BY THE SEA.
BY FRANK LEE BENEDICT.
It was the dullest of dull November days, and Grafton Warner moodily paced up and down the long veranda, and looked out toward the sandy beach; between him and it the South Bay lying turbid and dark under the solemn sky; beyond, glimpses of the white surf dashing up from the sea with a hoarse murmur, as if the waters were discontented as most human things.
It was down on the sandy shore of Long Island, Grafton had joined a party of fellows for a week’s shooting of ducks and yellow legs, with even a promise of wild geese; but he bad been there several days, and so far the expedi- tion had proved a failure. His companions were not among his intimates, nor did he sympathize much with them, exccpt in the matter of sport. They lived for business or their professions, and knew scarcely more about a life such as Grafton had led, than if they had been cowled monks in a cloister.
It was sober old Richard Roylston, who had persuaded Warner to jointhem. He liked Graf- ton from boyish associations, and, perhaps, had more influence over him than anybody else. He had known of a scrape Warner was getting him- self into, just from idleness and general reck- lessness, and so had coaxed him to leave town. The other men wondered among themselves why Roylston had brought him, and regarded the elegant dandy as a rather sulky, tiresome individual.
Not that Grafton was in the slightest degree effeminate; a good shot, capital gymnast, amus- mg and witty when he chose, but thoroughly spoiled. He was completely the creature of impulse, and it was a mere chance whether a good or bad one was uppermost. Honorable where men were concerned, utterly faithless with women; more imagination than heart, which, of course, led him always to suppose that he was in earnest; idle, rich, handsome— you can understand that he must have made his fair share of trouble during the twenty-eight or thirty years that he had walked this mortal vale!
Suddenly the ill-shaped, creaking old stage came round the turn of the road and jolted in at the open gates. Grafton looked out through the cloud of smoke he was just puffing from his great meerschaum—his storm-pipe, as it was called by those who knew his moods—and catching sight of two women, mentally anathe- mathized them as a pair of cats.
Up came the old rattletrap to the steps, and Grafton could do no less than move forward and open the door.
“Why, Mr. Warner!” exclaimed a voice.
Grafton looked. An elderly feminine face, decorated with puffs of gray hair, was staring into his, and he recognized old Mrs. Annesly, whom he had not seen for the last three years.
He knew what was coming, or, rather who— her niece, whom he had not met for the same length of time; whom he had left a girl of eighteen, loving him with all the romance and poetry of that age, and whom he had devoutly hoped not to see again, for his conscience had never been quite at ease where she was concerned.
He had gone further than mere flirtation with her; had actually been engaged; but he could not trust himself so far as marriage. Moreover, he was so circumstanced at the time that such a step would have left him unpleasantly situated in another quarter, and Grafton had a horror of scenes, like all selfish people.
So he had left Maud Annesly; had told her that fate parted them, and all that pretty nonsense which men talk when they want to break a vow—and she had let him go. She had let him go; but he knew that he had broken her heart, and no memory had ever so mournfully haunted him as the misery in her eyes, the despair in her voice, when she acquiesced in his wish. He remembered how, in her anguish, she had so far forgotten her woman’s place as to tell him that she would wait—months, years, patiently, believing him if only he could say that he would return. Then her humiliation, when she found that she had shamed herself in vain; the scorn, the wounded pride for herself, not for him, she had faith in him—yes, it was not pleasant to remember.
And here she was again! What a diabolical chance! Would she faint—make a scene? All these recollections, followed by the last selfish thoughts, flashed like lightning through his mind, while he was helping Mrs. Annesly to emerge from the old cart, and get up the steps.
He turned, but before he could reach the carriage-door, out stepped the younger lady,
