Audrey

She was Audrey of the garden, and Haward, smiling, drew his rapier and

laid it in her hands. She looked at the golden hilt, and passed her brown

fingers along the gleaming blade. "Stainless," she said, and gave it back

to him.

Taking it, he took also the hand that had proffered it. "I was not

laughing, child," he said. "Go to the ball thou shalt, and with me. What!

Thou art young and fair. Shalt have no pleasure"-"What pleasure in that?" cried Audrey. "I may not go, sir; nay, I will not

go!"

She freed her hand, and stood with heaving bosom and eyes that very slowly

filled with tears. Haward saw no reason for her tears. It was true that

she was young and fair; true, also, that she had few pleasures. Well, he

would change all that. The dance,--was it not woven by those nymphs of

old, those sprites of open spaces in the deep woods, from whose immemorial

company she must have strayed into this present time? Now at the Palace

the candles were burning for her, for her the music was playing. Her

welcome there amidst the tinsel people? Trust him for that: he was what he

was, and could compass greater things than that would be. Go she should,

because it pleased him to please her, and because it was certainly

necessary for him to oppose pride with pride, and before the eyes of

Evelyn demonstrate his indifference to that lady's choice of Mr. Lee for

the minuet and Mr. Lightfoot for the country dance. This last thought had

far to travel from some unused, deep-down quagmire of the heart, but it

came. For the rest, the image of Audrey decked in silk and lace, turned by

her apparel into a dark Court lady, a damsel in waiting to Queen Titania,

caught his fancy in both hands. He wished to see her thus,--wished it so

strongly that he knew it would come to pass. He was a gentleman who had

acquired the habit of having his own way. There had been times when the

price of his way had seemed too dear; when he had shrugged his shoulders

and ceased to desire what he would not buy. To-night he was not able to

count the cost. But he knew--he knew cruelly well--how to cut short this

fruitless protest of a young girl who thought him all that was wise and

great and good.

"So you cannot say 'yes' to my asking, little maid?" he began, quiet and

smiling. "Cannot trust me that I have reasons for the asking? Well, I will

not ask again, Audrey, since it is so great a thing'"--"Oh," cried Audrey,

"you know that I would die for you!" The tears welled over, but she

brushed them away with a trembling hand; then stood with raised face, her

eyes soft and dewy, a strange smile upon her lips. She spoke at last as

simply as a child: "Why you want me, that am only Audrey, to go with you

to the Palace yonder, I cannot tell. But I will go, though I am only

Audrey, and I have no other dress than this"-Haward got unsteadily to his feet, and lightly touched the dark head that

she bowed upon her hands. "Why, now you are Audrey again," he said

approvingly. "Why, child, I would do you a pleasure!" He turned to the

player's wife. "She must not go in this guise. Have you no finery stowed

away?"