BETWEEN THE MOTHER AND THE WIFE.

Rhoda went out; then Sterling advanced close to his wife.

"You were talking for effect; I did not remember that she was listening," he said, with a forced smile. "Of course, you will make this sacrifice for my mother?"

"And so give up the first bit of real pleasure that has ever come in my way? No, thank you, sir! Your mother is, doubtless, a nice old party—but what is that to me? I don't know her, and don't want to know her, especially if she's always going to be after you for money, coming between you and your lawful wife."

"But she does not know that you are my wife!" said Sterling, in a voice so deep and still that it almost frightened her.

"I know it, and you know it. What has she, or any one else but me in the wide world to do with your money?"

"Constance, you are trying me too far."

"And you are trying me too far."

"You force me, then, to refuse my mother's request."

"If she wants the money you have just promised to me? Yes. What right has any mother to be hunting down her married son for money?"

The young man took his hat and walked out of the house. Constance watched him askance with sharp anxiety at her heart; but the stern pallor of his face forbade her following him; and after a vain attempt to resume her work, she left it altogether.

On entering the parlor, she was surprised to find Mr. Church seated in the easiest chair to be found in the room, solacing his solitude with a segar, so nearly consumed that the waves of his steel-gray beard emitted smoke like smouldering brushwood. He started up when Constance appeared, and flung the end of his segar into the grate.

"Ha! my queen of roses, is it you at last? I have been waiting with the patience of twenty saints for this advent. Sit down and tell me at least, that my coming gives you a little pleasure."

"Pleasure? Indeed, it does, for I have had scarcely anything but torment since you left us that evening."

"Torment! Who dares torment an angel? But I will not ask. If torment makes you so beautiful, you should ask nothing better during the rest of your life."

"You—you think I have improved, then?" she said, uplifted by his broad flattery, as only a coarser nature could be.

"Improved? Why, child, you are perfect. My friend, your father has acted on my hint, I see. Society has given you an air—something queenly; nothing like plenty of money to bring out the richness of female beauty. My dear child, have you any idea how captivating you really are? Why, you might marry a prince."

"Marry? I? Oh! no, no!"

Constance faltered and flushed guiltily as she spoke. The very name of marriage made her heart shrink; for she knew how impossible it was, even if the prince should come.

Church surveyed her from head to foot with a glance that kept the hot blood in her face; for, with a natural revolt she was made half angry, by his cool assumption.

"Marry! Why, girl, I am almost tempted—"

Constance broke into a light, mocking laugh.

"Tempted to overwhelm me with another dose of flattery—but I have become a little used to it since you were here, let me tell you that."

"I dare say—I dare say. But where is your father?"

"Gone out. I have not seen him since morning."

"So much the better—it will give us time for a little quiet chat."

"But some one else may come in."

"What, the handsome young fellow who was so bitter and so sweet the other night? Does he come so frequently, then?"

"He has just gone away."

"And you are grieving about it, that is what made your eyelashes so wet, ha? Never mind, he will come back again—such fellows always do."

"I almost wish he never would," said the girl, with a saucy lift of her head.

"Indeed?"

"Yes, indeed!"

"I'm sure I wish so from the bottom of my heart."

"Why, the young man is nothing to you?"

"But you are a great deal to me!"

The man spoke in a low voice, and very seriously. His face, full of thought and feeling, was bent toward her; his eyes met hers with a sort of evil fascination. She had a great deal of pure womanliness left in her yet, and felt how like a serpent he was, but fluttered nearer to him all the while.

"I—I don't understand, sir. How can I be anything to you? We have never seen each other but once."

"You mistake—I have seen you a good many times."

"Where, and how?" Constance asked, breathlessly.

"No matter about that. I have seen you often enough to love you dearly."

"Me, sir? You—you forget," Constance spoke proudly, remembering whose wife she was.

"Forget what? that you fancied yourself half in love with that young fellow? Nonsense! It isn't in him to win the heart of a woman like you."

"Sir, you go too far. What if I told you that I——"

"Love him already. Oh! I understand all that. But when you once know what love is, this fancy will make you laugh, as I do."

