Frances Waldeaux | Page 9

there until old age.
But it will break out some day."
Mrs. Waldeaux looked, laughing, at the eager, blushing faces around
her. "It is not likely to break out in us, girls, eh! Really, Clara," she said,
in a lower tone, "that seems to me like wasted morality. Women of our
class are in no more danger of temptation to commit great crimes than
they are of finding tigers in their drawing-rooms. Pauline Felix was
born vicious. No woman could fall as she did, who was not rotten to the
core."
A sudden shrill laugh burst from the French woman, who had been
looking at Mrs. Waldeaux with insolent, bold eyes. But as she laughed,
her head fell forward and she swung from side to side.
"It is nothing," she cried, "I am only a little faint. I must go below."
The ship was now crossing short, choppy waves. The passengers
scattered rapidly. George took his mother to her stateroom, and there
she stayed until land was sighted on the Irish coast. Clara and her
companions also were forced to keep to their berths.

During the speechless misery of the first days Mrs. Waldeaux was
conscious that George was hanging over her, tender as a mother with a
baby. She commanded him to stay on deck, for each day she saw that
he, too, grew more haggard. "Let me fight it out alone," she would beg
of him. "My worst trouble is that I cannot take care of you."
He obeyed her at last, and would come down but once during the day,
and then for only a few hurried minutes. His mother was alarmed at the
ghastliness of his face and the expression of anxious wretchedness new
to it. "His eye avoids mine craftily, like that of an insane man," she told
herself, and when the doctor came, she asked him whether sea-sickness
affected the brain.
On the last day of the voyage the breeze was from land, and with the
first breath of it Frances found her vigor suddenly return. She rose and
dressed herself. George had not been near her that day. "He must be
very ill," she thought, and hurried out. "Is Mr. Waldeaux in his
stateroom?" she asked the steward.
"No, madam. He is on deck. All the passengers are on deck," the man
added, smiling. Land is in sight."
Land! And George had not come to tell her! He must be desperately ill!
She groped up the steps, holding by the brass rail. "I will give him a
fine surprise!" she said to herself. "I can take care of him, now.
To-night we shall be on shore and this misery all over. And then the
great joy will begin!"
She came out on deck. The sunshine and cold pure wind met her. She
looked along the crowded deck for her invalid. Every-body was in
holiday clothes, every-body was smiling and talking at once. Ah! there
he was!
He was leaning over Frances' steamer chair, on which a woman lay
indolently. He was in rude health, laughing, his face flushed, his eyes
sparkling.

Looking up, he saw his mother and came hastily to meet her. The laugh
was gone. "So you came up?" he said impatiently. "I would have called
you in time. I---- Mother!" He caught her by the arm. "Wait, I must see
you alone for a minute." Urged by the amazed fright in her face, he
went on desperately, "I have something to tell you. I intended to break
it to you. I don't want to hurt you, God knows. But I have not been idle
in these days. I have found your daughter. She is here."
He led her up to the chair. The girl's head was wrapped in a veil and
turned from her.
Mrs. Waldeaux held out her hands. "Lucy! Lucy Dunbar!" she heard
herself say.
"Mais non! Cest moi!" said a shrill voice, and Mlle. Arpent, turning her
head lazily, looked at her, smiling.

CHAPTER II
Clara Vance had her faults, but nobody could deny that, in this crisis,
she acted with feeling and tact. She ignored mademoiselle and her lover,
whose bliss was in evidence on deck all day, and took possession of
Mrs. Waldeaux, caring for her as tenderly as if she had been some poor
wretch sentenced to death. "She has no intellect left except her ideas
about George," she told herself, "and if he turns his back on her for life
in this way---- She never was too sane!" shaking her head ominously.
She thought it best to talk frankly of the matter to little Lucy Dunbar,
and was relieved to find her ready to joke and laugh at it. "No bruise in
that tender heart!" thought Clara, who was anxious as a mother for