by a
drooping black moustache.
Such was Edwin Einstein to whom Gwendoline's heart, if not her hand,
was already affianced. Their love had been so simple and yet so strange.
It seemed to Gwendoline that it was but a thing of yesterday, and yet in
reality they had met three weeks ago. Love had drawn them irresistibly
together. To Edwin the fair English girl with her old name and wide
estates possessed a charm that he scarcely dared confess to himself. He
determined to woo her. To Gwendoline there was that in Edwin's
bearing, the rich jewels that he wore, the vast fortune that rumour
ascribed to him, that appealed to something romantic and chivalrous in
her nature. She loved to hear him speak of stocks and bonds, corners
and margins, and his father's colossal business. It all seemed so noble
and so far above the sordid lives of the people about her. Edwin, too,
loved to hear the girl talk of her father's estates, of the diamond-hilted
sword that the saladin had given, or had lent, to her ancestor hundreds
of years ago. Her description of her father, the old earl, touched
something romantic in Edwin's generous heart. He was never tired of
asking how old he was, was he robust, did a shock, a sudden shock,
affect him much? and so on. Then had come the evening that
Gwendoline loved to live over and over again in her mind when Edwin
had asked her in his straightforward, manly way, whether--subject to
certain written stipulations to be considered later--she would be his
wife: and she, putting her hand confidingly in his hand, answered
simply, that--subject to the consent of her father and pending always
the necessary legal formalities and inquiries--she would.
It had all seemed like a dream: and now Edwin Einstein had come in
person to ask her hand from the earl, her father. Indeed, he was at this
moment in the outer hall testing the gold leaf in the picture-frames with
his pen-knife while waiting for his affianced to break the fateful news
to Lord Oxhead.
Gwendoline summoned her courage for a great effort. "Papa," she said,
"there is one other thing that it is fair to tell you. Edwin's father is in
business."
The earl started from his seat in blank amazement. "In business!" he
repeated, "the father of the suitor of the daughter of an Oxhead in
business! My daughter the step-daughter of the grandfather of my
grandson! Are you mad, girl? It is too much, too much!"
"But, father," pleaded the beautiful girl in anguish, "hear me. It is
Edwin's father--Sarcophagus Einstein, senior--not Edwin himself.
Edwin does nothing. He has never earned a penny. He is quite unable to
support himself. You have only to see him to believe it. Indeed, dear
father, he is just like us. He is here now, in this house, waiting to see
you. If it were not for his great wealth..."
"Girl," said the earl sternly, "I care not for the man's riches. How much
has he?"
"Fifteen million two hundred and fifty thousand dollars," answered
Gwendoline. Lord Oxhead leaned his head against the mantelpiece. His
mind was in a whirl. He was trying to calculate the yearly interest on
fifteen and a quarter million dollars at four and a half per cent reduced
to pounds, shillings, and pence. It was bootless. His brain, trained by
long years of high living and plain thinking, had become too subtle, too
refined an instrument for arithmetic...
* * * * *
At this moment the door opened and Edwin Einstein stood before the
earl. Gwendoline never forgot what happened. Through her life the
picture of it haunted her--her lover upright at the door, his fine frank
gaze fixed inquiringly on the diamond pin in her father's necktie, and
he, her father, raising from the mantelpiece a face of agonized
amazement.
"You! You!" he gasped. For a moment he stood to his full height,
swaying and groping in the air, then fell prostrate his full length upon
the floor. The lovers rushed to his aid. Edwin tore open his neckcloth
and plucked aside his diamond pin to give him air. But it was too late.
Earl Oxhead had breathed his last. Life had fled. The earl was extinct.
That is to say, he was dead.
The reason of his death was never known. Had the sight of Edwin
killed him? It might have. The old family doctor hurriedly summoned
declared his utter ignorance. This, too, was likely. Edwin himself could
explain nothing. But it was observed that after the earl's death and his
marriage with Gwendoline he was a changed man; he dressed better,
talked much better English.
The wedding itself was quiet, almost sad. At Gwendoline's request
there was no wedding breakfast,
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