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Page 4
"I doubt it," said Henry. "You know he never goes to any sort of party.
The last time I saw him at such a place was at Mr. Bradford's. He was
playing whist, and they were joking about cheating. Somebody said--Mr.
Bradford it was--'I can trust my wife's honesty. She doesn't know enough
to cheat, but I don't know about George.' George was her partner.
Bradford didn't mean any harm; he forgot, you see. He'd have bitten his
tongue off otherwise sooner than have said it. But everybody saw the
application, and there was a dead silence. George got red as fire, and
then pale as death. I don't know how they finished the hand, but
presently somebody made an excuse, and the game was broken off."
"Oh, dear! dear! That was cruel! cruel! How could Mr. Bradford do it? I
should think he would never forgive himself! never!" exclaimed Madeline,
with an accent of poignant sympathy, involuntarily pressing Henry's arm,
and thereby causing him instantly to forget all about George and his
misfortunes, and setting his heart to beating so tumultuously that he was
afraid she would notice it and be offended. But she did not seem to be
conscious of the intoxicating effluence she was giving forth, and
presently added, in a tone of sweetest pity--
"He used to be so frank and dashing in his manner, and now when he meets
one of us girls on the street he seems so embarrassed, and looks away or
at the ground, as if he thought we should not like to bow to him, or
meant to cut him. I'm sure we'd cut our heads off sooner. It's enough to
make one cry, such times, to see how wretched he is, and so sensitive
that no one can say a word to cheer him. Did you notice what he said
about leaving town? I hadn't heard anything about it before, had you?"
"No," said Henry, "not a word. Wonder where he's going. Perhaps he thinks
it will be easier for him in some place where they don't know him."
They walked on in silence a few moments, and then Madeline said, in a
musing tone--
"How strange it would seem if one really could have unpleasant things
blotted out of their memories! What dreadful thing would you forget now,
if you could? Confess."
"I would blot out the recollection that you went boat-riding with Will
Taylor last Wednesday afternoon, and what I've felt about it ever since."
"Dear me, Mr. Henry Burr," said Madeline, with an air of excessive
disdain, "how long is it since I authorized you to concern yourself with
my affairs? If it wouldn't please you too much, I'd certainly box your
ears.
"I think you're rather unreasonable," he protested, in a hurt tone. "You
said a minute ago that you wouldn't permit me to be jealous of you, and
just because I'm so anxious to obey you that I want to forget that I ever
was, you are vexed."
A small noise, expressive of scorn, and not to be represented by letters
of the alphabet, was all the reply she deigned to this more ingenious
than ingenuous plea.
"I've made my confession, and it's only fair you should make yours," he
said next. "What remorseful deed have you done that you'd like to
forget?"
"You needn't speak in that babying tone. I fancy I could commit sins as
well as you, with all your big moustache, if I wanted to. I don't believe
you'd hurt a fly, although you do look so like a pirate. You've probably
got a goody little conscience, so white and soft that you'd die of shame
to have people see it."
"Excuse me, Lady Macbeth," he said, laughing; "I don't wish to underrate
your powers of depravity, but which of your soul-destroying sins would
you prefer to forget, if indeed any of them are shocking enough to
trouble your excessively hardened conscience?
"Well, I must admit," said Madeline, seriously, "that I wouldn't care to
forget anything I've done, not even my faults and follies. I should be
afraid if they were taken away that I shouldn't have any character left."
"Don't put it on that ground," said Henry, "it's sheer vanity that makes
you say so. You know your faults are just big enough to be beauty-spots,
and that's why you'd rather keep 'em."
She reflected a moment, and then said, decisively--
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