Transcriber’s Notes:

The Greatest Living Novelist, whose stories no author has ever been able
to equal, and whose fame as the Favorite Writer of the People has
never been surpassed,

AUTHOR OF
“The Lovely Maid of Darby Town,” “What is Life Without Love?”
“Sweet Dolly Gray,” “Sweetheart Will You be True?”
“The Price of Pretty Odette’s Kiss,” “Sweet Kitty Clover,”
“Ought We to Invite Her?” “Parted by Fate,”
“Ione,” “We Parted at the Altar,” etc.

NEW YORK
STREET & SMITH, Publishers
238 William Street

Betrothed for a Day

BY LAURA JEAN LIBBEY

The Laura Series

Almost every reader, in the course of his or her experience, has read at least one of Laura Jean Libbey’s most enjoyable novels. Probably, upon finishing the tale the only regret the reader had was that it was not twice as long.

This may also be applied to the author’s new stories, all of which Messrs. Street & Smith have recently purchased at a round figure.

These, the best productions from the pen of an author, all of whose works may conscientiously be classed as excellent, will be published in a new line called the Laura Series.

These stories have never appeared in book form—they are not old ones. They are guaranteed to be the latest and best—representing the full talent of this remarkable writer.

We give herewith a list of those published and others scheduled.

By LAURA JEAN LIBBEY

1. The Lovely Maid of Darby Town.

2. Betrothed for a Day.

3. What Is Life Without Love?

4. Sweet Dolly Grey.

5. Sweetheart, Will You Be True?

6. Gladys, the Music Teacher’s Daughter.

7. Madcap Laddy, The Flirt.

8. The Prince of Pretty Odette’s Kiss.

9. Sweet Kitty Clover.

10. Ought We to Invite Her?

BETROTHED FOR A DAY.

CHAPTER I.
A STRANGER’S LOVE.

“Her lips were silent—scarcely beat her heart,

Her eyes alone proclaimed, ‘we must not part;’

Thy hope may perish, or thy friends may flee,

Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee.”

It was on the last night of the season at gay Newport; on the morrow, at the noon hour, there was to be a great exodus of the summer guests, and by nightfall the famous Ocean House would be closed.

The brilliant season of 1901 would be but a memory to the merry throng—dancing, laughing, flirting to their hearts’ content to-night in the magnificent ballroom; and every one seemed intent upon making the most of the occasion.

As usual, “the beautiful Miss Trevalyn,” as every one called her, was the belle of the ball, as she had been the belle of the season, much to the chagrin of a whole set of beauties who had come this summer to take Newport by storm and capture the richest matrimonial prize. Even Miss Queenie Trevalyn’s cruelest enemy could not help but admit that she was simply perfect to-night as she floated down the plant-embowered ballroom, a fairy vision in pink tulle, fluttering ribbons and garlands of blush-roses looping back her long jetty curls. Here, there and everywhere flashed that slender pink figure with the lovely face, rosy and radiant with smiles and flushed with excitement, her red lips parted, and those wondrous midnight-black eyes of hers gleaming like stars.

“Who is the gentleman with whom Miss Trevalyn is waltzing?” asked an anxious mother—a guest from one of the cottages—whose four unmarried daughters were at that moment playing the disagreeable part of wall flowers.

Her companion, an old-time guest of the hotel, who kept strict tabs upon the other guests, and prided herself upon knowing pretty thoroughly everybody else’s business, leaned forward from her seat on the piazza and raised her lorgnette to her eyes, critically surveying the young lady’s partner.

He was a tall, handsome, distinguished man of at least thirty, bronzed and bearded, with a noble bearing that could not fail to attract attention anywhere. He was a man whom men take to on sight, and women adore.

His eyes were deep blue and his hair was a dark, chestnut brown—a shade darker perhaps than the trim beard and mustache were.

“That is just what everybody here has been trying to find out,” was the reply, “but no one seems to know; he came here quite a month ago, and the first evening of his arrival proved himself a hero. It happened in this way: The elevator boy, upon reaching the fourth floor, had stepped out of the car for a moment to lift a heavy satchel for a lady who had come up with him, to a room a couple of doors distant, and in that moment two persons had entered the elevator—Miss Queenie Trevalyn and the distinguished-looking new arrival. No one could tell just how the terrible affair occurred, whether one or the other brushed against the lever accidentally or not, but the next instant, with the rapidity of lightning, and without an instant’s warning, the car began to shoot downward.

“Wild cries of horror broke from the lips of the guests at each landing as it shot past. They realized what had happened; they could see that there was some one in the car, and they realized that it meant instant death to the occupants when the car reached the flagging below.

“Some one who heard the horrible whizzing sound from below, and knew what had occurred, had the presence of mind to tear aside the wire door. What occurred then even those who witnessed it can scarcely recount, they were so dazeny. Anyhow, seeing the clearing straight ahead, the stranger made the most daring leap for life that was ever chronicled either in tale or history, through it; he had Miss Trevalyn, who was in a deep swoon, clasped tightly in his arms.

“Out from the flying, death-dealing car he shot like an arrow from a bow, landing headforemost among the throng, who fairly held their breath in horror too awful for words.

“The car was wrecked into a thousand fragments.

