never wore so splendid a dress as this till
tonight, and shall not again."
He gave the fan such a twirl that its slender sticks snapped, and it
dropped like the broken wing of a bird.
"Mr. Uxbridge, that fan belongs to Mrs. Bliss."
He threw it out of the window.
"You have courage, fidelity, and patience--this character with a
passionate soul. I am sure that you have such a soul?"
"I do not know."
"I have fallen in love with you. It happened on the very day when I
passed you on the way to the Glen. I never got away from the
remembrance of seeing your hand on the mane of my horse."
He waited for me to speak, but I could not; the balance of my mind was
gone. Why should this have happened to me--a slave? As it had
happened, why did I not feel exultant in the sense of power which the
chance for freedom with him should give?
"What is it, Margaret? your face is as sad as death."
"How do you call me 'Margaret?'"
"As I would call my wife--Margaret."
He rose and stood before me to screen my face from observation. I
supposed so, and endeavored to stifle my agitation.
"You are better," he said, presently. "Come go with me and get some
refreshment." And he beckoned to Mrs. Bliss, who was down the hall
with an unwieldy gentleman.
"Will you go to supper now?" she asked. "We are only waiting for
you," Mr. Uxbridge answered, offering me his arm.
When we emerged into the blaze and glitter of the supper-room I
sought refuge in the shadow of Mrs. Bliss's companion, for it seemed to
me that I had lost my own.
"Drink this Champagne," said Mr. Uxbridge. "Pay no attention to the
Colonel on your left; he won't expect it."
"Neither must you."
"Drink."
The Champagne did not prevent me from reflecting on the fact that he
had not yet asked whether I loved him.
The spirit chorus again floated through my mind:
"Where lovers, Deep in thought, *Give* themselves for life."
I was not allowed to *give* myself--I was *taken*.
"No heel-taps," he whispered, "to the bottom quaff."
"Take me home, will you?"
"Mrs. Bliss is not ready."
"Tell her that I must go."
He went behind her chair and whispered something, and she nodded to
me to go without her.
When her carriage came up, I think he gave the coachman an order to
drive home in a round-about way, for we were a long time reaching it. I
kept my face to the window, and he made no effort to divert my
attention. When we came to a street whose thick rows of trees shut out
the moonlight my eager soul longed to leap out into the dark and
demand of him his heart, soul, life, for *me*.
I struck him lightly on the shoulder; he seized my hand.
"Oh, I know you, Margaret; you are mine!"
"We are at the hotel."
He sent the carriage back, and said that he would leave me at my aunt's
door. He wished that he could see her then. Was it magic that made her
open the door before I reached it?
"Have you come on legal business?" she asked him.
"You have divined what I come for."
"Step in, step in; it's very late. I should have been in bed but for
neuralgia. Did Mr. Uxbridge come home with you, Margaret?"
"Yes, in Mrs. Bliss's carriage; I wished to come before she was ready to
leave."
"Well, Mr. Uxbridge is old enough for your protector, certainly."
"I *am* forty, ma'am."
"Do you want Margaret?"
"I do."
"You know exactly how much is involved in your client's suit?"
"Exactly."
"You know also that his claim is an unjust one."
"Do I?"
"I shall not be poor if I lose; if I gain, Margaret will be rich."
"'Margaret will be rich,'" he repeated, absently.
"What! have you changed your mind respecting the orphans, aunt?"
"She has, and is--nothing," she went on, not heeding my remark. "Her
father married below his station; when he died his wife fell back to her
place--for he spent his fortune--and there she and Margaret must
remain, unless Lemorne is defeated."
"Aunt, for your succinct biography of my position many thanks."
"Sixty thousand dollars," she continued. "Van Horn tells me that, as yet,
the firm of Uxbridge Brothers have only an income--no capital."
"It is true," he answered, musingly.
The clock on the mantle struck two.
"A thousand dollars for every year of my life," she said. "You and I,
Uxbridge, know the value and beauty of money.
"Yes, there is beauty in money, and"--looking at me--"beauty without
it."
"The striking of the clock," I soliloquized, "proves that this scene is not
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