LITMIR.BIZ

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Do you think me horrid?"

      "Where's the wine?" Richard shouted. He drank a couple of glasses in succession, and stared about. Was he in hell, with a lost soul raving to him?

      "Nobly spoken! and nobly acted upon, my brave Dick! Now we'll be companions." She wished that heaven had made her such a man. "Ah! Dick! Dick! too late! too late!"

      Softly fell her voice. Her eyes threw slanting beams.

      "Do you see this?"

      She pointed to a symbolic golden anchor studded with gems and coiled with a rope of hair in her bosom. It was a gift of his.

      "Do you know when I stole the lock? Foolish Dick! you gave me an anchor without a rope. Come and see."

      She rose from the table, and threw herself on the sofa.

      "Don't you recognize your own hair! I should know a thread of mine among a million."

      Something of the strength of Samson went out of him as he inspected his hair on the bosom of Delilah.

      "And you knew nothing of it! You hardly know it now you see it! What couldn't a woman steal from you? But you're not vain, and that's a protection. You're a miracle, Dick: a man that's not vain! Sit here." She curled up her feet to give him place on the sofa. "Now let us talk like friends that part to meet no more. You found a ship with fever on board, and you weren't afraid to come alongside and keep her company. The fever isn't catching, you see. Let us mingle our tears together. Ha! ha! a man said that once to me. The hypocrite wanted to catch the fever, but he was too old. How old are you, Dick?"

      Richard pushed a few months forward.

      "Twenty-one? You just look it, you blooming boy. Now tell me my age, Adonis!--Twenty--what?"

      Richard had given the lady twenty-five years.

      She laughed violently. "You don't pay compliments, Dick. Best to be honest; guess again. You don't like to? Not twenty-five, or twenty-four, or twenty-three, or see how he begins to stare!---twenty-two. Just twenty-one, my dear. I think my birthday's somewhere in next month. Why, look at me, close--closer. Have I a wrinkle?"

      "And when, in heaven's name!"...he stopped short.

      "I understand you. When did I commence for to live? At the ripe age of sixteen I saw a nobleman in despair because of my beauty. He vowed he'd die. I didn't want him to do that. So to save the poor man for his family, I ran away with him, and I dare say they didn't appreciate the sacrifice, and he soon forgot to, if he ever did. It's the way of the world!"

      Richard seized some dead champagne, emptied the bottle into a tumbler, and drank it off.

      John footman entered to clear the table, and they were left without further interruption.

      "Bella! Bella!" Richard uttered in a deep sad voice, as he walked the room.

      She leaned on her arm, her hair crushed against a reddened cheek, her eyes half-shut and dreamy.

      "Bella!" he dropped beside her. "You are unhappy."

      She blinked and yawned, as one who is awakened suddenly. "I think you spoke," said she.

      "You are unhappy, Bella. You can't conceal it. Your laugh sounds like madness. You must be unhappy. So young, too! Only twenty-one!"

      "What does it matter? Who cares for me?"

      The mighty pity falling from his eyes took in her whole shape. She did not mistake it for tenderness, as another would have done.

      "Who cares for you, Bella? I do. What makes my misery now, but to see you there, and know of no way of helping you? Father of mercy! it seems too much to have to stand by powerless while such ruin is going on!"

      Her hand was shaken in his by the passion of torment with which his frame quaked.

      Involuntarily a tear started between her eyelids. She glanced up at him quickly, then looked down, drew her hand from his, and smoothed it, eying it.

      "Bella! you have a father alive!"

      "A linendraper, dear. He wears a white neck-cloth."

      This article of apparel instantaneously changed the tone of the conversation, for he, rising abruptly, nearly squashed the lady's lap-dog, whose squeaks and howls were piteous, and demanded the most fervent caresses of its mistress. It was: "Oh, my poor pet Mumpsy, and he didn't like a nasty great big ugly heavy foot an his poor soft silky--mum--mum--back, he didn't, and he soodn't that he--mum--mum --soodn't; and he cried out and knew the place to come to, and was oh so sorry for what had happened to him--mum--mum--mum--and now he was going to be made happy, his mistress make him happy--mum--mum--mum--moo-o-o-o."

      "Yes!" said Richard, savagely, from the other end of the room, "you care for the happiness of your dog."

      "A course se does," Mumpsy was simperingly assured in the thick of his silky flanks.

      Richard looked for his hat. Mumpsy was deposited on the sofa in a twinkling.

      "Now," said the lady, "you must come and beg Mumpsy's pardon, whether you meant to do it or no, because little doggies can't tell that--how should they? And there's poor Mumpsy thinking you're a great terrible rival that tries to squash him all flat to nothing, on purpose, pretending you didn't see; and he's trembling, poor dear wee pet! And I may love my dog, sir, if I like; and I do; and I won't have him ill-treated, for he's never been jealous of you, and he is a darling, ten times truer than men, and I love him fifty times better. So come to him with me."

      First a smile changed Richard's face; then laughing a melancholy laugh, he surrendered to her humour, and went through the form of begging Mumpsy's pardon.

      "The dear dog! I do believe he saw we were getting dull," said she.

      "And immolated himself intentionally? Noble animal!"

      "Well, we'll act as if we thought so. Let us be gay, Richard, and not part like ancient fogies. Where's your fun? You can rattle; why don't you? You haven't seen me in one of my characters--not Sir Julius: wait a couple of minutes." She ran out.

      A white visage reappeared behind a spring of flame. Her black hair was scattered over her shoulders and fell half across her brows. She moved slowly, and came up to him, fastening weird eyes on him, pointing a finger at the region of witches. Sepulchral cadences accompanied the representation. He did not listen, for he was thinking what a deadly charming and exquisitely horrid witch she was. Something in the way her underlids worked seemed to remind him of a forgotten picture; but a veil hung on the picture. There could be no analogy, for this was beautiful and devilish, and that, if he remembered rightly, had the beauty of seraphs.

      His reflections and her performance were stayed by a shriek. The spirits of wine had run over the plate she held to the floor. She had the coolness to put the plate down on the table, while he stamped out the flame on the carpet. Again she shrieked: she thought she was on fire. He fell on his knees and clasped her skirts all round, drawing his arms down them several times.

      Still kneeling, he looked up, and asked, "Do you feel safe now?"

      She bent her face glaring down till the ends of her hair touched his cheek.

      Said she, "Do you?"

      Was she a witch verily? There was sorcery in her breath; sorcery in her hair: the ends of it stung him like little snakes.

      "How do I do it, Dick?" she flung back, laughing.

      "Like you do everything, Bella," he said, and took breath.

      "There! I won't be a witch; I won't be a witch: they may burn me to a cinder, but I won't be a witch!"

      She sang, throwing her hair about,

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