She is saying, "You had best leave this awful place to-morrow morning, and come with us to California. I have ordered your maid to pack your trunks. My maid is doing the same." Then she turns to her son, remarking, "You think it will be best, also, Oliver?"

But Erma prevents his reply. She cries, taking a step towards him, "My father!" and seeing no one behind him, gasps, "What have you done to him, or what has he done to you?" for Mr. Livingston's pale face and disfigured trousers suggest ideas of combat that would make her laugh at other and happier times.

To this he replies curtly, "Nothing; I could not find him."

"Why not?"

"Their blasphemous meeting-house was closed." Then he says in a nasty, sneering tone, for the young lady's manner has added to his anger, "Your father and his Mormon brats had gone away."

"His Mormon brats?" This comes from both Mrs. Livingston and Erma, though one gives it with a shriek and the other with a shudder.

"Yes, your five little brothers and sisters," he sneers at Erma. "Didn't you see them? They got the Sunday-school prizes, I think. They look like your father, and one of the girls has your eyes," and would go on with some more such scoffing pleasantries, did not his mother spring to him and whisper, "Idiot!" for the girl has sunk down sobbing upon a chair and is wringing her hands at this last cruel revelation.

Not liking his mother's word, Oliver grows more angry, and says sternly, "Remember, I am the head of the family, and shall take this matter into my own hands." To this, Mrs. Livingston, who since his father's death has grown to look upon him as the director of the family, saying nothing, he continues: "Erma, I have been thinking this matter over as I returned. Your father's crimes have placed him outside the laws of this land. Under these circ.u.mstances, I feel it inc.u.mbent on me to take charge of your life." This peculiar a.s.sumption of power he makes very placidly, turning to the young lady, who answers him not, his last revelation still overcoming her.

Noting this, Mr. Complaisant thinks: "My manner has subdued her. Crushed by this blow, Miss Haughty, who has defied and jeered me for the last few days, is now submissive to my authority," and the pangs of jealousy and rage that had been administered by Harry Lawrence come into his small mind to make him take a smaller revenge.

He says, "I think it is best, mother, that we postpone our visit to California, and immediately return to the East, until I can make proper arrangements for Erma. It will take her a long time to live this scandal down."

"Ah, you are very kind to the friendless daughter of a Mormon,"

interjects the girl, sarcastically; but he being full of himself, does not heed her, and continues: "A proper retirement from society is due to it."

"Retirement!" she exclaims, "to expiate my father's crimes!" then says sadly: "You seem to think that I am sullied by his sin;" next sneers, "Perhaps you imagine a reform school or a convent would be the proper place for me, Mr. Livingston."

"Not exactly that."

"No, but something like it," cries Erma, and rising, she towers above him, and goes on in mighty scorn: "And you dare arrogate authority over me? You are neither my guardian nor my trustee;" next jeers at him, for her torture makes her cruel: "If every girl in New York society expiated their father's social crimes, how many would escape? Little Louise, for instance--eh?"

This awful shot brings tears to Mrs. Livingston's eyes, for her dead spouse had been of such a peculiar social nature that he had been known by his intimates as "Mormon Livingston."

"Hush! Your father's sins are open ones," says Oliver.

But she turns on him, crying: "It is not your place to criticise him. If atonement is in order, atone for yourself, Mr. Immaculate!" and this is another facer for Oliver, who has had his weak moments in which he has listened to sirens' voices, as many men in New York society have.

Then, a second after, the girl says, slowly: "You go on with your trip, Mrs. Livingston, as if nothing had happened."

"But you?" asks the widow, who, knowing that Miss Travenion's remarks have been made in frenzy, forgives her and pities her.

"I go to my father."

"To do what?"

"To DRAG HIM FROM HIS INIQUITY! Good-night, and--_good-bye_," and saying this, the young lady sweeps from the room, brushing past Louise, who is standing outside the door in childish astonishment and dismay.

But Mrs. Livingston is whispering to Ollie. "Idiot! You have driven her and her million away from us. Think of Louise and me."

To this he answers surlily, "I don't believe it wise to wed a girl society will look down upon."

"Fool!" cries his mother. "How long do you think it will take in New York society for a girl with sixty thousand dollars a year to live anything down?" and leaving him to digest this truthful plat.i.tude, she pursues Miss Travenion, overtaking her at the entrance of that young lady's room.

Here, diplomat as she is, she makes a mistake. Louise has also followed, and Erma impulsively seizes the girl, whom she loves very well, and kisses her tenderly and whispers, "Good-bye!"

Coming upon this, Mrs. Livingston, anxious for uninterrupted interview, thoughtlessly says: "Louise, go to bed at once! We leave on the early train to-morrow morning!"

At this, Erma, whom humiliation makes sensitive, draws back and mutters, "Do you fear my touch will contaminate her?"

"Not at all," says Mrs. Livingston. "You mistake me, dear Erma. I want to beg you to come with us to California. You mustn't think of what Ollie in his agitation said to you."

"I don't," answers Erma. "Thank G.o.d that wounded my pride, but not my heart!" For in all this cruel humiliation she has been conscious of one joy--that any chance of union with Oliver Livingston is now forever ended.

"You must reconsider your rash determination," entreats the widow.

"Impossible!"

"In your present excited state you had better not see your father."

"Now it is necessary that I see my father--more so than ever."

"You cannot live with him with those awful women."

"Oh, don't fear for me," says the girl. "There are others who will protect me here, if he will not."

"Who?" gasps the widow.

"_The man I love!_" And opening her door, Erma Travenion flies in and locks it; then starts aghast! and cries in a hoa.r.s.e and rasping voice, "Tranyon!--Bishop Tranyon! the _wretch Tranyon_! who has ruined him! My G.o.d! what will Harry Lawrence think of Tranyon the Mormon's daughter?"

And sinking down upon the bed, she writhes and moans, for at this thought, which has been mercifully kept from her till the last, nothing seems left her in this world.

During this time, Ferdie has been abstractedly sitting in a neighboring barroom, every once in a while walking up to the barkeeper and whispering "Brandy!" then muttering to himself over it, "Miss Mormon is having a high old time with auntie and Ollie." The rest of his time he whistles meditatively. Just about midnight, he thinks: "She is through with Mrs. Livingston. I wonder if I could not do anything to help her?"

So, there comes a knock upon Miss Travenion's door, and she opening it herself, for she has not undressed, finds Mr. Chauncey, who looks sheepishly at her and says in confused tones: "Oliver has told me your determination. We are going to San Francisco to-morrow morning. You remain here to see your father."

"Yes, Ferdie," answers the young lady.

"Any way, you are better off away from that prig till he gets over the shock," replies the boy. Then he laughs a little, and says suggestively, "You can have him back whenever you want, I imagine," nodding towards Mr. Livingston's apartment.

"I don't want him back."

"No, I presume not," returns Mr. Chauncey, trying to smooth matters, "not since you have seen our hero, Captain Lawrence." So he unwittingly gives the girl another stab, but tries to correct it by muttering:

"By Jove, I had forgotten! Your dad is the man who is busting him. Harry isn't stuck after Tranyon, is he?" To this getting no reply, he goes on hastily: "If you want me, I will stay here and look after you. I don't care to go to California."

"Oh," says Erma, "don't fear for me. My father has taken care of me till now. You don't suppose he would injure a hair of my head?" then sobs, "And he was so good to me. I expected such joy at meeting him."

Here Ferdie desperately turns the subject, for girls' tears always embarra.s.s him.

He says, "Can't I do anything for you? Tell me--just anything."

"Yes," says the young lady, shortly. Then she considers a moment and asks: