Mr. Aylett had--accidentally, it would seem--his wife understood

that the action was premeditated--stationed himself at an angle to

the piano that allowed him a fair view of her, and did not grudge

the merriest bachelor there his share of enjoyment, while he could

keep furtive watch upon the changeful countenance, the Sappho-like

head, and the delicate hands which one could have thought made the

music, rather than did the obedient keys they touched. The wedded

lovers had taste and pride in equal proportions, and a parade of

their satisfaction in one another for the edification or amusement

of indifferent spectators would have been revolting to both, but the

ray that sped from half-averted eyes, from time to time, and was

returned by a kindling glance, also shot sidelong beneath dropped

lashes, said more to each other than would a quarto volume of

stereotyped protestations and caresses, such as Tom Barksdale dealt

out profusely to his beauteous Imogene. Clearly, neither Mr. nor

Mrs. Winston Aylett was fond of sugar-candy.

Mabel's faith in the sincerity of her sister-in-law's agreeable

sayings and ways was not invariable nor absolute. She liked her

after a certain fashion; got along swimmingly with her, the amazed

public decided "SO much better than could have been expected, and

than was customary with relations by marriage, and not by descent;"

yet her more upright nature and different training helped her to

detect the petty artifices with which Clara cajoled the unwary,

moulded the plastic at her will. But she had never questioned the

reality of her love for Winston. As a wife, her deportment was

exemplary, her devotion too freely and consistently rendered to have

its spring in policy or affectation. She gloried in her handsome,

courtly lord, and in his attachment for herself. Whether she would

have espied the same causes for loving exultation in him, had he

been a poor clergyman or merchant's clerk, was an irrelevant

consideration. The master of Ridgeley was not to be contemplated

apart from the possessions and dignities that were his inalienable

pedestal. Clara Dorrance was a clever woman, and she had given these

due weight in accepting his hand; and they may have had their

influence in moving her to unceasing, yet unobtrusive endeavor to

make herself still more necessary to his happiness, to strengthen

her hold upon him by every means an affectionate and beloved wife

has at her command. She had done well for herself--she was thinking

while he concluded as silently within himself that the slight

pensiveness tempering the expressive face was its loveliest dress.

She--beautiful and penniless, ambitious, and a devotee of

pleasure--yet dependent for food and clothing upon her mother's

life-interest in an estate, not one penny of which would revert to

her children at her decease; without kindred and without society in

the elegant suburb they had inhabited for four or five years, might

have been elated at a less brilliant match than that she had made.

The "best people" of the aforesaid suburb were exclusive; slow to

form intimacies with their unaccredited neighbors, and very hasty in

breaking them at the faintest whiff of a doubtful or tainted

reputation. And of the second best the Dorrances had kept themselves

clear. Having met and captivated her wealthy lover on a rarely

fortunate summer jaunt, made in company with her eldest brother, his

wife, and two relatives of the last-named, Clara did not repel him

or disgust the best people of Roxbury by indiscreet raptures over,

or exhibition of, her prize.




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