“By the presence of mind of the heroic stranger Miss Trevalyn’s and his own life were spared, and they were little the worse, save from the fright, from their thrilling experience.

“They would have made a great furore over Mr. John Dinsmore at the Ocean Hotel after that, but he would not permit it. He flatly refused to be lionized, which showed Newport society that he was certainly careless about being in the swim, as we call it.

“His heart was not proof against a lovely girl’s attractions, however. He finished by falling in love with Miss Trevalyn in the most approved, romantic style, and has been her veritable shadow ever since, despite the fact that there are a score of handsome fellows in the race for her favor, and one in particular, a young man who is heir to the fortune of his uncle, a multi-millionaire, who was supposed to be the lucky winner of the queen’s heart up to the day of the thrilling elevator episode.”

“I suppose she will marry the fine-looking hero who saved her life,” said the mother of the four unwedded maidens.

The other returned significantly:

“If he is rich, it is not unlikely; if he is poor, Queenie Trevalyn will whistle him down the wind, as the old saying goes. Lawrence Trevalyn’s daughter is too worldly to make an unsuitable marriage. Her father is one of the ablest lawyers at the New York bar, and makes no end of money, but his extravagant family succeeds splendidly in living up to every dollar of his entire income, and Miss Queenie knows that her only hope is in marrying a fortune; she is quite as ambitious as her parents. With her the head will rule instead of the heart, I promise you; that is, if one can judge from the score of lovers she has sent adrift this season.”

“I really thought she cared a little for young Ray Challoner, the millionaire. I confess I had expected to see her pass most of her last evening at Newport dancing with him exclusively; but perhaps she is pursuing this course to pique him into an immediate proposal. A remarkably shrewd and clever girl is Queenie Trevalyn.”

“Is this Mr. Challoner deeply in love with her, too?” asked the mother of the four unwedded girls, trying to veil the eagerness in her voice behind a mass of carelessness.

“Hopelessly,” returned her informant, “and for that reason I marvel that he is not on hand to sue for every dance and challenge any one to mortal combat who dares seek the beauty’s favor.”

Meanwhile, the young girl who had been the subject of the above gossip had disappeared through one of the long French windows that opened out upon the piazza, and, leaning upon the arm of her companion, had floated across the white sands to the water’s edge.

For a moment they stood thus, in utter silence, while the tide rippled in slowly at their feet, mirroring the thousands of glittering stars in the blue dome above on its pulsing bosom.

Queenie pretends the utmost innocence in regard to the object he has in view in asking her to come down to the water by whose waves they have spent so many happy hours, to say good-by.

A score or more of lovers have stood on the self-same spot with her in the last fortnight, and ere they had turned away from those rippling waves they had laid their hearts and fortunes at her dainty feet, only to be rejected, as only a coquette can reject a suitor.

Yes, she knew what was coming; his troubled face and agitation was a forerunner of that, but her tongue ran on volubly and gayly, of how she had enjoyed Newport, and how sorry she would feel as the train bore her away to her city home.

And as she talked on in her delightful, breezy way, his face grew graver and more troubled.

“He is going to ask me to marry him, and it depends upon his fortune as to whether I say yes or no. He has been wonderfully silent as to what he is, but if I am good at guessing, I should say that he is a Western silver king—he must be worth twice as many millions as Ray Challoner,” Queenie said to herself.

She had adroitly led up to a proposal of marriage by knowing just what to say, and how to use her subtly sweet voice in uttering the sentiments low and falteringly, to arouse him to a declaration of the tender passion.

Standing there, he was thinking of the gulf which lay between him and this fair young girl whom he had learned to love, and that he should leave her without revealing one word of what was in his heart; but as he turned to her to make some commonplace remark, and suggest returning to the ballroom, she looked so irresistibly sweet and gracious, his heart seemed swept away from him by storm.

He never knew quite how it came about, but he found himself holding her hands crushed close to his bosom, while his white lips murmured:

“This has been a month in my life which will stand out clear and distinct—forever. In it I have tasted the only happiness which I have ever known; nothing will ever be like it to me again. Will you remember me, I wonder, after you have returned home?”

“Why should I not?” she murmured, shyly. “You have helped me to pass the happiest summer I have ever known.”

“Do you really mean that, Miss Trevalyn—Queenie!” he cried, hoarsely, wondering if his ears had not deceived him.

“Yes,” she sighed, glancing down with a tenderness in her tone which she intended that he should not mistake.

“I should not speak the words that are trembling on my lips, but your kindness gives courage to my frightened heart, and I will dare incur your displeasure, perhaps, by uttering them; but you must know, you who are so beautiful that all men love you—you whom to gaze upon is to become lost.”

“I—I do not know what you mean, Mr. Dinsmore,” she murmured, with shy, averted eyes and downcast, blushing face, thinking how different this proposal was to the score of others she had received.

“May I dare tell you? Promise me you will not be very angry,” he said, humbly, “and that you will forgive me.”

