CHAPTER XXIII.

JUNE'S REASON--LETTER FROM PAUL.

Carrie Horton was seated in the Wilmer library. She had wandered to the bright and glowing little world of books, and choice and rare paintings. June was entertaining Guy in the parlor and Carrie knew that he would say that "three was a crowd," so she had left them alone, saying significantly that if they did not care she would go to the library. She had taken a volume of travels and was soon deeply absorbed in its contents.

"Ah, good evening, Miss Horton," Scott said, entering the room. "I think I will follow your example."

"Mr. Wilmer," Carrie said at length, looking up from her book, "will you allow me to interrupt you?"

"Certainly."

"I have just been reading of a tribe of gypsies, and I have never yet found any information as to where they originated. I have heard of them often and seen them, too, but I never knew to what nation they belong, though I have often wondered. Can you tell me anything about them?"

"They are claimed by history as being a mysterious, vagabond race, scattered over the whole of Europe, Asia, Africa and even America. Where they originated is still a matter of speculation, as the question has been studied by competent investigators, and is still but partially solved. No fact seems really established except that India, the cradle of many nations, was the source from which they sprang. Their language is a corruption of many others with a loss of some of their own original language. They are a lawless race and are quick at framing a falsehood, and cunning at thieving."

"They are, naturally, a filthy class of people, too," said Carrie. "I have seen some young gypsy girls who would have been really beautiful had it not been for their slovenly attire and tangled hair."

"Yes, I hardly think there are any of them who would care to cultivate a refined nature, even if they had the opportunity."

"Have you any faith in their fortune telling?"

Scott laughed as he answered: "Oh, no; though I had my fortune told by an old gypsy once, but have hardly thought of it since."

"Has any of it come true?"

"Well, really, I have not noticed. Let me see--why yes, I do not know but there has a part of it come to pass."

"Then she must have known."

"No, I think she guessed at it."

"How could she?"

"Easy enough."

"What did she tell you?"

"That my parents were both living and that I had never soiled my hands with work."

"Was it true?"

"Yes."

"Was that all?"

"No, she said that I would marry a beautiful woman."

"And so you did," said Carrie, thoughtlessly. "And is that all?"

"She said there were tears for me, and that I would commit a crime."

"Mercy!" said Carrie, starting.

"Do not get excited, Miss Horton, I assure you I have not the least intention of making good her prophecy," Scott said, smiling.

"No, I do not think you have, but--"

"But what?"

"If you should happen to."

"I do not think it will ever happen."

"How long ago was it that you had your fortune told?"

"Oh, several years ago. I merely had it told to please my curiosity. I have hardly thought of it since."

"It seems strange that any of it should come true if she did not know what it was."

"You are not superstitious, are you?"

"Oh, no, I do not believe in it myself, only it seems funny that there are so many things they tell that come to pass."

"I think nothing comes to pass that would be any different in case they did not predict it."

"I have often thought of a gypsy who told my fortune once. She gave me nothing but riches and a life of pleasure. Soon after she told Guy's fortune, and really he was to be just as happy all his life as I."

"I am sure that is pleasant to think of."

"Yes, but it would be very strange if we were both happy all our life. No one ever is happy always."

"Very few," said Scott, and then his mind dwelt on the scenes which had passed, and he thought of the gypsy woman's words: "You will marry a beautiful woman, and there will be tears and the stain of blood on your hands." His lip curled in scorn at the thought of crime. He turned again to his book, and, though he had not the least idea of allowing himself to think of the old gypsy's words, there came now and then to his mind the words that he had scarce thought of since he had heard them from her lips. He would now and then cast his eyes toward Carrie, thinking what a sweet, amiable, home-loving girl she was. How happy she would yet make some one.

Guy had called on June for a special purpose. He had made up his mind that there was one question that he wanted to ask June. Thus, when Carrie so generously offered to leave them alone, Guy very readily accepted the favor. June had been playing a soft air on her harp, and when Guy entered she arose to welcome him. June was practical, and she treated Guy as a friend, though she was keen enough to see that his intentions meant something more than friendship.

"I have come, as I told you I would," said Guy, seating himself beside June, "to speak on a very important subject. Have you any idea what it is?"

"I suppose I have," said June, as the color rose to her face.

"Then you are prepared for it?"

"I suppose I shall be."

"What is it?" Guy asked, smiling.

"That is not my part of the business."

"What is your part?"

"To answer questions."

"You are the most practical and honest person I ever saw," said Guy, laughing. "Why do you not look surprised and be entirely ignorant of what I intend to ask you?"

"Because I am not entirely ignorant."

"Then I suppose your answer is ready."

"It is."

"What is it; yes or no?"

"That depends on the question."

"Suppose that I were to tell you that somebody wanted a wife?"

"That would not be strange. There are a great many men who want wives."

"Suppose I were to tell you that some one wanted you for a wife?"

"I have been told that before."

