Chris started out of his abstraction. “Stay!” he stammered, with a faint, tentative smile. “Perhaps—don’t you think?—I had better go first and tell her you want to see her. I can send her here. You see, she might”—He stopped.

Miss Trotter smiled. “It was part of your promise, you know, that you were NOT to see her again until I had spoken. But no matter! Have it as you wish. I will wait here. Only be quick. She has just gone into the grove.”

Without another word the young man turned away, and she presently saw him walking toward the pine grove into which Frida had disappeared. Then she cleared a space among the matted moss and chickweed, and, gathering her skirts about her, sat down to wait. The unwonted attitude, the whole situation, and the part that she seemed destined to take in this sentimental comedy affected her like some quaint child’s play out of her lost youth, and she smiled, albeit with a little heightening of color and lively brightening of her eyes. Indeed, as she sat there listlessly probing the roots of the mosses with the point of her parasol, the casual passer-by might have taken herself for the heroine of some love tryst. She had a faint consciousness of this as she glanced to the right and left, wondering what any one from the hotel who saw her would think of her sylvan rendezvous; and as the recollection of Chris kissing her hand suddenly came back to her, her smile became a nervous laugh, and she found herself actually blushing!

But she was recalled to herself as suddenly. Chris was returning. He was walking directly towards her with slow, determined steps, quite different from his previous nervous agitation, and as he drew nearer she saw with some concern an equally strange change in his appearance: his colorful face was pale, his eyes fixed, and he looked ten years older. She rose quickly.

“I came back to tell you,” he said, in a voice from which all trace of his former agitation had passed, “that I relieve you of your promise. It won’t be necessary for you to see—Frida. I thank you all the same, Miss Trotter,” he said, avoiding her eyes with a slight return to his boyish manner. “It was kind of you to promise to undertake a foolish errand for me, and to wait here, and the best thing I can do is to take myself off now and keep you no longer. Please don’t ask me WHY. Sometime I may tell you, but not now.”

“Then you have seen her?” asked Miss Trotter quickly, premising Frida’s refusal from his face.

He hesitated a moment, then he said gravely, “Yes. Don’t ask me any more, Miss Trotter, please. Good-by!” He paused, and then, with a slight, uneasy glance toward the pine grove, “Don’t let me keep you waiting here any longer.” He took her hand, held it lightly for a moment, and said, “Go, now.”

Miss Trotter, slightly bewildered and unsatisfied, nevertheless passed obediently out into the trail. He gazed after her for a moment, and then turned and began rapidly to ascend the slope where he had first overtaken her, and was soon out of sight. Miss Trotter continued her way home; but when she had reached the confines of the wood she turned, as if taking some sudden resolution, and began slowly to retrace her steps in the direction of the pine grove. What she expected to see there, possibly she could not have explained; what she actually saw after a moment’s waiting were the figures of Frida and Mr. Bilson issuing from the shade! Her respected employer wore an air of somewhat ostentatious importance mingled with rustic gallantry. Frida’s manner was also conscious with gratified vanity; and although they believed themselves alone, her voice was already pitched into a high key of nervous affectation, indicative of the peasant. But there was nothing to suggest that Chris had disturbed them in their privacy and confidences. Yet he had evidently seen enough to satisfy himself of her faithlessness. Had he ever suspected it before?

Miss Trotter waited only until they had well preceded her, and then took a shorter cut home. She was quite prepared that evening for an interview which Mr. Bilson requested. She found him awkward and embarrassed in her cool, self-possessed presence. He said he deemed it his duty to inform her of his approaching marriage with Miss Jansen; but it was because he wished distinctly to assure her that it would make no difference in Miss Trotter’s position in the hotel, except to promote her to the entire control of the establishment. He was to be married in San Francisco at once, and he and his wife were to go abroad for a year or two; indeed, he contemplated eventually retiring from business. If Mr. Bilson was uneasily conscious during this interview that he had once paid attentions to Miss Trotter, which she had ignored, she never betrayed the least recollection of it. She thanked him for his confidence and wished him happiness.