But he did not wait for her answer, he dared not pause to think, lest his courage should fail him, but cried huskily:

“Pardon me if I am brusque and abrupt, sweet girl, but the words are forcing themselves like a torrent from my heart to my lips—ah, Heaven, you must have guessed the truth ere this, Queenie! I love you! I love you with a passion so great it is driving me mad. Let me pray my prayer to you, let me kneel at your feet and utter it. Ah, Heaven! words fail me to tell you how dearly I love you, my darling. My life seems to have merged completely into yours. I love you so dearly and well, if you send me from you, you will wreck my life—break my heart. I cast my life as a die upon your yes or no. Look at me, darling, and answer me—will you be my wife, Queenie. For Heaven’s sake say yes and end my agitation and my misery. Is your answer life or death for me, my love?”

CHAPTER II.
A WORSHIPER OF WEALTH.

“I have two lovers, both brave and gay;

And they both have spoken their minds to-day;

They both seem dying for love of me;

Well, if I choose one of them, which shall it be?

One is handsome, and tall, and grand,

With gold in the bank and acres of land,

And he says he will give them all to me

If only I’ll promise his wife to be.

The other is bonny, and blithe, and true,

With honest face bronzed, and eyes of blue;

But the wealth of his heart is the only thing

He can give to me with the wedding ring.

Yes, both seem dying for love of me;

Well, if I choose one of them, which shall it be?”

Queenie Trevalyn looked up archly into the handsome, agitated face bending over her, and blushed deeply.

“Before I answer you, let me remind you that you are quite a stranger to us, Mr. Dinsmore; you have not chosen to make a confidant of any one concerning your personal history—from whence you came, or—or—your standing in the community in which you reside,” she murmured, sweetly.

“I am aware of that fact,” he answered, gloomily, dropping her hands dejectedly, while a heavy sigh trembled over his pale lips. “The truth is, I dreaded telling you, lest I should, perhaps, lose your friendship at first, then, at last, your love; but no! you are too good, too noble, pure and true to let wealth and position weigh—against—love.”

His words gave the girl something like a fright. She had counted upon this handsome, bearded adorer being a man of great wealth. She had even fondly hoped that he might be a prince, traveling in disguise—a personage of superior order. No wonder his words—which seemed to bid fair to scatter these delicious hopes—alarmed the girl whose sole ambition was wealth.

She did not answer; for the first time in her life this girl, who was so witty, versatile and brilliant, was at a loss for words.

“It is but right that you should know who and what I am,” he pursued, slowly. “Indeed, I should have prefaced my declaration of love with that information. I am but a struggling author, Queenie—a man who is fighting hard to make his way in the crowded field of letters to future great achievements. I might have made money in the past had I grasped the opportunities held out to me. I have been of a roving disposition—nomadic in my tastes, eager to see the whole wide world, and give to the people who stay at home glimpses of foreign lands, through my pen.

“I was prodigal with the money I earned from this source. I gave it freely to the poor and needy, who were everywhere about. On the burning sands of Africa, or on the snowy plains of Russia, when I lay down to sleep, with only the sky above me, I was as happy as men who lie down in palaces. I had no care, I was as free from it as the joyous air that blows. I led a happy enough life of it until I came here and met you; from that hour the world has seemed to change for me. I am no longer the careless, happy-go-lucky fellow of a few short weeks ago, leading a merry, Bohemian existence—just as content without money as with it.

“If you will say that there is hope for me I will remedy all that; I will go to work with a will and make something grand and noble out of my life, with the one thought like a guiding star ever before me: The woman I love shall be proud of me. I——”

The sentence never was finished. Glancing up at that moment he caught sight of her face, which she had turned so that the white, bright moonlight fell full upon it.

The scorn on the beautiful face, the anger that blazed in the dark eyes, the contempt the curling lips revealed, appalled him. He had much more to tell her that was important, but the words fairly froze on his lips, and died away unmuttered.

“Hush! not another word,” she cried, quite as soon as she was able to speak, through her intense anger. “You have basely deceived me, as well as every one else. You knew of the current report that you were a man of fabulous wealth and you let it go uncontradicted. You have sailed under false colors to force your way into society. You have cheated and deluded us into believing that you were a gentleman. Being what you are—a nobody—you insult me with your proposal of marriage. Conduct me back to the hotel at once, please.”

His face had grown white as marble—even his lips were colorless. His eyes were dim with a sorrow too intense for words, and his strong hands trembled like aspen leaves in the wind, and his bosom heaved. Her cruel, taunting words had struck home to the very core of his heart, and made a cruel wound there, like the stinging cut of a deadly, poisoned dagger.

There was no mistaking the meaning of her words, she spoke plainly enough. If he had been rich he would have stood a fair chance of winning her. The love of a great, strong, honorable heart did not count with her. Her affection was not for exchange, but for sale. The beautiful girl whom he had thought little less than the angels above was but common clay, a mercenary creature, who weighed gold in the scale against marriage, and whose idea of a gentleman, one of nature’s noblemen, was measured by his wealth. To her a poor man was less than the dust beneath her dainty feet.

“You have heard what I have said, Mr. Dinsmore,” said Queenie Trevalyn, haughtily. “Pray conform with my request by taking me back to the ballroom at once. Were it not for appearances I would leave you and return myself.”

Like one dazed he turned slowly around, setting his miserable face toward the lights and the music, but his overwrought nerves could stand no more, strong man though he was, and without a moan or a cry he fell headlong upon the white sands at her feet—like a hero in a great battle falls when he has received his death wound, crying out: “When love has conquered pride and anger, you may call me back again.”

