FullReads

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.