LEAH : A WOMAN OF FASHION. 
m 
1875 .] 
you will die—not picturesquely before 
the altar, but hideously, slowly, in the 
after time, of the corrupting diseases 
Of wealth 4Myl fashion—die, not in 
the i flesh—that is little—but in the 
soul, and by your own suicidal hand. 1 ’ 
“You are hard on me—and I am 
weak! ” she falters in reply. “ I must 
go now, and try to rest. Will you 
say one—only one forgiving word to 
me, first? ” 
She is white as the dress she wears. 
If ever the prophetic lc?ok of heart¬ 
break was on human Mice, it is on 
Leah Pascal’s at this moment. And 
reader, judge her not by your code or 
by mine, but by her owjr: She has 
been reared in the beliePmat poverty 
is disgrace, and love, as opposed to in¬ 
terest, a kind of disease to be dread¬ 
ed, shunned, and, if by chance it should 
assail you, overcome. Duty, to her 
mind,-lies at present on the side of 
Jack Chamberlayne, and against Dan- 
ton. After marriage—well, after mar¬ 
riage one must look round the world 
and see how other women in her posi¬ 
tion regulate their sentiments. But 
now—the money, the position unse¬ 
cured—to vacillate is cpme. And all 
the time she loves thijwian at whose 
side she stands with amiiserable in¬ 
tensity of love to whicli some far bet¬ 
ter,’far cleverer women could perhaps 
not rise. No foot rule, moral or 
mental, can help us much in our 
judgments upon others’ weakness— 
or their strength! Calculating, mer¬ 
cenary, self-absorbed, Leah at least 
loves with the concentration of a nar¬ 
row nature; will sell herself—aye, be¬ 
cause she must—yet has not . breadth 
of purpose sufficient to tear her heart 
from what she desires and abandons! 
“Say one forgiving word to me— 
whatever I may become, say you will 
think a little of me, as a friend, while 
I live!” 
“I shall love you always, Leah. 
And for the present, until the ‘ I will 1 
is said that gives you to Jack Cham¬ 
berlayne, I look upon you as mine.” 
So the “ last words of the romance ” 
are spoken. 
1 
L 
CHAPTER XIX. 
BELL BALTIMORE’S PHILOSOPHY. 
To-morrow brings with it such re¬ 
lays of cooks, milliners, wine-porters, 
and hired waiters as fairly take all the 
inmates of the house off their equili¬ 
brium. Bonehretien, with nightcap 
awry, flushed by delightful prophetic 
sense of general waste, and consequent 
profit to the firm, is here, there, every¬ 
where. Cette pauvre chere Smeet, as 
upset as though she were to be mar¬ 
ried herself, mingles furtive tears, of 
perfectly vague origin, with the vanilla 
and orange flower watOijkthat she in¬ 
fuses into the pastry doWhstairs. The 
hoarders snatch their uieals as best 
they may, consoling themselves for 
the exceedingly short commons that 
Madame, in her wisdom, provides for 
them, by the reflection of the good 
time coming. Lord Stair goes away 
to his club. The Prince Charming is 
seen, by fits and starts, somewhat red 
about the eyes (“Brandy,” says old 
Mrs. Wynch, with cruel decision), 
and falling, whenever he gets a chance, 
into affectionate raptures over Deb 
and Nabmi—the tw6 blessed mother¬ 
less girls who will remain to him!— 
raptures during which the children 
stand mute and shame-faced, not 
knowing whether they are expected to 
laugh or cry. Cousin Bell, the morn¬ 
ing mysteries of the dressing-table 
over, spends her time exclusively in 
Leah’s room. 
“Poor Miss Pascal’s nerves are 
naturally a little shaken.” So re¬ 
marks Bell into the sympathetic ear 
of Bonehretien. “ Under the circum¬ 
stances, we should prefer dining to¬ 
gether upstairs — something plain 
and simple—ail entree or two, and a 
bird, and champagne. Oh, these wed¬ 
dings ! ”—and Bell raises her hand¬ 
kerchief to her eyes—“these wed¬ 
dings, my dear Madame, are always 
melancholy affairs enough when one 
comes to the last.” 
Nerves a little shakeb*^ Well, sal- 
volatile, rest, the sight of her trous¬ 
seau finery, and three or four glasses 
of Cliquot will doubtless bring her 
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