“Great heavens! what a dilemma!” cried Queenie Trevalyn, angrily. She did not pause a moment to lave his face with the cooling water so near at hand, or to take the trouble to ascertain if his headlong fall had injured him, so intent was she in hurrying away from the spot before a crowd gathered.

A moment more and she was flying across the white stretch of beach, her pink tulle gossamer robe trailing after her like a sunset cloud which somehow had fallen from heaven to earth.

She gained the hotel by a side entrance, and was soon back into the ballroom. She had been gone so short a time that few had missed her save the partner who was just coming in search of her for his waltz, the first notes of which had just struck up.

“Alone, Miss Trevalyn!” exclaimed Ray Challoner, advancing toward the palm-embowered nook in which she had seated herself. “Why, this is unprecedented. I did not suppose you ever enjoyed the luxury of being alone; such is the penalty of having admirers by the score,” bowing low before the beauty, adding: “I beg to remind you that this is our waltz, and it is my favorite music, ‘My Queen.’”

Queenie Trevalyn arose graciously, her rosebud lips wreathed in the sweetest of smiles. She danced and laughed, the gayest of the gay, never for an instant did her thoughts revert to the heart that was enduring the agonies of death, for love of her, down upon the cold, white sands.

Ay! There he lay, stunned almost unto death, never caring to arise and face the world again. All he wanted to do was to lie there until the tide would come in and bear him away from life and the love which he had found more cruel than death.

With such a man love, with all the intensity of his grand soul, was only possible. It was not for such a one to worship lightly at a woman’s shrine.

How long he lay there he never knew. It was in reality a few moments, but to him it seemed endless centuries. He was startled by the sound of familiar voices.

“It is indeed Dinsmore, by all that is wonderful!” exclaimed a man who bent over him, while his companion said musingly: “What in the world could have happened to have felled him like this, and he strong as an ox!”

“The best and quickest way to find out is to bring him to and see,” declared the other, kneeling beside the prostrate form and dashing salt water in the white face, then catching up his hands and beginning to chafe them vigorously.

John Dinsmore opened his eyes slowly and gazed into the two anxious faces bending over him.

“Are you ill, old fellow!” they both cried in a breath. “What in the name of goodness has happened that we find you like this?”

His lips opened to say: “A beautiful woman has broken my heart, and I am lying here for the tide to come in to carry me out—to death,” but the words seemed to scorch his lips, he could not utter them. They helped him to his feet, still wondering.

“I was stricken with a pain at my heart,” he said. “I shall be better soon.”

“Let’s hope so, for we have brought the means with us to make you so, if anything on this round earth can. But by the way,” went on one of them, “you do not seem the least surprised to find the two chums, poor as church mice, whom you left behind you in broiling New York, apparently ‘doing’ fashionable Newport, though it is like catching sly old dog Time by the tip of his tail, coming here on the last evening, when the play is about over, and they are just going to ring down the curtain.”

His two companions linked arms with him, one on either side, and drew him along the beach, each waiting for the other to unfold to John Dinsmore the amazing news which had brought them there.

While they hesitated thus you shall learn their identity, reader.

The tall, dark-haired young man on the right was Hazard Ballou, artist; French as to descent, as his name indicated, who was struggling for fame and fortune by painting pictures which nobody seemed to want to buy, and illustrating the joke articles in an evening paper to earn support in the meantime.

His companion was Jerry Gaines, a reporter, that was all, though he did have wonderful ambition and always alluded confidently to the time when he should be the editor of some great New York paper, and when that time arrived, what he should do for the remainder of the trinity, his author and artist friends, who were always ready to share their crust with him when luck went dead against him in being able to gather in good news articles, and getting up acceptable copy. His gains lay all in his name at present, instead of the more practical place—his pocket.

The “Trinity,” as the three young men styled themselves, occupied one and the same room in a New York boarding house, each swearing never to sever the bond by marrying, though a veritable Helen of Troy should tempt them.

The three friends had toiled hard, but even in their work they were happy, for they had few cares, and had not been touched by the fever called Love.

“You had better tell him what brings us,” whispered Ballou to Gaines, as John Dinsmore seemed in no hurry to question them.

“Reporters are generally chosen to break startling news to people,” remarked that young gentleman, dryly. Then, turning to Dinsmore, he began, abruptly: “I say, old fellow, you were a sly dog, when you heard us cussing rich folks in general, never to mention that you had great expectations in that direction, I vow.”

“I do not understand you, Jerry,” remarked Dinsmore, looking at his friend in puzzled wonder.

“I may as well break headlong into the facts as beat about the bush,” laughed Jerry Gaines, adding: “Well, to tell you an amazing truth, we are here to congratulate you upon inheriting a fortune. A pair of English lawyers have just succeeded in ferreting you out and locating you with our aid. They bring the astounding news, and better still, the documents which prove you to be heir to one of the finest estates in Louisiana, an immense tobacco plantation adjoining it, and——”

“My poor old Uncle George!” cut in John Dinsmore, surprised for the moment out of the grief which had taken such a deep hold of him. “And he is dead. I am deeply grieved to hear it. And you say he has left his enormous wealth to me. I can honestly say that I am astounded. He has always given me to understand that I need not expect one cent from him. He was deeply angered at me for my love of roving about the world. There were others nearer and dearer to him who had every right to expect to inherit his fortune. I am bewildered; I cannot understand why he chose to make me his heir.