Sudden as was this good fortune to Miss Trotter, an independence she had so often deservedly looked forward to, she was, nevertheless, keenly alive to the fact that she had attained it partly through Chris’s disappointment and unhappiness. Her sane mind taught her that it was better for him; that he had been saved an ill-assorted marriage; that the girl had virtually rejected him for Bilson before he had asked her mediation that morning. Yet these reasons failed to satisfy her feelings. It seemed cruel to her that the interest which she had suddenly taken in poor Chris should end so ironically in disaster to her sentiment and success to her material prosperity. She thought of his boyish appeal to her; of what must have been his utter discomfiture in the discovery of Frida’s relations to Mr. Bilson that afternoon, but more particularly of the singular change it had effected in him. How nobly and gently he had taken his loss! How much more like a man he looked in his defeat than in his passion! The element of respect which had been wanting in her previous interest in him was now present in her thoughts. It prevented her seeking him with perfunctory sympathy and worldly counsel; it made her feel strangely and unaccountably shy of any other expression.

As Mr. Bilson evidently desired to avoid local gossip until after his marriage, he had enjoined secrecy upon her, and she was also debarred from any news of Chris through his brother, who, had he known of Frida’s engagement, would have naturally come to her for explanation. It also convinced her that Chris himself had not revealed anything to his brother.

III

When the news of the marriage reached Buckeye Hill, it did not, however, make much scandal, owing, possibly, to the scant number of the sex who are apt to disseminate it, and to many the name of Miss Jansen was unknown. The intelligence that Mr. Bilson would be absent for a year, and that the superior control of the Summit Hotel would devolve upon Miss Trotter, DID, however, create a stir in that practical business community. No one doubted the wisdom of the selection. Every one knew that to Miss Trotter’s tact and intellect the success of the hotel had been mainly due. Possibly, the satisfaction of Buckeye Hill was due to something else. Slowly and insensibly Miss Trotter had achieved a social distinction; the wives and daughters of the banker, the lawyer, and the pastor had made much of her, and now, as an independent woman of means, she stood first in the district. Guests deemed it an honor to have a personal interview with her. The governor of the State and the Supreme Court judges treated her like a private hostess; middle-aged Miss Trotter was considered as eligible a match as the proudest heiress in California. The old romantic fiction of her past was revived again,—they had known she was a “real lady” from the first! She received these attentions, as became her sane intellect and cool temperament, without pride, affectation, or hesitation. Only her dark eyes brightened on the day when Mr. Bilson’s marriage was made known, and she was called upon by James Calton.

“I did you a great injustice,” he said, with a smile.

“I don’t understand you,” she replied a little coldly.

“Why, this woman and her marriage,” he said; “you must have known something of it all the time, and perhaps helped it along to save Chris.”

“You are mistaken,” returned Miss Trotter truthfully. “I knew nothing of Mr. Bilson’s intentions.”

“Then I have wronged you still more,” he said briskly, “for I thought at first that you were inclined to help Chris in his foolishness. Now I see it was your persuasions that changed him.”

“Let me tell you once for all, Mr. Calton,” she returned with an impulsive heat which she regretted, “that I did not interfere in any way with your brother’s suit. He spoke to me of it, and I promised to see Frida, but he afterwards asked me not to. I know nothing of the matter.”

“Well,” laughed Mr. Calton, “WHATEVER you did, it was most efficacious, and you did it so graciously and tactfully that it has not altered his high opinion of you, if, indeed, he hasn’t really transferred his affections to you.”

Luckily Miss Trotter had her face turned from him at the beginning of the sentence, or he would have noticed the quick flush that suddenly came to her cheek and eyes. Yet for an instant this calm, collected woman trembled, not at what Mr. Calton might have noticed, but at what SHE had noticed in HERSELF. Mr. Calton, construing her silence and averted head into some resentment of his familiar speech, continued hurriedly:—

“I mean, don’t you see, that I believe no other woman could have influenced my brother as you have.”

“You mean, I think, that he has taken his broken heart very lightly,” said Miss Trotter, with a bitter little laugh, so unlike herself that Mr. Calton was quite concerned at it.