June's sweet, honest eyes were looking straight at Guy as he spoke. Her fingers were neither toying with diamond rings nor an ivory fan, but her shapely white arms were folded across her waist in a very matter-of-fact way. She was quite sure as to what Guy had to say, and she had made up her mind to answer frankly any question that he might ask. She had not the least idea of growing faint or falling in tears on his bosom, as she had heard of women doing. That plan did not suit her at all.

"You have been told that before?" Guy repeated.

"Yes."

"And suppose I were to tell you that I was the man who wanted you, would you say yes?"

"No."

"June, June," he said, looking very serious, "June, darling, you do not mean that."

"There, Guy, do not grow sentimental; of course I mean it."

"And would you really say no?"

"I said I would not say yes."

"Well, what does that mean but no?"

"It means that I would not readily give my consent."

"Why not?"

"I would not wish to."

Guy looked perplexed.

"June," he said, speaking suddenly, "I never thought you were a coquette."

"Your opinion is a correct one regarding that."

"Then what do you think of me?"

"I think," said June, surveying his countenance, "I think you are very nice."

Guy laughed in spite of his disappointment.

"Then why will you not marry me?" he asked.

"I did not say that I would not."

"But you did not say that you would. Don't you think you could love me, June?"

"I rather think I could," she answered, coolly.

"Oh, June, please have a little more reason; if you can love me, why will you not say you will marry me?"

"Guy," she said, in a voice grown low almost to sadness, "I shall never marry any man until I have first studied his character."

"Are you so afraid, then that you might find me a villain?"

"Not at all. I know you to be very far from a villain, but I do not know whether your tastes accord with my own. You would not be willing to have me allude to your faults, and you might have those which would be very annoying to me and I might have those which would be extremely vexatious to you."

"I cannot see that you have a fault, my dear June, and if you loved me truly you would not see my faults."

"I do not say that I do see many faults, and that is what I am studying your character for--to find them."

"Why do you wish to find them?"

"To either help you to correct or see if I can have patience to bear with them without complaining."

"How practical you are, June. Indeed, one would think that if there ever had been any romance in your nature that it had all died away and left but the ashes of a ruined hope. You speak more like a disappointed maiden lady of thirty-five than a young girl only fit for Cupid's wiles."

"I speak from observation, and I tell you truly, Guy, that if there were more practical and less romantic people in the world there would be more happiness."

"But people marry for love; do they not?"

"Perhaps they do."

"Then is it not right that they should overlook the faults of each other?"

"That is just the point. They fancy themselves deeply in love--so much so that they do not stop to consider whether the object of their choice has faults or not. After marriage comes reflection, and after the romance has worn off they have not the patience to bear with the faults that, until then, have been kept from the surface. It is not long since I spoke upon this very subject to a gentleman who asked me a similar question. Yesterday I received a letter from him saying that he should soon repeat the request, although I gave him a decided answer in the negative."

"Did you care for him?"

"I certainly did not, and I told him so."

"He is very impertinent," said Guy, rather impatiently.

"No, he is very blind, and I have no doubt that the least turn of fortune would bring my faults to light."

"If you know of any great faults I have I would willingly correct them if you would show me what they are."

"I fancy that you have a habit to which I am greatly opposed, though I have never seen you indulge in it."

"What is it?"

"The use of tobacco."

"Oh, I occasionally smoke a cigar."

"Why have you never done so in my presence?"

"I thought perhaps it might be offensive."

June's eyes were turned full upon Guy as she said:

"Tell me truly, Guy, do you think if I had been your wife that you would have been particular to keep the fact from my knowledge?"

"Perhaps not, but I am sure I should not indulge in the habit in your presence if it were distasteful to you."

"There should be no deception between man and wife. I shall not commit one act that my husband may not know of, and I shall expect a full knowledge of his behavior, whether at home or abroad. If such is not the case I would be unhappy. I would rather you would never deceive me in a small act. Of all faults I abhor deceit."

"Do you know of another fault that I have?" Guy asked thoughtfully.

"Perhaps one is enough to speak of at once."

"I would rather hear of all now."

"Then you may be angry."

"Not with you, June."

June remained silent a moment, as though she were calculating the propriety of showing Guy the fault which rested in her mind.

"I am waiting very patiently," he said.

"Will you promise not to become angry with me?"

"I promise."

"Well, then, you are inclined to be egotistical."

"What?"

"It is true."

"I cannot see when or how."

"I cannot see my faults, but I have them," said June earnestly. "I will cite you an instance. When your sister was speaking of a certain play we witnessed a few evenings since, and you did not agree with her upon the point she mentioned, you closed the argument in a manner which said plainly that your opinion was right, and further discussion useless."

Guy, looking steadily down at the carpet, asked:

"Was not my opinion correct?"

"It was, as far as my judgment went, but I might also have been wrong. But even if it were right or wrong, the manner in which you expressed it really hurt your sister's feelings, though she said nothing."

"Is it not a little cruel, June, to pick out such disagreeable faults and hold them up before a man to mortify him?"