“If you had brought me this wonderful news yesterday, boys, you would have made me almost insane with joy and gratitude—ay, have made me the happiest of men. Now it is but as dross to me. The gods have sent the golden gift to me too late—too late.”

“You did not wait for me to finish, old fellow,” said Gaines, coolly. “There is a string tied to the inheritance. If you accept it you must take a girl with it—for your wife, so your uncle’s will reads.”

CHAPTER III.
THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.

“Then let the inheritance go if it be mine only on condition that I take a wife with it,” exclaimed John Dinsmore, proudly. “I will have none of it. Never mention it to me again if you are true friends of mine and respect my feelings. I would not marry the loveliest or the richest woman the world holds. I could never look into a woman’s face with love in my heart for her, and the man who marries a woman without loving her is a villain, a rascal of the deepest dye. Heaven forbid that I should sell my honor and my manhood for such a price. Say no more about the inheritance, boys, I spurn it.”

“You have actually gone mad, Dinsmore,” cried Ballou, vehemently. “It would do for an actor on the stage to rant about wealth in that way, but in real life it is quite a different matter. One would think to hear you that you never knew what it was to want a square meal when your stories were returned with thanks, or to borrow enough from your friends to buy a paper dickey and cuffs in which to make a neat show before an editor. Bah!—don’t be a fool, I say. Take the goods the gods provide.”

“And I echo Ballou’s sentiments,” declared Jerry Gaines. “No one but a positive madman would let such a chance slip. Money can do anything, old fellow. It can purchase comfort and position, the luxury of idleness, royal good times, every enjoyment—ay, and last but not least, the hand of a beautiful woman in marriage. What more could you want?”

“I should want the heart of the woman I wedded, and money cannot buy the love of a true, good woman’s heart,” returned John Dinsmore, huskily.

As he spoke he thought of the royally beautiful creature from whom he had so lately parted on those self-same white sands, the girl to whom he had given all the love of his loyal heart, only to be scoffed at and spurned; the girl whom he had blindly believed Providence had especially given to him since the hour he had saved her life so miraculously, risking thereby the loss of his own. He had been so sure of her that he never for one instant doubted fate’s intentions, and had given himself up to his idolatrous love for her, body and soul, heart and mind.

“Say no more on the subject, good friends. You both mean well, I know, but it can never be,” said Dinsmore, earnestly. “Believe me, I know why I speak thus. Say no more to me of the inheritance. Help me to forget that it was ever in my grasp; that will be true friendship shown to me.”

“We must leave you for an hour or so to write up this gay ball and send in the sketch of it,” said Gaines, wishing Dinsmore to have plenty of time to think over his good fortune, and not to decide to cast it from him too hastily.

The “Trinity” walked slowly back to the hotel. On the veranda they parted, the two friends going in the direction of the ballroom, while Dinsmore threw himself into a chair in the shadow of one of the great pillars—to think.

How long he sat there he never knew. He was startled at length by the sound of voices. Two people had approached and seated themselves on the rustic bench on the other side of the wide pillar. A massive potted palm screened them from him, performing for him the same service, but he knew well that musical girlish voice which had the power to move his heart at will even yet. It was Queenie Trevalyn, and with her was Raymond Challoner, the handsomest of all the fast, gay set of young millionaires at Newport.

I strictly affirm, dear reader, that it was not Dinsmore’s intention to remain there and listen. He would have arisen instantly and quitted the veranda, but fate seemed to decree otherwise. He was unable to raise hand or foot or utter any sound. A terrible numbness seemed to close down upon his every faculty, holding them as in a vise.

Words cannot tell the agonies he suffered there. The tortures of the rack, where he would have been stretched limb from limb, until death relieved him, would not have been harder to endure.

He heard handsome, indolent Raymond Challoner pour into those pretty pink-tinted ears the story of his love, and he heard the lips of the girl who was more to him than life itself accept the young heir of the Challoner millions, in the sweetest of words.

“I have just one odd determination, call it a notion if you will,” he heard the young heir of Challoner say, “and that is, never to wed a girl to whom any other man has ever whispered words of love. No man has ever spoken of love to you, Queenie, or ever asked you to be his bride, has there?”

And the girl from whom he had parted on the white sands less than half an hour before steeped her red lips with the horrible falsehood of answering:

“No, Raymond, I have never given any one save yourself encouragement to speak to me of love, believe me.”

“I almost believed the bronzed and bearded, mysterious Mr. Dinsmore might take it into his head to try to win you,” he remarked, musingly.

Queenie Trevalyn laughed an amused laugh.

“What absurd nonsense,” she cried. “Why, he has never been anything more to me than a mere acquaintance,” and she polluted her lips with a second lie when she went on smoothly: “Papa paid him for the service he rendered me in that elevator affair, and that ended any obligation on my part. Furthermore, I must say that you do not compliment my taste very highly to imagine for an instant that I could possibly fall in love with such a dark-browed, plebeian-appearing man as Mr. John Dinsmore! The very thought that you could have imagined so mortifies me exceedingly.”