“No,” he said gravely. “I can’t say THAT! He’s regularly cut up, you know! And changed; you’d hardly know him. More like a gloomy crank than the easy fool he used to be,” he went on, with brotherly directness. “It wouldn’t be a bad thing, you know, if you could manage to see him, Miss Trotter! In fact, as he’s off his feed, and has some trouble with his arm again, owing to all this, I reckon, I’ve been thinking of advising him to come up to the hotel once more till he’s better. So long as SHE’S gone it would be all right, you know!”

By this time Miss Trotter was herself again. She reasoned, or thought she did, that this was a question of the business of the hotel, and it was clearly her duty to assent to Chris’s coming. The strange yet pleasurable timidity which possessed her at the thought she ignored completely.

He came the next day. Luckily, she was so much shocked by the change in his appearance that it left no room for any other embarrassment in the meeting. His face had lost its fresh color and round outline; the lines of his mouth were drawn with pain and accented by his drooping mustache; his eyes, which had sought hers with a singular seriousness, no longer wore the look of sympathetic appeal which had once so exasperated her, but were filled with an older experience. Indeed, he seemed to have approximated so near to her own age that, by one of those paradoxes of the emotions, she felt herself much younger, and in smile and eye showed it; at which he colored faintly. But she kept her sympathy and inquiries limited to his physical health, and made no allusion to his past experiences; indeed, ignoring any connection between the two. He had been shockingly careless in his convalescence, had had a relapse in consequence, and deserved a good scolding! His relapse was a reflection upon the efficacy of the hotel as a perfect cure! She should treat him more severely now, and allow him no indulgences! I do not know that Miss Trotter intended anything covert, but their eyes met and he colored again. Ignoring this also, and promising to look after him occasionally, she quietly withdrew.

But about this time it was noticed that a change took place in Miss Trotter. Always scrupulously correct, and even severe in her dress, she allowed herself certain privileges of color, style, and material. She, who had always affected dark shades and stiff white cuffs and collars, came out in delicate tints and laces, which lent a brilliancy to her dark eyes and short crisp black curls, slightly tinged with gray. One warm summer evening she startled every one by appearing in white, possibly a reminiscence of her youth at the Vermont academy. The masculine guests thought it pretty and attractive; even the women forgave her what they believed a natural expression of her prosperity and new condition, but regretted a taste so inconsistent with her age. For all that, Miss Trotter had never looked so charming, and the faint autumnal glow in her face made no one regret her passing summer.

One evening she found Chris so much better that he was sitting on the balcony, but still so depressed that she was compelled so far to overcome the singular timidity she had felt in his presence as to ask him to come into her own little drawing-room, ostensibly to avoid the cool night air. It was the former “card-room” of the hotel, but now fitted with feminine taste and prettiness. She arranged a seat for him on the sofa, which he took with a certain brusque boyish surliness, the last vestige of his youth.

“It’s very kind of you to invite me in here,” he began bitterly, “when you are so run after by every one, and to leave Judge Fletcher just now to talk to me, but I suppose you are simply pitying me for being a fool!”

“I thought you were imprudent in exposing yourself to the night air on the balcony, and I think Judge Fletcher is old enough to take care of himself,” she returned, with the faintest touch of coquetry, and a smile which was quite as much an amused recognition of that quality in herself as anything else.

“And I’m a baby who can’t,” he said angrily. After a pause he burst out abruptly: “Miss Trotter, will you answer me one question?”

“Go on,” she said smilingly.

“Did you know—that—woman was engaged to Bilson when I spoke to you in the wood?”

“No!” she answered quickly, but without the sharp resentment she had shown at his brother’s suggestion. “I only knew it when Mr. Bilson told me the same evening.”

“And I only knew it when news came of their marriage,” he said bitterly.

“But you must have suspected something when you saw them together in the wood,” she responded.

“When I saw them together in the wood?” he repeated dazedly.

Miss Trotter was startled, and stopped short. Was it possible he had not seen them together? She was shocked that she had spoken; but it was too late to withdraw her words. “Yes,” she went on hurriedly, “I thought that was why you came back to say that I was not to speak to her.”

