CHAPTER II.
A WORSHIPER OF WEALTH.
Queenie Trevalyn looked up archly into the handsome, agitated face bending over her, and blushed deeply.
“Before I answer you, let me remind you that you are quite a stranger to us, Mr. Dinsmore; you have not chosen to make a confidant of any one concerning your personal history—from whence you came, or—or—your standing in the community in which you reside,” she murmured, sweetly.
“I am aware of that fact,” he answered, gloomily, dropping her hands dejectedly, while a heavy sigh trembled over his pale lips. “The truth is, I dreaded telling you, lest I should, perhaps, lose your friendship at first, then, at last, your love; but no! you are too good, too noble, pure and true to let wealth and position weigh—against—love.”
His words gave the girl something like a fright. She had counted upon this handsome, bearded adorer being a man of great wealth. She had even fondly hoped that he might be a prince, traveling in disguise—a personage of superior order. No wonder his words—which seemed to bid fair to scatter these delicious hopes—alarmed the girl whose sole ambition was wealth.
She did not answer; for the first time in her life this girl, who was so witty, versatile and brilliant, was at a loss for words.
“It is but right that you should know who and what I am,” he pursued, slowly. “Indeed, I should have prefaced my declaration of love with that information. I am but a struggling author, Queenie—a man who is fighting hard to make his way in the crowded field of letters to future great achievements. I might have made money in the past had I grasped the opportunities held out to me. I have been of a roving disposition—nomadic in my tastes, eager to see the whole wide world, and give to the people who stay at home glimpses of foreign lands, through my pen.
“I was prodigal with the money I earned from this source. I gave it freely to the poor and needy, who were everywhere about. On the burning sands of Africa, or on the snowy plains of Russia, when I lay down to sleep, with only the sky above me, I was as happy as men who lie down in palaces. I had no care, I was as free from it as the joyous air that blows. I led a happy enough life of it until I came here and met you; from that hour the world has seemed to change for me. I am no longer the careless, happy-go-lucky fellow of a few short weeks ago, leading a merry, Bohemian existence—just as content without money as with it.
“If you will say that there is hope for me I will remedy all that; I will go to work with a will and make something grand and noble out of my life, with the one thought like a guiding star ever before me: The woman I love shall be proud of me. I——”
The sentence never was finished. Glancing up at that moment he caught sight of her face, which she had turned so that the white, bright moonlight fell full upon it.
The scorn on the beautiful face, the anger that blazed in the dark eyes, the contempt the curling lips revealed, appalled him. He had much more to tell her that was important, but the words fairly froze on his lips, and died away unmuttered.
“Hush! not another word,” she cried, quite as soon as she was able to speak, through her intense anger. “You have basely deceived me, as well as every one else. You knew of the current report that you were a man of fabulous wealth and you let it go uncontradicted. You have sailed under false colors to force your way into society. You have cheated and deluded us into believing that you were a gentleman. Being what you are—a nobody—you insult me with your proposal of marriage. Conduct me back to the hotel at once, please.”
His face had grown white as marble—even his lips were colorless. His eyes were dim with a sorrow too intense for words, and his strong hands trembled like aspen leaves in the wind, and his bosom heaved. Her cruel, taunting words had struck home to the very core of his heart, and made a cruel wound there, like the stinging cut of a deadly, poisoned dagger.
There was no mistaking the meaning of her words, she spoke plainly enough. If he had been rich he would have stood a fair chance of winning her. The love of a great, strong, honorable heart did not count with her. Her affection was not for exchange, but for sale. The beautiful girl whom he had thought little less than the angels above was but common clay, a mercenary creature, who weighed gold in the scale against marriage, and whose idea of a gentleman, one of nature’s noblemen, was measured by his wealth. To her a poor man was less than the dust beneath her dainty feet.
“You have heard what I have said, Mr. Dinsmore,” said Queenie Trevalyn, haughtily. “Pray conform with my request by taking me back to the ballroom at once. Were it not for appearances I would leave you and return myself.”
Like one dazed he turned slowly around, setting his miserable face toward the lights and the music, but his overwrought nerves could stand no more, strong man though he was, and without a moan or a cry he fell headlong upon the white sands at her feet—like a hero in a great battle falls when he has received his death wound, crying out: “When love has conquered pride and anger, you may call me back again.”
“Great heavens! what a dilemma!” cried Queenie Trevalyn, angrily. She did not pause a moment to lave his face with the cooling water so near at hand, or to take the trouble to ascertain if his headlong fall had injured him, so intent was she in hurrying away from the spot before a crowd gathered.
A moment more and she was flying across the white stretch of beach, her pink tulle gossamer robe trailing after her like a sunset cloud which somehow had fallen from heaven to earth.
She gained the hotel by a side entrance, and was soon back into the ballroom. She had been gone so short a time that few had missed her save the partner who was just coming in search of her for his waltz, the first notes of which had just struck up.