“There, there, Queenie, do not take it to heart so. Of course you couldn’t; only he followed you about so constantly that I own I was furiously jealous, and thought seriously of calling him out to mortal combat. Now that I do consider it soberly, I agree with you that he is hardly the type of man to inspire love in a young girl’s romantic heart, despite his bushy whiskers and melancholy air. But let us waste no more words upon him. We can spend the fleeting hours much more advantageously by talking of love and our future.”

They walked away laughing, arm in arm, leaving the man on the other side of the pillar sitting there like one carved in stone. The heart in his bosom had seemed to break with one awful throb, rendering him almost lifeless, and thus his friends found him when they came out to search for him an hour later.

“Did you think our hour an unusually long one?” laughed Gaines, adding, before his friend had time to reply:

“I have now another commission on my hands which is far more important than writing up the grand ball. Shortly after leaving you I received a lengthy telegram from our editor, ordering me to wait over instead of taking the midnight train back to New York, as was first arranged, to meet one of Pinkerton’s men, who ought to arrive here at any hour now.

“It seems that he is in search of a young fellow who is giving the police here, there and everywhere no end of trouble. He is a high-flyer with expectations, and taking advantage of future prospects, has gone in heavy—borrowing money, gambling, and even forging for big amounts. He appeared suddenly in Saratoga one day last week, at the races, and was one of the most desperate plungers at the track. The climax to his rapid career is he had a furious encounter with a man that night, who had won large sums on the track, and the upshot of the affair was the man was found murdered in the early dawn of the following morning, and the only clew which could lead to the identity of the perpetrator of the deed is the imprint of a ring of most peculiar design upon the temple of the victim—a triangle, set with stones, diamonds presumably, with a large stone in the center. This is the only clew Pinkerton’s man is following, since the descriptions differ so radically.”

“This gives an added zest to our trip,” laughed Ballou, who was always ready for anything which promised excitement. “Will you walk over to meet the incoming train with us?” addressing Dinsmore.

“No,” replied John, almost wearily, “I will sit here and smoke my cigar, as a sort of nerve steadier.”

“I advise you strongly to think not twice but a score of times ere you make up your mind to throw up a handsome fortune simply because there is a string tied to it in the shape of a pretty young girl, for no doubt she is pretty. Young girls cannot well help being sweet and comely, I have discovered.”

John Dinsmore watched his friends walk away, and as they vanished into the thick, dark gloom he gave himself up to his own dreary thoughts. The story he had just heard, thrilling though it was, quickly vanished from his mind, as did also the fortune that might be his for the claiming. All he could think of was the lovely young girl upon whom he had set his heart and soul—his very life, as it were—who had spurned him so contemptuously and for one whom he could not think worthy of such a treasure, as he still blindly believed Queenie Trevalyn to be.

He had not been thrown into Raymond Challoner’s society much, and from what little John Dinsmore did see of him he had not formed a very favorable impression. He had heard that his wine bills were quite a little fortune in themselves, and on several occasions, when in the midst of a crowd of young men in the office, who were as fast and gay as himself, John Dinsmore had heard him boast of his conquests with fair women, and of episodes so rollicking in their nature that John Dinsmore, man of honor as he was, reverencing all womankind, would arise abruptly from his seat, throw down the paper he had been vainly endeavoring to read, and walk away with a frown and unmistakable contempt in his face as he turned away from Challoner’s direction, going beyond the hearing of his voice and hilarious tales. If any other man had won the treasure that cruel fate denied to him he could have endured the blow better; but Challoner!

“Ah! Heaven grant that she shall never have cause to rue her choice,” he ruminated.

In the midst of his musing he was interrupted by the voice of the very man upon whom his thoughts were bent—Raymond Challoner.

It had been an hour or more since he had parted from the girl who had just promised to be his bride. The lights of the grand ballroom were out, and the greater portion of the great hotel was wrapped in gloom, with but here and there the twinkling light in the windows of some belated guest, and these, too, were rapidly disappearing, leaving the world to darkness and itself.

It was the hour when the sports of Newport banded together to smoke their cigars and talk over their wine, and their revelry usually lasted far into the wee sma’ hours. To-night these young men seemed bent upon having a royal good time together, in celebration of their last night at the famous resort.

Half a score of friends were with Challoner. He was always the ringleader among his companions. Just now all seemed highly amused at some anecdote he was relating. His unsteady steps showed John Dinsmore that he was under the influence of wine. He arose and turned away with a sigh, anxious to get out of sight of the sneering, handsome face of his rival and away from the sound of his voice.

At that instant the sound of Miss Trevalyn’s name on his rival’s lips caught and held his attention. Raymond Challoner was boasting of his conquest over the heart of the belle and beauty of the season. John Dinsmore was rooted to the spot with horror to hear him discuss in the next breath the sweetness of the betrothal kiss he had received from the peerless Queenie.

A general laugh followed and remarks which made the blood boil in John Dinsmore’s veins. He was fairly speechless from rage.

“And when do you intend to wed the beautiful Queenie?” asked a dozen or more rollicking voices.