He looked at her fixedly, and said slowly: “You thought that? Well, listen to me. I saw NO ONE! I knew nothing of this! I suspected nothing! I returned before I had reached the wood—because—because—I had changed my mind!”

“Changed your mind!” she repeated wonderingly.

“Yes! Changed my mind! I couldn’t stand it any longer! I did not love the girl—I never loved her—I was sick of my folly. Sick of deceiving you and myself any longer. Now you know why I didn’t go into the wood, and why I didn’t care where she was nor who was with her!”

“I don’t understand,” she said, lifting her clear eyes to his coldly.

“Of course you don’t,” he said bitterly. “I didn’t understand myself! And when you do understand you will hate and despise me—if you do not laugh at me for a conceited fool! Hear me out, Miss Trotter, for I am speaking the truth to you now, if I never spoke it before. I never asked the girl to marry me! I never said to HER half what I told to YOU, and when I asked you to intercede with her, I never wanted you to do it—and never expected you would.”

“May I ask WHY you did it then?” said Miss Trotter, with an acerbity which she put on to hide a vague, tantalizing consciousness.

“You would not believe me if I told you, and you would hate me if you did.” He stopped, and, locking his fingers together, threw his hands over the back of the sofa and leaned toward her. “You never liked me, Miss Trotter,” he said more quietly; “not from the first! From the day that I was brought to the hotel, when you came to see me, I could see that you looked upon me as a foolish, petted boy. When I tried to catch your eye, you looked at the doctor, and took your speech from him. And yet I thought I had never seen a woman so great and perfect as you were, and whose sympathy I longed so much to have. You may not believe me, but I thought you were a queen, for you were the first lady I had ever seen, and you were so different from the other girls I knew, or the women who had been kind to me. You may laugh, but it’s the truth I’m telling you, Miss Trotter!”

He had relapsed completely into his old pleading, boyish way—it had struck her even as he had pleaded to her for Frida!

“I knew you didn’t like me that day you came to change the bandages. Although every touch of your hands seemed to ease my pain, you did it so coldly and precisely; and although I longed to keep you there with me, you scarcely waited to take my thanks, but left me as if you had only done your duty to a stranger. And worst of all,” he went on more bitterly, “the doctor knew it too—guessed how I felt toward you, and laughed at me for my hopelessness! That made me desperate, and put me up to act the fool. I did! Yes, Miss Trotter; I thought it mighty clever to appear to be in love with Frida, and to get him to ask to have her attend me regularly. And when you simply consented, without a word or thought about it and me, I knew I was nothing to you.”

Miss Trotter felt a sudden thrill. The recollection of Dr. Duchesne’s strange scrutiny of her, of her own mistake, which she now knew might have been the truth—flashed across her confused consciousness in swift corroboration of his words. It was a DOUBLE revelation to her; for what else was the meaning of this subtle, insidious, benumbing sweetness that was now creeping over her sense and spirit and holding her fast. She felt she ought to listen no longer—to speak—to say something—to get up—to turn and confront him coldly—but she was powerless. Her reason told her that she had been the victim of a trick—that having deceived her once, he might be doing so again; but she could not break the spell that was upon her, nor did she want to. She must know the culmination of this confession, whose preamble thrilled her so strangely.

“The girl was kind and sympathetic,” he went on, “but I was not so great a fool as not to know that she was a flirt and accustomed to attention. I suppose it was in my desperation that I told my brother, thinking he would tell you, as he did. He would not tell me what you said to him, except that you seemed to be indignant at the thought that I was only flirting with Frida. Then I resolved to speak with you myself—and I did. I know it was a stupid, clumsy contrivance. It never seemed so stupid before I spoke to you. It never seemed so wicked as when you promised to help me, and your eyes shone on me for the first time with kindness. And it never seemed so hopeless as when I found you touched with my love for another. You wonder why I kept up this deceit until you promised. Well, I had prepared the bitter cup myself—I thought I ought to drink it to the dregs.”

She turned quietly, passionately, and, standing up, faced him with a little cry. “Why are you telling me this NOW?”

He rose too, and catching her hands in his, said, with a white face, “Because I love you.”

