The Argosy — page 151: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Playing with Fire. 139 “Do yow think you would? Perhaps you may some day; who knows? But are you a critic?” ‘“‘T write a little about art; but one doesn’t care, after D’Israeli’s definition of critics, to call oneself one of the band. When and how do you think that ‘some day’ is likely to arrive?” He leaned for- ward and spoke rather eagerly. ‘*T am coming to stay with Lady Gamgee next week, and then—it is not impossible that—ah ! here is mamma. I see we are to leave.” He had the satisfaction of seeing her to her carriage, and then strolled clubwards, smoking a meditative cigar. When Laura Severn reached her room that night she dismissed her maid pretty promptly, and unlocking her desk sat down before it. She drew out first a likeness of a young and pretty girl, then some letters, dried flowers and little schoolgirl treasures, and, lastly, the portrait of the same girl, beautifully painted, evidently a perfect like- ness, but unmistakably taken after death, and so invested with a peculiar and horrible fascination. Laura read the letters and kissed the portraits with passionate, loving lips. Then, laying her head on her outstretched arms, she sat and thought far into the night. The outcome of her reflections at length formulated itself in words something like these : ‘* He can love ; he shall love. I will not spare him one pang of the pain she endured.” Three years before, Laura’s cousin had died. The two girls, who were about the same age, had been brought up together in Madeira, and were like sisters. At seventeen Constance went to England on a visit to an aunt of hers. She remained away about six months, receiving several eligible offers of marriage, which she refused. Though never possessing Laura’s brilliant, beauty, she had had a sweet, mignonne face, and large blue eyes with a very potent charm of their own. To most of the admiration she attracted she was quite indif- ferent, but Howard Scott’s coming, as her aunt noticed, could always make her cheeks flush and her eyes brighten. He paid her a great deal of attention, and carried matters to such a point that the possible engagement was publicly canvassed. Then, when all the world was expecting the announcement of his betrothal to Constance, he took himself off to Scotland, without a word of farewell, leaving behind him a note to Constance as cold as snow and as indifferent as the monument. Soon after it was reported that he was paying great attention to the eldest daughter of Sir Alexander McDougall, the great Glasgow ship-builder. Constance hid her grief bravely, and went steadily through her few remaining engagements, but when the last had been fulfilled she gave way, and returned to Madeira to die. Her chest was always delicate, and now she had grown careless of herself. She caught a violent cold by staying out in the rain one day “to walk off the dismals,” as she told Laura, and in a month she was dead. comichooks.com