholly respect themselves, for in order to see me, they evade their lawful guardians--their wives and mothers.

It may have been the wine--I overheard two young cads making free of my house to discuss my affairs.

"Mrs. Terry really dragged Hughy out of town?" one of them asked, assuming a familiarity with Bellmer that I suspect he cannot claim.

"Guess so; he's playing horse with old Bellmer's money; always wrong side of the betting."

"Needs Keeley cure. Good natured cuss; wonder if the Winship'll get him."

"Lay ye three to one--say twenties--that he gets away, like that Strathay--"

I addressed some smiling speech to the wretches, but through the whole evening my cheeks did not cease to burn.

When the last guest had gone, tired and hysterical as she was, Mrs. Whitney began a long tirade.

"It must be stopped! It must be stopped!" she cried, pacing back and forth.

The blaze of anger improved her. She must have been a handsome woman once--tall and slender, with fine dark eyes that roll about dramatically.

"I don't see what there is to stop," I said, perversity taking possession of me, though at heart I quite agreed with her estimate of the evening. "The object of an entertainment being to entertain, why shouldn't the men I know come to ours? If they stayed away, you'd be disappointed; but when they come, as they did to-night, you're frightened, or pretend to be."

"I'm not frightened; I'm appalled. I don't mean Mr. Burke, though he's a detrimental--and, by the way, he was as much distressed to-night as I was. I mean the men who have families--wives and daughters! Why didn't they bring 'em--or stay away?"

"I'd thank John Burke to mind his own business," I cried hotly. "He doesn't have to come here unless he wants to."

"There is only one way," she went on, as if speaking to herself, pacing the floor and fanning herself violently--for her face, and especially her nose, was as red as a beet; she really laces disgracefully--"there's only one way; I must fall ill at once. I must have nervous prostration, or--it's nearly June. I shall leave town. Heavens! What a night!"

"You're assuming a great deal. Our arrangements were made by two, and are hardly to be broken by one. You can't agree to matronize me--let me buy furniture for you, and then abandon me, cut off my social opportunities--leave me--"

"Social opportunity! Social collapse! Disgrace! Why, your prospects were really extraordinary. But now! Where was Meg to-night? Where was Mrs. Marmaduke? Why did my own sister-in-law stay away?"

"I don't know; do you?"

Her harangue begun, she couldn't stop. "Where's Strathay?" she demanded. "Gone; and no announcement--what was the matter? Needn't tell me you refused him! And why is the letter box always full of duns? Can't you pay your bills? Why didn't you say so earlier? Would have saved us both a deal of trouble!"

"I didn't tell you I had money."

"You played the part, ordering dresses fit for a Duchess, and things for the flat. You spent enough on a wedding gift for Peggy--or was it a promise to spend?--to support a family a month--peace offering because you'd abused her!--Of course if you'd made the great success everybody expected, you'd be on the top wave, and so should I. I don't deny I thought of that. But now--an evening like this--no women worth counting and a horde of men--well, it's bad enough for me, but it's worse for you. No one'll say I brought 'em."

"Oh, no," I assented.

"It comes to this, then," she went on at full heat, flushing and fanning herself still more violently; "either you or I must leave this house, and at once."

"Well, I sha'n't."

And so she did!

Whose fault was it that we were left in such a predicament--that of the inexperienced girl, or the chaperon's? What is a chaperon for? Mrs. Whitney has treated me shamefully, shamefully! Here I am all by myself, and I don't know what to do.

Ah, well, I must play my own hand. She shall regret this night's work, if I marry rank or money.

It is so strange how every one prospers except poor, baffled, loveless me, who have the greatest gift of all. I wonder if it is really Nature's law that the very beautiful must suffer; if this is her way of equalizing the lot of the poor and plain and lowly; her law of compensation to make the splendid creatures walk lonely and in sorrow all their days while plain ones coo and are happy. Was Uncle Tim right about the little brown partridges?

If I were superstitious or easily disheartened, I should say--but I am neither! I shall succeed. I will take my place by right of beauty or die fighting! If I see Lord Strathay again, he shall marry me within a week. They shall call it "one of those romantic weddings."

I can't live here alone. I have nothing to fall back upon; nothing but a father who doesn't answer my letters, and Judge Baker who lectures me in polysyllables, and John Burke--poor old John; what a good fellow he is!--who simply loves me; and Mrs. Van Dam, who was my friend as long as she hoped to rise by my beauty to higher place, but who has headaches now; and Mrs. Marmaduke--

I don't understand her desertion.

Ah--yes, there is another, my constant companion now.

He is an old man, thin and sallow. He lies prone on the floor, staring at me with dead, sightless eyes. He whispers from muted lips "Delilah!" and the sound of it is in my ears day and night; day and night!

My God! It will drive me mad!