Half an hour later, when the under-housekeeper was summoned to receive Miss Trotter’s orders, she found that lady quietly writing at the table. Among the orders she received was the notification that Mr. Calton’s rooms would be vacated the next day. When the servant, who, like most of her class, was devoted to the good-natured, good-looking, liberal Chris, asked with some concern if the young gentleman was no better, Miss Trotter, with equal placidity, answered that it was his intention to put himself under the care of a specialist in San Francisco, and that she, Miss Trotter, fully approved of his course. She finished her letter,—the servant noticed that it was addressed to Mr. Bilson at Paris,—and, handing it to her, bade that it should be given to a groom, with orders to ride over to the Summit post-office at once to catch the last post. As the housekeeper turned to go, she again referred to the departing guest. “It seems such a pity, ma’am, that Mr. Calton couldn’t stay, as he always said you did him so much good.” Miss Trotter smiled affably. But when the door closed she gave a hysterical little laugh, and then, dropping her handsome gray-streaked head in her slim hands, cried like a girl—or, indeed, as she had never cried when a girl.

When the news of Mr. Calton’s departure became known the next day, some lady guests regretted the loss of this most eligible young bachelor. Miss Trotter agreed with them, with the consoling suggestion that he might return for a day or two. He did return for a day; it was thought that the change to San Francisco had greatly benefited him, though some believed he would be an invalid all his life.

Meantime Miss Trotter attended regularly to her duties, with the difference, perhaps, that she became daily more socially popular and perhaps less severe in her reception of the attentions of the masculine guests. It was finally whispered that the great Judge Boompointer was a serious rival of Judge Fletcher for her hand. When, three months later, some excitement was caused by the intelligence that Mr. Bilson was returning to take charge of his hotel, owing to the resignation of Miss Trotter, who needed a complete change, everybody knew what that meant. A few were ready to name the day when she would become Mrs. Boompointer; others had seen the engagement ring of Judge Fletcher on her slim finger.

Nevertheless Miss Trotter married neither, and by the time Mr. and Mrs. Bilson had returned she had taken her holiday, and the Summit House knew her no more.

Three years later, and at a foreign Spa, thousands of miles distant from the scene of her former triumphs, Miss Trotter reappeared as a handsome, stately, gray-haired stranger, whose aristocratic bearing deeply impressed a few of her own countrymen who witnessed her arrival, and believed her to be a grand duchess at the least. They were still more convinced of her superiority when they saw her welcomed by the well-known Baroness X., and afterwards engaged in a very confidential conversation with that lady. But they would have been still more surprised had they known the tenor of that conversation.

“I am afraid you will find the Spa very empty just now,” said the baroness critically. “But there are a few of your compatriots here, however, and they are always amusing. You see that somewhat faded blonde sitting quite alone in that arbor? That is her position day after day, while her husband openly flirts or is flirted with by half the women here. Quite the opposite experience one has of American women, where it’s all the other way, is it not? And there is an odd story about her which may account for, if it does not excuse, her husband’s neglect. They’re very rich, but they say she was originally a mere servant in a hotel.”

“You forget that I told you I was once only a housekeeper in one,” said Miss Trotter, smiling.

“Nonsense. I mean that this woman was a mere peasant, and frightfully ignorant at that!”

Miss Trotter put up her eyeglass, and, after a moment’s scrutiny, said gently, “I think you are a little severe. I know her; it’s a Mrs. Bilson.”

“No, my dear. You are quite wrong. That was the name of her FIRST husband. I am told she was a widow who married again—quite a fascinating young man, and evidently her superior—that is what is so funny. She is a Mrs. Calton—‘Mrs. Chris Calton,’ as she calls herself.”

“Is her husband—Mr. Calton—here?” said Miss Trotter after a pause, in a still gentler voice.

“Naturally not. He has gone on an excursion with a party of ladies to the Schwartzberg. He returns to-morrow. You will find HER very stupid, but HE is very jolly, though a little spoiled by women. Why do we always spoil them?”

Miss Trotter smiled, and presently turned the subject. But the baroness was greatly disappointed to find the next day that an unexpected telegram had obliged Miss Trotter to leave the Spa without meeting the Caltons.