“Alone, Miss Trevalyn!” exclaimed Ray Challoner, advancing toward the palm-embowered nook in which she had seated herself. “Why, this is unprecedented. I did not suppose you ever enjoyed the luxury of being alone; such is the penalty of having admirers by the score,” bowing low before the beauty, adding: “I beg to remind you that this is our waltz, and it is my favorite music, ‘My Queen.’”
Queenie Trevalyn arose graciously, her rosebud lips wreathed in the sweetest of smiles. She danced and laughed, the gayest of the gay, never for an instant did her thoughts revert to the heart that was enduring the agonies of death, for love of her, down upon the cold, white sands.
Ay! There he lay, stunned almost unto death, never caring to arise and face the world again. All he wanted to do was to lie there until the tide would come in and bear him away from life and the love which he had found more cruel than death.
With such a man love, with all the intensity of his grand soul, was only possible. It was not for such a one to worship lightly at a woman’s shrine.
How long he lay there he never knew. It was in reality a few moments, but to him it seemed endless centuries. He was startled by the sound of familiar voices.
“It is indeed Dinsmore, by all that is wonderful!” exclaimed a man who bent over him, while his companion said musingly: “What in the world could have happened to have felled him like this, and he strong as an ox!”
“The best and quickest way to find out is to bring him to and see,” declared the other, kneeling beside the prostrate form and dashing salt water in the white face, then catching up his hands and beginning to chafe them vigorously.
John Dinsmore opened his eyes slowly and gazed into the two anxious faces bending over him.
“Are you ill, old fellow!” they both cried in a breath. “What in the name of goodness has happened that we find you like this?”
His lips opened to say: “A beautiful woman has broken my heart, and I am lying here for the tide to come in to carry me out—to death,” but the words seemed to scorch his lips, he could not utter them. They helped him to his feet, still wondering.
“I was stricken with a pain at my heart,” he said. “I shall be better soon.”
“Let’s hope so, for we have brought the means with us to make you so, if anything on this round earth can. But by the way,” went on one of them, “you do not seem the least surprised to find the two chums, poor as church mice, whom you left behind you in broiling New York, apparently ‘doing’ fashionable Newport, though it is like catching sly old dog Time by the tip of his tail, coming here on the last evening, when the play is about over, and they are just going to ring down the curtain.”
His two companions linked arms with him, one on either side, and drew him along the beach, each waiting for the other to unfold to John Dinsmore the amazing news which had brought them there.
While they hesitated thus you shall learn their identity, reader.
The tall, dark-haired young man on the right was Hazard Ballou, artist; French as to descent, as his name indicated, who was struggling for fame and fortune by painting pictures which nobody seemed to want to buy, and illustrating the joke articles in an evening paper to earn support in the meantime.
His companion was Jerry Gaines, a reporter, that was all, though he did have wonderful ambition and always alluded confidently to the time when he should be the editor of some great New York paper, and when that time arrived, what he should do for the remainder of the trinity, his author and artist friends, who were always ready to share their crust with him when luck went dead against him in being able to gather in good news articles, and getting up acceptable copy. His gains lay all in his name at present, instead of the more practical place—his pocket.
The “Trinity,” as the three young men styled themselves, occupied one and the same room in a New York boarding house, each swearing never to sever the bond by marrying, though a veritable Helen of Troy should tempt them.
The three friends had toiled hard, but even in their work they were happy, for they had few cares, and had not been touched by the fever called Love.
“You had better tell him what brings us,” whispered Ballou to Gaines, as John Dinsmore seemed in no hurry to question them.
“Reporters are generally chosen to break startling news to people,” remarked that young gentleman, dryly. Then, turning to Dinsmore, he began, abruptly: “I say, old fellow, you were a sly dog, when you heard us cussing rich folks in general, never to mention that you had great expectations in that direction, I vow.”
“I do not understand you, Jerry,” remarked Dinsmore, looking at his friend in puzzled wonder.
“I may as well break headlong into the facts as beat about the bush,” laughed Jerry Gaines, adding: “Well, to tell you an amazing truth, we are here to congratulate you upon inheriting a fortune. A pair of English lawyers have just succeeded in ferreting you out and locating you with our aid. They bring the astounding news, and better still, the documents which prove you to be heir to one of the finest estates in Louisiana, an immense tobacco plantation adjoining it, and——”
“My poor old Uncle George!” cut in John Dinsmore, surprised for the moment out of the grief which had taken such a deep hold of him. “And he is dead. I am deeply grieved to hear it. And you say he has left his enormous wealth to me. I can honestly say that I am astounded. He has always given me to understand that I need not expect one cent from him. He was deeply angered at me for my love of roving about the world. There were others nearer and dearer to him who had every right to expect to inherit his fortune. I am bewildered; I cannot understand why he chose to make me his heir.
“If you had brought me this wonderful news yesterday, boys, you would have made me almost insane with joy and gratitude—ay, have made me the happiest of men. Now it is but as dross to me. The gods have sent the golden gift to me too late—too late.”
“You did not wait for me to finish, old fellow,” said Gaines, coolly. “There is a string tied to the inheritance. If you accept it you must take a girl with it—for your wife, so your uncle’s will reads.”