"It will not be a pleasant laugh, then, let me tell you that," she said, saucily.

"Witty, too! Did I not say how much you had improved? Why, girl, in a little while you will be distracting."

"If you go on at this rate, I shall certainly be distracted."

"Not altogether bad; but never make an effort to be witty."

"I shall never make an effort to be anything when you are by."

Constance was angry now, and became worse than savage, she was both rude and coarse; but I think this bad man liked her the better for it. His intellect appreciated refinement, but his moral nature had sunk far below that years ago.

"Come, come, what are you and I about? Wasting all this precious time like two children. Let me hear a little of what you have been doing. How do the arts prosper?"

"There, now, I can talk with you without getting angry," she said, opening a closet. "Come and look for yourself."

Church took some proofs from her hand eagerly, and began to examine them. He did not speak, but his eyes kindled, and a slow, satisfied smile crept over his mouth.

"And you did this?" he said, at last.

"Every line of it!"

"And this young man—did he——"

"No, no; I never told him a word about it—my father forbade me talking about anything you said or did."

"Your father was wise, and you are a genius—that one thing richer and higher than beauty, let me tell you. I hope your father has not forgotten to give you a full share of the money I left with him."

Constance gave her shoulders a sudden lift, and a flood of angry crimson swept over her face.

"Did you tell him that a part of it was for me to use as I pleased?"

"Did I tell him? Of course, I did. If it had not been for you he never would have got a dollar of it."

"For me? Why?"

"Because—because. Well, I will let you know some day; but if the old fellow has not dealt generously with you, we must set it right between ourselves."

"But why? What claim——"

"Oh! it is an affair between me and your father. You have only to take the money and make yourself more beautiful with it."

He handed her a roll of bank-notes, fresh and green, like those he had given her father on the first evening she had met him. There was something in her acceptance of this money which brought a glow of shame into her face, and she was half angry with the man for daring to give it to her. Still her hand clenched the notes tightly, and an eager smile parted her lips, till the white teeth beneath them gleamed to the sight.

"If you owe this to my father, I suppose it is right," she said, deliberately cheating herself.

Church laughed, and thrust the porte-monnaie, from which he had taken the bills, deep into his pocket.

"Between us, you see, perhaps the less said to the old gentleman about this the better," he suggested.

"Not tell him? Why?"

"Because he might want to have the spending of it."

"Ah, indeed!"

Constance thrust the roll of notes into her bosom; and fastened her little double-breasted jacket of scarlet cloth tightly over it, with an emphatic twist of the fingers around each button.

Church nodded his head approvingly, and muttered, "You'll do—you'll do!" at which Constance laughed off her natural confusion, and acted as if she had received a compliment.

"Now, tell me, have you been studying hard, improving yourself, since I saw you?" questioned Church, seating himself by Constance on the shabby little sofa.

"Do I seem improved?"

"Marvelously! But the dancing, the music—has your father kept his word with me?"

"Can't you judge for yourself?"

"I see that he has done his duty so far; but how are we to bring these accomplishments into play, pretty Constance?"

"Oh! I am going to the great ball—a masquerade, I think they call it."

"Going to a masquerade-ball? When?"

"Next week. He has consented."

"Ha!"

Her face was scarlet again, and her eyes fell under his keen glance.

"My father, I mean!" she faltered.

"Indeed!"

The word was uttered like a sneer, and that brought her courage back—for the girl was recklessly brave, even to audacity.

"Yes, my father has promised. He is going with me!"

"Perhaps he will give me that pleasure if I press the matter?" said Church, with a strange smile. "He is usually very obliging."

"But I——"

"Oh! a good girl allows her father to direct; and you are charmingly good, Miss Constance."

"But he—I mean people—might think it strange."

"How are they to know? The disguise of a masquerade is generally sufficient."

"But he—my father, never will let me go without him; besides, I should be afraid."

"Not of me, I hope, your father's old friend?"

Church took her hand as he spoke, and held it with a firm, gentle pressure, which had something of quiet control in it.

"But we will arrange all that hereafter, for here comes your father."