“A month or two later, provided I do not see some bewitching little fairy in the meantime who will suit me better. I——”

The sentence was never finished. With a leap, John Dinsmore was before him, with a face so ghastly with wrath that those who saw it were stricken dumb.

“Take that! for maligning a lady, you dastardly scoundrel!” cried John, in a sonorous voice ringing with passion. And as he uttered the words out flew his strong right arm with the force of a sledge hammer, and in an instant Raymond Challoner was measuring his length before him on the porch.

“So it is you, the unsuccessful wooer, who champions Miss Trevalyn’s cause, is it? Well that is indeed rich,” he cried, white to the lips, adding: “I am not so good with my fists as you seem to be; however, I insist upon wiping out this insult with your blood or mine, John Dinsmore, ere another day dawns. Here and now I challenge you to a duel on the beach, within an hour’s time. I will teach you then that it is folly to interfere in another man’s affairs.”

As he spoke he raised his hand threateningly, and to John Dinsmore’s horror he saw upon it a triangular diamond ring, such as had been described by his friends.

CHAPTER IV.
THE MIDNIGHT DUEL.

The conflict is over, the struggle is past—

I have looked, I have loved, I have worshiped my last—

And now back to the world, and let fate do her worst

On the heart that for thee such devotion has nursed.

For thee its best feelings were wasted away,

And life hath hereafter not one to betray.

Farewell, then, thou loved one—oh, loved but too well,

Too deeply, too blindly for language to tell!

Farewell, thou hast trampled my love’s faith in the dust,

Thou hast torn from my bosom my faith and my trust;

But if thy life’s current with bliss it would swell,

I would pour out my own in this last fond farewell!

For an instant the lifeblood around John Dinsmore’s heart seemed to stand still, and his eyes fairly bulged from their sockets. No, it was no trick of his imagination, the slim, aristocratic hand of his rival, upon which he gazed so breathlessly, bore upon it a ring of curious device—a serpent’s body, and deeply imbedded in the flat head was a triangle of diamonds, in the center of which was a large diamond of rare brilliancy and beauty.

It was the identical ring his friends had described as being worn by the man whom they were at that moment hunting down to charge with a terrible crime.

Ere he could utter the words that arose to his lips, Raymond Challoner turned away from him, saying, with a haughty sneer:

“It is well you accept my challenge, John Dinsmore; I will meet you on the spot designated by you upon the beach, at exactly an hour from now. Until then adieu, most worthy champion of the fair sex, adieu!”

Challoner walked down the length of the broad piazza with the easy, graceful swagger peculiar to him, his friends about him, talking in subdued voices, yet anxiously and excitedly, over the event which had just transpired, and discussing in still lower whispers the probable outcome of the meeting, until they were lost alike to sight and sound.

Still John Dinsmore stood there where they had left him, like an image carved in stone, his eyes following the direction in which they had disappeared.

And standing thus, a terrible temptation came to him, a temptation so strong that for a moment it almost overpowered him.

He had only to send quickly for his friends, who had gone to the train to meet the detective, and tell them what he had seen, to bring about the overthrow of his rival in the very hour of his triumph.

The lover who had been accepted by Queenie Trevalyn as her affianced husband, would be taken from the hotel in handcuffs. Ah, what a glorious revenge; sweetened by the thought that Challoner would thus be parted forever from the girl whom he had loved so madly, and lost.

Then the nobler side of John Dinsmore’s nature struggled for mastery. Could he, a dismissed suitor, cast the first stone at his successful rival? Would it be manly, or ignoble?

How Queenie Trevalyn would hate him for it! That thought settled the matter, his rival should not come to his downfall through him. Far better that Challoner’s bullet should pierce his heart.

He stood quite motionless, leaning heavily against the massive pillar of the piazza, lost in deep reverie, thinking it all over.

What had he to live for, now that Queenie Trevalyn was lost to him forever? Death seemed far more desirable to him than life—without her.

He knew that Raymond Challoner was considered an excellent shot; that every one declared him particularly clever in the use of firearms; but that knowledge did not deter John Dinsmore from his purpose.

When his friends entered the hotel, a little later, they found a summons from him awaiting them, explaining briefly the affair on hand, which was to come off within an hour, and asking them to meet him on the beach, at the place and time indicated.

“Whew!” exclaimed Ballou, with a long, low whistle. “What will Dinsmore be getting into next? Knowing him as well as I do, I realize that it is useless to attempt to talk him out of this affair of honor, as he calls it. Heaven grant that he may not fall a victim of his opponent’s superior marksmanship. Of course I don’t know what the deadly quarrel between them is about, but——”

His friend, Gaines, cut him short by announcing that they had no time to speculate as to the cause of the contemplated duel, as they had barely time to reach the place described—a sort of cove shut in by high, shelving rocks, fully a mile from the hotel.

“John has given us no time to see him first, and attempt to mediate between him and his antagonist,” said Gaines, seizing his hat, which he had but just removed.

“Can nothing be done to prevent the affair from being carried out?” queried Ballou, turning his white, worried, anxious face toward his friend.

“It seems not,” returned Gaines, in a voice equally as troubled.

The two friends spoke no other word until they came within sight of the place. Then Ballou whispered:

“Both principals are on the ground, also his opponent’s seconds; they are evidently awaiting us.”