"Do you think that a disagreeable one?"

"Yes; of all faults that is one of the worst."

"Will you do me a favor, for the sake of friendship?"

"Any favor you may ask; what is it?"

"Correct that fault."

"I will try," said Guy, submissively.

"And what will you do with the other?" June asked, smiling.

"Kill it outright, since it is a useless habit; but really are those faults all I have?"

"They are all I have noticed."

"It seems to me you might be able to bear with two faults, since I have promised to correct them. I think if you had fifty I could overlook them all."

"No, I shall wait and study your character, your likes and dislikes, and if, after a certain time, I find myself capable of bearing, patiently, those which I cannot correct, I will give you my answer, provided you have not found a woman really faultless; meantime I ask as a favor that you speak freely of my faults whether great or small."

"Shall I begin now?"

"As soon as you please."

Guy looked at June's bright, loving face, and wondered if there was one fault to correct. In all their acquaintance he had never seen her ill-humored. He had never heard her speak disparagingly of anyone, farther than strict honesty compelled. He really did not know how there could be a fault; but since she wished it he would try and find some to hold up for her special benefit. She had often told him that she never would make a mark in the world; she would never be other than June, and she would only be known in the circle in which she moved. Guy laughed outright at the idea of such nonsense, as he called it. He wanted a wife; a companion. He had known actresses who had made a great name, but he would not give a penny for the best one in the land. His business gave him an opportunity to know something of the private life of poets and novel writers, and he never yet saw one, however amiable they might be, that was calculated to brighten their own home.

"I expect you will marry a literary woman some day," June said, mockingly. "She will probably have a mole on her chin."

"Well, there is no mole here," he said, looking closely at June, and starting to kiss the pretty lips.

"Not yet," she said, drawing away, "wait until you know all about my faults and, perhaps, you will change your mind."

"I know my own mind now, as well as I shall ever know it," Guy said, in a sober tone. "But I am willing to wait your decision, and I shall wait, June, a lifetime if necessary."

"It will not take a lifetime to find the defects in my nature," she said pleasantly.

"Do you bid me remain away?" he asked, as he neared the door.

"Certainly not. In that case I shall not be able to study your character."

"Good night," he said, pressing her hands, then he left the room.

* * * * *

The Spring had come again. Scott sat in his office with a huge pile of letters before him. He had been enabled to secure the services of a boy who had come well recommended, and who proved to be good and trusty, "but he never could fill the place of Paul," Scott said. If Paul were only here he would not be obliged to attend to so much corresponding. He really wondered how he could live without that boy. He had been gone since February and it was now the month of May. How long the time seemed and to-day was the first that Scott had heard from him. He had the letter before him. It ran thus:

"MY DEAR EMPLOYER: Please pardon my long silence. The only excuse that I have is that I have been at work, the nature of which you will guess. Enclosed find a valuable paper. I send a messenger to carry it to you that I may know of its safe arrival. You will hear from me again ere long. Until then, trust and believe me your faithful servant,

PAUL."

Scott had read the letter, and as he placed it in the desk before him, the door opened, and Mr. Le Moyne entered the room. Scott gave him a cordial welcome, and Mr. Le Moyne said in a low tone:

"I have had a long and fruitless search. I have been from one end of the city to the other, and I can find nothing satisfactory."

"I have just now received a letter," said Scott, "which may be of some use."

He then handed the letter to Mr. Le Moyne, who examined the paper while a pallor spread over his face, as he said:

"Good Heavens, it is the very same."

"Are you sure?" Scott asked, starting to his feet.

"As sure as that I live. Here is positive proof," he said, taking a letter from his pocket and pointing at the bottom.

"Yes, it certainly is," said Scott. "Well, that is worth a great deal."

"Yes, providing we can find the balance, and that may be the hardest part."

"At all events we will not give it up yet," said Scott.

"Give it up! I shall not give it up as long as I live."

"There is but one thing to do. I cannot just at present tell you how it came in my possession any more than I have already told you, but, leave the matter to me for a while, and I will make you acquainted with the first important facts I may obtain and please leave this with me," Scott said, taking the paper.

Mr. Le Moyne soon took his leave.

"It is all very strange," thought Scott. "I do wonder where the boy came across it. He is a shrewd lad, at all events. How I do miss him. I wonder where he is. He will probably let me know, when he has accomplished his purpose." Here his thoughts fell upon his wife. He wondered where she was, and why she had acted so foolishly. His heart ached when he thought of her, but he had no desire to look upon her false face again. His love was dead.

As he closed the door of his office he was met by Guy, who had just stepped over to consult him on a matter of business. As the two stood for a moment on the broad steps, an elderly woman stopped before Scott and inquired if his name was Lawyer Wilmer. He replied in the affirmative, and, giving him a letter, she hurried away. Scott placed the letter in his pocket, thinking there was time to read it when he reached home. Guy had asked Scott to go with him to his place of business and together the two started on.