Page:Peterson Magazine 1869B.pdf/474

 KATE'S WINTER IN WASHINGTON.

BY FRANK LEE BENEDICT.

CONCLUDED FROM PAGE 350.

CHAPTER VII.

The next morning the first thought in Kate's! mind was the promise she had made Lily to go to her. She had fallen asleep toward daylight, and as nobody disturbed her, it was long after the breakfast hour when she woke.

She felt more of ber old spirit and courage come back, and determined to have a definite understanding with her uncle—to a temperament like hers anything was preferable to suspense. She would tell him frankly that she had agreed to seo Mrs. Marsden during the day; he could not be unreasonable enough to object. One thing she was determined on, she would not give up her friends without good cause, and she was certain there could be none. Somebody had been gossiping to her uncle—she would not be mean enough to listen to any reports.

The very fact that the Marsdens should have been in any way assailed made them show still fairer in her eyes; and she was the last person in the world to shrink from protecting those she cared for by any means in her power.

But when she got downstairs breakfast had been for some time over, and her uncle had gone out before his usual time. Mrs. Fairfield sat at the table with Kate, and poured out her coffee and pressed her to eat, and was sorry to see her so pale, and was as unpleasantly officious as one's friends are wont to be when one wishes to be let alone. At last she crowned her success by telling Kate that, in some way, she had mentioned the Marsdens, and that Mr. Wallingford had looked up from his paper.

“Just like this, my dear—you know his severe manner;" and the dear old lady squeezed her good-natured face into an expression eo ludicrous, that at any other time Kate would have screamed.

“Never mind the look, Mrs. Fairfield—tell me what he said.”

“He just muttered, ‘Bad style of people; all wrong, all wrong.’ Then louder, for me to hear, ‘Kate must recollect she is only a child— all wrong,’

Kate began to get angry; but it was of no use to vent her spleen on poor Mrs. Fairfield. She Would go to Lily, that was the one thought clear in her mind. At any cost to herself she would prove herself true to her friendship.

She left the old lady in undisturbed possession of the morning room fire, and went off to dress, and order the carriage punctually at twelve. She was sufficiently well acquainted with Madam Lily's indolent habits to know that it was very doubtful if she found her out of bed before that hour.

When she reached the house, the servant said Mrs. Marsden was in, and showed her straight into a little room dignified by the name of library; and by the time she had seated herself, the door opened and Philip appeared.

As soon as she could reply to his eager salutations, she asked,

“Where is Lily?”

He looked at her in astonishment,

“Did you not get her note?”

“What note?” demanded Kate, impatiently. “I have had no note, or heard of one.”

“Very strange,” said Marsden. “She found that she had to go out, and so wrote to you.”

“The servant said she was in,” returned Kate,

“No,” said Philip; “she came and said you wanted to speak to Mr. Marsden. I supposed there was something you wanted to tell me for Lily, that would not wait, your feminine secrets are always of such importance, and so came in at once, which must be excuse for my coat.”

It was a very becoming one, as he knew well enough —a black velvet breakfast-coat, wonderfully braided with crimson, that made him as handsome end picturesque as a troubadour. He had been gambling and drinking all night, and excess only told just enough on his magnificent physical organization to make him handsomer than usual, giving him a becoming pallor, making darker circles under his eyes. He looked all soul and intellect, and everything that was fascinating.

“I am very sorry,” Kate said, more annoyed at finding herself there than she could have given a good renson for. “Who took the note?”

“A boy who comes every morning to do all sorts of errands for us. I am sure he went, because I saw him start; perhaps the careless little rascal waited to go somewhere else first.” �