This proved to be the case. The antagonists were already facing each other, weapons in hand.

Although John Dinsmore had determined that it should not be his lips which should speak proclaiming his rival’s suspected guilt of a former crime, he supposed, when his friends came to his aid, their sharp eyes would soon discern the ring. His thoughts carried him no farther than that.

In the excitement attending the meeting of his opponent upon the beach, he failed to notice that Raymond Challoner had removed the ring.

Both friends knew, as they rapidly approached, that it was too late to interfere; the two combatants stood facing each other, fifteen paces apart, weapons in hand.

Challoner’s second conferred with Ballou for a moment, then they announced that all was in readiness.

A deathlike silence ensued, broken only by the sobbing of the wind and the dash of the waves, beating a solemn requiem upon the shore. Slowly the command was given:

“One—two—three—fire!”

Simultaneously the report of the two pistol shots rang out upon the midnight air, followed instantly by the sound of a body falling heavily upon the sands.

John Dinsmore had fallen upon his face, the lifeblood from a wound in his breast coloring the white beach crimson about him.

In a trice his two friends were bending over him, beside the doctor, who was making a rapid examination to find out the extent of the wounded man’s injuries; believing, however, that Raymond Challoner’s opponent was beyond all human aid. He had figured at several of these affairs of honor in which Challoner had been engaged, and had never yet known him to fail to strike the heart at which he aimed.

“He brought it on himself,” said Challoner, addressing his second. “He would have it!” and he turned away upon his heel with a mocking sneer curling his cynical lips. Tossing his weapon to his second, he nonchalantly resumed his hat and coat, and walked coolly away toward the hotel, not deigning to cast one glance backward, even to take the trouble to inquire whether his victim was alive, or dead.

Both of the fallen man’s friends heard him remark, as a parting shot:

“Such is the fate of any one who attempts to meddle in my affairs.”

“Your friend is not dead,” said the doctor, hastily, anxious to attract their attention from Challoner, fearing perhaps a double or a triple duel might result from this affair.

“He is badly wounded, there is no doubt about that, but in my opinion the wound is not necessarily fatal. I have every hope that we shall be able to pull him through, with this splendid physique to aid us.”

The two friends breathed more freely, and Gaines said, slowly:

“If he were to die, the man who murdered him would have the opportunity to try his hand next on me.”

“And after that on me,” remarked Ballou, “in case he should escape your bullet.”

“The first thing to be attended to is to get him away from here,” cut in the doctor, quietly. Adding: “As the hotel is to close within a few short hours, they would not receive him there. I propose removing him at once to a little cottage I know of adjacent to this place, in which lives an old nurse whom I often employ. She will willingly take him in and do her best for him.”

The two friends received this suggestion gratefully.

Between the three of them, they succeeded in conveying him to the place indicated, without loss of time, and there the doctor made a further examination of his injuries.

“Mr. Challoner’s bullet missed its aim by a single hair’s breadth,” he said; “but with Mrs. Brent’s careful nursing, we may hope for much.”

It was with the greatest of regret that the two friends left Newport the next day for New York, leaving John Dinsmore, who had not yet regained consciousness, in the hands of the doctor, who was a resident of the place, and the aged nurse.

Everything had gone wrong with them; they had been unable, even with the aid of the skillful detective, to find the slightest trace of the man for whom they were looking, and concluded that he had left the resort ere they had reached it, having been informed in advance in some mysterious manner of their coming.

Meanwhile, the girl for whom John Dinsmore had risked his noble life a second time, was pacing up and down the floor of her elegant suite of rooms, with a very perturbed countenance, reading for the twentieth time the letter which her mother had but just received, read but half through, and had fainted outright; recovering only to go from one violent fit of hysterics into another.

Queenie Trevalyn had read it slowly through twice, controlling her emotions with a supreme effort.

It was from her father, and announced his utter failure in New York.

He had made an unsuccessful venture in Wall Street, and the result was that every dollar he had on earth had been swept from him.

“When you return to the city,” he wrote, “instead of your own home, it will be to a boarding house. For myself I care not; but my heart bleeds for you, my dear wife, and Queenie, knowing full well how much you both love the luxurious trappings of wealth and position! But my grief cannot mend matters. Our only hope of retrieving our fallen fortunes is by Queenie marrying money.”

CHAPTER V.
THE POWER OF GOLD.

“The eagle suffers little birds to sing,

And is not careful what they mean thereby,

Knowing that with the shadow of his wing

He can at pleasure stint their melody.”

Betrothed for a day: Or, Queenie Trevalyn's love test

Transcriber’s Notes:

BETROTHED FOR A DAY;

CHAPTER I.A STRANGER’S LOVE.

CHAPTER II.A WORSHIPER OF WEALTH.

CHAPTER III.THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.

CHAPTER IV.THE MIDNIGHT DUEL.

CHAPTER V.THE POWER OF GOLD.

CHAPTER I.
A STRANGER’S LOVE.

CHAPTER II.
A WORSHIPER OF WEALTH.

CHAPTER III.
THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.

CHAPTER IV.
THE MIDNIGHT DUEL.

CHAPTER V.
THE POWER OF GOLD.